"Maybe it's not about the happy ending. Maybe it's about the story..."

I walk into the doctor's office with John by my side. He seems so calm. How can he be so calm, knowing his life would change in a few minutes. His life and mine.

The doctor beckons us to sit. He and John exchange niceties. I see what the doctor is doing. He is delaying. All of those phrases like 'How are you?' and 'It's been too long' are just rehearsed lines, small things to get the ball rolling. The calm before the storm.

As expected, he says the line I dread the most. "I have some bad news." The doctor scans the chart he is holding with a grave look on his face. He takes off his spectacles and begins the diagnosis.

"John, I'm afraid you have Stage IV Lung Cancer..."

Lung Cancer.

Those two words were being replayed again and again in my mind, taking up an entire room in the 'John Wing' of my Mind Palace.

I hear the doctor speak, but what he says is a blur. 'Can't be operated. Too late. Three weeks left. Terribly sorry...'

My face is neutral. No point in emotions. I look over to John. His expression is hard, and his eyes slightly distant. One might not have noticed it, but I did. His slight paleness, he leg twitching uncomfortably, and his hand was perfectly still. Conclusion: John was afraid. He had every right to be. I have seen people react worse when they know they have a ticking time bomb inside of them, waiting to rip them apart.

John shakes the doctor's hand without a word. I follow him out the door and we hail a cab.

We sit in awkward silence. I look at him. He seems to be pondering on something. I am too. I think about clearing my next month. I would spend all my time with John, if it would require me to hold him while he cried like a babe, so be it. If it meant missing out on a serial killer, very well. That was what friends did, right? I look at him again. He is looking back. I can tell he wants to say something - something along the lines of 'I don't want to die Sherlock' or 'I'll miss you'. People did tend to get sentimental.

I was not prepared for what he said next. He smiled at me - something I did not expect to happen.

"Well, stop staring at me, you dolt. Ask Lestrade for a case."

Two weeks flew by. It mostly consisted of John and I, constantly running around London, catching criminals, solving cases, insulting Anderson's intelligence, and at some point, we had saved a kitten from a bloody tree. For a blissful moment, everything was as it was. The illusion was shattered when John only had a week left.

He started coughing, and at first we thought nothing of it. It started getting worse, followed by shortness of breath, then there was the muscle pain.

It was starting. His slow deterioration, until he could do nothing but stay in a hospital bed, waiting for the inevitable.

I close my eyes. 'Detach. You've done it before, you'll do it again. He needs you, the stoic-faced Sherlock Holmes, not the weeping ball of self-pity.'

I look at him, he was sitting in his armchair, coughing repeatedly. He needed to get to the hospital.

We took a cab there, and I drum my fingers on my leg, the only indication of my inner turmoil. He is rushed inside. I sit at the waiting room, alone with my thoughts. Then Mycroft appeared, leaning on his black umbrella, no less. He said he had gotten us a private wing.

"Consider it a parting gift." That sentence struck deep and I left without a word.

I see John in his bed. He smiles up at me, but it is quickly replaced by a cough. "Bloody hospital staff won't let me run around with you anymore. Can you believe?"

I smile despite the situation. I believe that was the reaction he was hoping for, because he had laughed too.

A few days later, he had gotten worse. I saw him, trying to hide the pain. It wasn't working. I stay by his bedside telling him about our previous cases. He seemed contended, so I guess, I was too.

He only had a day left. He was paler and skinnier. He had dark circles under his eyes. He had worn his pajamas to make himself comfortable, but he still smiled. He smiled like he always did. I could not do that. Not when my only friend was slipping through my fingers.

"I want to go to the beach." He said, thinking aloud. I scoff at him.

"The beach? Oh, please John, use your imagination." I say, trying to add humor to the situation. It had no effect.

"Well, you know, see some pretty girls and whatnot. Nice breeze." He mumbled tiredly and drifted off to sleep.

I look at him, memorizing every detail. He looked so peaceful. I hated it. How could he be so damn calm! I needed to get out of here.

I grab my scarf and coat, heading out of the hospital.

The night had never felt so cold.

I was at our flat. I curled up in his armchair, and for once, I let my emotions loose.

"Why John? Why did you have to get and get yourself bloody lung cancer. Could've gotten yourself a cold but noooo. Had to be dramatic didn't you. I'm the dramatic one John! I'm the show-of! So stop it!" I yell into the Union Jack pillow. At least John couldn't see me like this.

John.

Why had I left him! He could be dying! He is!

A little voice inside my head chose to speak. 'Actually he has approximately 4 hours left and might die at 6 am as it is 2 am now-' Oh shut it, you!

Wait. 4 hours. That was enough.

I phone Mycroft and tell him names in rapid-fire, followed by instructions to leave it at 221B in 3 hours. That was enough time.

I put the phone down and look at the two armchairs with determination.

I had something to do.

I rush up to his room to find him asleep. I check my watch. 5:10. I waste no time in waking him up.

"John wake up!" I yell. His eyes snap open and he looks at me, confused. I toss him a bottle of painkillers and hand the water by his bedside table.

He swallowed the pills, still clueless as to what was happening. 'Damn it John. One more thing I have to miss: Your slightly blind trust in me.'

I push those thought out of my head. I needed to act quick. Time was not on our side.

Without warning, I pick him up bridal style, despite his feeble protests of "people will talk". People could bloody yell and I wouldn't care.

As we exit the hospital, I wrap him in my coat, and hail a cab. We reach the destination in 20 minutes - John silent throughout the trip.

I walk on the seashore, the sand beneath my shoes. I see the bundle in my arms who gasped in shock.

There on the beach's shore, were our two armchairs, facing the sea.

"Since you wouldn't use your imagination, I used mine." I whisper in his ear, and in return, he smiled. "I looked like a damn idiot, dragging two chairs on the streets in the middle of the night. Next time, choose a closer place."

The beach was secluded. No one would disturb us.

I gently lay him down on his chair, tucking the coat around his frame. I look at my chair and pick up the violin on it. I sat down, closed my eyes, and began to play.

It was a slow song. A song that was filled with sadness and grief, but it still had happiness and joy. Joy from the days of the past. Joy from shared memories. Joy from having a friend. And that was worth all the pain.

I had written it in a few minutes, and rightfully named it "The Farewell". Unfortunately, at the middle, I played a wrong note. I opened my eyes and only then did I see I was shaking. Damn. My body was betraying me.

I look at my watch. 5:40. About 20 minutes. My eyes look over to John, and I find myself moving towards his chair. I carefully pick him up and he looks at me with a smile.

"Thanks for this Sh'lock. But, w-wish there were pretty ladies." Which reminds me...

I pull out a small folder and hand it to him. Inside were pictures of his pasts girlfriends, thanks to Mycroft. He smiled at his past relationships and laughed at a few.

"Don't know what got into me when I dated her..." He would mumble and when he reached the end, he sighed contentedly. A few seconds pass with only the cry of the seagulls.

"Will you miss me 'Lock?" I hear him ask. A lump forms in my throat. 'Didn't I do enough, that he still doubts?' No, that wasn't it. Actually, maybe he just needed to hear it, as much as I needed to say it.

"Is Pi equal to 3.14?" I could not say 'Is the sky blue?' because now, the sky was dark, lit only by the stars - so I decided to answer with a constant. Constant. I would miss him like that too.

"Still a c-clever git as a-always." I smile.

He asked again. "Will you remember me?"

"You cannot miss someone you don't remember John. Stupid question." I say, but not in the teasing tone I had planned to use. No, it was in a voice filled with so much emotion, it surprised me.

I hear him laugh. "You're goin' soft, you high-funct'ng sociop'th." He says, his words slightly slurring. It won't be long.

"I guess so," I say. I would never admit it to anyone else.

"Hey," he says. "Keep solvin' cases, and insult Anderson for me, will ya'?"

"Of course," I reply immediately.

"Promise?"

I swallow, even though I feel like I can't.

"Promise."

I have to ask him one last thing. "Promise you'll always be here?" God, I sound like a desperate child.

He looked at me and I guess he knows how much I need to hear it.

"Ok. Promise."

I look to see the sun began to rise over the sea, beautiful colors filling the sky, like a canvas being painted. I shake John slightly. "Look."

I see his eyes fill with childlike wonder, while my own fill with tears.

"It's amazing. Thanks for sharin' it with me." I feel his breathing slow down. This was it.

"I'll always be here John." I whisper brokenly.

He looks at me one last time. He closes his eyes, and before he leaves, I hear him say one last thing.

"Bye 'Lock."

John Watson's funeral was held a week later. There were many mourners, most from the army or his family.

As I give his eulogy, I joke and give anecdotes, mostly from our adventures. People smile and laugh through their tears. This is what John would've wanted.

Though what I said in front of everyone was humorous, I couldn't help break down when I was there, in front of his grave, alone. My mind was buzzing with all the things I never had the chance to say. So there, I told him how he saved me. How he made me a good man. How he was the best friend I could ever have. And how, I would want everything to just stop.

I would think of John often, and sometimes, I would try to join him. But every time, I would hear him telling me to stop.

And I would.

That was what friends did, right? They kept their promises.

He kept his. I'd keep mine.

A few months later, I made a new blog, telling the world of his story. He had done it for me - I would do it for him. Every time, I would post a new entry, I would always dedicate it to the best and bravest man I have ever known. It was only fair.

Though sometimes, late at night, I would cry, when I felt lonelier than ever, and I would curl up in his chair. But every time, when I close my eyes, I would see him. He'd reach his hand out to me - with his warm grin, and a mischievous glint in his eyes - and I would take it without hesitation.

And even though I know it's not real, and that he would never be physically present anymore, I knew that my best friend would always be with me.

And in the end, that was enough...

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard..." -Winnie the Pooh