"You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago."

- from "Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg," Richard Hugo

John stood outside Bart's for a solid ten minutes before he was struck with the urge, the need, to go inside. He'd watched the nurses, doctors, techs, a sea of scrubs flying by, wheeling the gurney past him. The woman who had torn his hand from Sherlock's lifeless wrist had stayed with him just a few minutes before leaving. He couldn't blame her. He hadn't been very receptive to comfort.

Every step that didn't send him falling to his knees felt like an accomplishment. He staggered down to the morgue. He'd spent so many hours down here in this maze of labs, but never in a context like this. There were a few people filing out, a couple shooting him sympathetic looks as he walked by. He was about to push open the door when Molly came outside, laying her hand on his chest to stop him.

"John, I don't think you need to be here right now. You don't need to see this..." She stopped when she saw the blazing look in his eyes. She stepped aside.

Molly watched as John stood over the table. She stayed against the wall, pretending to not exist, thinking briefly that she was better at that than she would be at comforting him. She clamped her eyes shut and felt tears well up in her eyes. How was John doing this? He had watched him jump!

But what Molly didn't understand was that John having witnessed Sherlock's leap was exactly why he needed to see this. Mycroft had once told John that when you walked with Sherlock Holmes, you saw the battlefield. But John had never imagined that Sherlock would become one of the casualties. He had seen enough war. He'd seen countless good men die, often times while he was trying to save them. And it felt too familiar.

After men would die on the battlefield, John never looked away from the bodies. Most people would, but John would always try to make himself remember each one, each story that was now cut short, so that that person would never cease to exist.

It had always been hard. Such things always are. But not like this. None of those men had meant to John what Sherlock had.

John stood by the slab, hand unconsciously reaching to check for a pulse again. He stopped himself, and instead twirled a loose thread at the end of the blood-tinged scarf. Head wounds were always the worst during the war. They were always the bloodiest, the most cringe-worthy, and the most dramatic. In that way, it suited Sherlock perfectly. The bastard could never do anything subtly.

John took a deep breath, and forced himself to remember.

He'd killed someone for Sherlock within forty-eight hours of meeting him. But that was eternity given that John had become irreparably attached to him within twenty-four. John hadn't wanted to call it love then. He was still deluding himself that it was adrenaline. But it wasn't long before he finally admitted it to himself. He lost surprisingly little sleep over it. It was a fact that seemed to have been ever-present, but had only just then made itself clear.

Sherlock was never an easy person to love. He was cantankerous, moody, sarcastic, and condescending. His pride and ego easily filled every room he strode into. But he had a certain charm in his eccentricities, and a depth of character that he never allowed others to see. Well, no one except for John.

Soon after John saved Sherlock, he returned the favor. Sarah, understandably, had not been so enthused by the prospect of a second date. But that was okay. John had always known that things would never last with Sarah. She was his attempt at a distraction, at pretending he was still a normal person, instead of someone who regularly fought serial killers and gangs with his genius flatmate. Of course, John often told himself that that was the second time Sherlock had saved him. The first time had been the moment when they stood laughing on the first floor of Baker Street, when Sherlock forced John to realize that he could walk again.

But it wasn't until Moriarty made his first appearance in their lives that John had ever really considered that his feelings weren't one-sided. He saw pure fear in Sherlock's eyes that night, a panic. Sherlock Holmes never panicked. He had spent the entire night after the encounter following John around Baker Street like a lost dog, repeatedly asking how he was and babbling about how worried he had been. Despite the fact that John was clearly fine, Sherlock seemed blindsided. Caring, in Sherlock's mind, had always been a disadvantage, a human weakness meant to be beaten down and covered up.

Maybe Sherlock had been right about that.

John thought about how often the two of them had saved each other. Their lives were choruses of "all rights." And until today, each question had always been met with its matching response. It had always been all right. But not now. John looked at the blood beginning to dry in Sherlock's hair, and he was nearly in tears over how not all right this was.

Why didn't you let me help you? Why didn't you let me save you one more time?

John was starting to understand the truly horrific implications behind Sherlock's fall, and was filled with hurt. He hadn't been enough of a reason to live. John still didn't believe a word of the lies. He knew that Moriarty was behind every false word spread about the detective. Yes, there was a media frenzy to contend with since the fabrications had leaked to the papers, but they could have dealt with it. Between the two of them and Mycroft, they could have made it all disappear. They could have fixed it. So why did Sherlock feel the need to die? Was a wound to his pride really so fatal? Since when did he even care what other people thought about him? John couldn't pin down one feeling. He was a tangled mess of a thousand different trains of thought, and he was growing tired just trying to hold it together.

And then Irene had shown up. John was never very fond of her. He felt an irrational jealously whenever her name came up in conversation. He had been convinced that Sherlock had finally found his perfect match in Irene. They were practically made for each other. But Sherlock hadn't even hesitated when faced with the option of beating her. And he told himself that Sherlock never would have stolen an ashtray from Buckingham Palace for her. He had thought about that moment for days. It had made him smile like a fool multiple times, which he did his best to hide from Sherlock.

In the end, Irene had been no more a threat than Sarah. In fact, Irene had been keen enough to say out loud what everyone else had only jokingly implied. She'd called them a couple. And while that wasn't true in the traditional sense when she'd said it, it was soon enough.

When Sherlock had asked imploringly for Irene's phone, John had doubted Irene's supposed keen sense of observation. Later that night, John had found Sherlock still at his microscope, and had asked if he was okay.

"I'm fine, John. Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just, you seemed rather...sad earlier."

"Over Irene? Please. If I was sad it was only due to losing an intellectual equal."

"Then why the need for her phone?"

"Souvenir from what can only be called a fascinating case." John stood in the kitchen doorway, not entirely believing him. He turned to go sit in the living room.

"All right then."

"You think I was in love with her." John stopped, looking back over his shoulder. Sherlock was staring at him.

"What makes you say that?"

"John, I am the world's only consulting detective. It wasn't a difficult deduction." John didn't know how to respond to that, but after a few seconds of heavy silence, Sherlock said, "You're wrong, though. I'm not any more in love with her than you were with the doctor or the boring teacher." He made a dismissive little gesture, like he was twirling something invisible in the air in front of him. John smiled before he could stop himself. Still refused to learn the names of those he deemed unimportant. Again, John had no response. His brain didn't seem to be functioning at full capacity. Sherlock stood up and walked over to him, taking up the other half of the doorway. John forced himself to make eye contact, and found himself face to face with the most intense stare he'd ever seen, but one tempered with a softness and with a sort of insecurity hidden within it. Sherlock raised a hand, as if to reach out, but then he caught himself and dropped it back to his side. Sherlock looked away, a tad shaken, and had made it only a few steps before John reached out and grabbed his wrist, spinning him back around without a word.

It was the first good kiss.

John had known how much that night would alter both their lives. They had decided to keep things quiet for the time being. Although, so many people were already convinced they were involved that they doubted anyone would have been all that shocked, even if John had always denied any insinuations.

Watching a friend jump to his death is painful enough. Watching the person you love do it is a million times worse. But no one would understand, because no one knew, and now, no one would ever know.

John could feel Molly's eyes on him. Molly, who had always been so blindly infatuated with Sherlock, she might have lost someone she loved as well, but she would never be able to fathom John's pain. Because John didn't just watch the person he loved kill himself. He watched the person who loved him back kill himself.

He wished Molly would leave, if only for a few minutes. He wanted one last moment, one where he didn't have to censor himself. But he knew he wasn't going to be given that. He laid his hand flat across Sherlock's chest, fingers splayed, and took one last look at his fallen friend. When he picked his hand back up, he realized that the tremor had returned. He flexed his fingers out of habit, and clenching his jaw, turned and left.

He didn't look back.

When the insinuations were made yet again at Baskerville, John gave up denying them. It wasn't worth it out here where no one knew them anyway.

The trip had been very trying. Sherlock had had a complete nervous breakdown one night, making himself look like a total lunatic, and acting like a complete and utter bastard. John had decided to let him sulk, while he did some sulking of his own. Oh, you don't have friends? Then what the hell am I? John had spent quite a while coming up with many curses against him, and was still feeling unforgiving the next day, until...

"I've just got one."

How could John stay angry after a remark like that?

After the hound had been put to sleep, so to speak, the two of them had crashed after the adrenaline left their systems. Sherlock was stretched out flat on his back across his bed on top of the blankets. John was perched on a corner of free space near the head of the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest. It wasn't taking as long for Sherlock to recover from their harrowing experience. He had his explanation, so fear was a moot point now. But John, even knowing what had happened, was still a little scared. Because the truth was somehow worse than a demon hound. The truth was all of those horrors had been created by another human being, and deliberately inflicted on an innocent bystander. It was psychological warfare, and the level of ruthlessness had made John uneasy. Humans were really the world's greatest weapons.

"John." He looked down. Sherlock's eyes were still shut, but John could hear the eight hundred things he'd crammed into his name. Are you okay? What's wrong? Can I fix it?

"I'm fine, Sherlock, really."

"Liar."

"I'll be okay." That was more honest. John genuinely believed it would be better in the morning.

"Good. I can't have you feeling poorly. What if I need your help on a case when we get back?"

"Yeah, since I'm your only friend, after all." John smirked. Sherlock opened his eyes. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

"You're my only everything. You are the exception to all my rules."

John knew Sherlock was being serious, but he couldn't resist. "Would you say I'm the only one in the world?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes. Only one in the world."

John woke up screaming. He'd had nightmares far worse than any he'd ever had of the war. He relived Sherlock's death a thousand times. He sat up in his bed, hyperventilating, hearing his heartbeat in his ears, with his hands clamped to the sides of his head, like he could somehow brace his mind against all the bad things he'd seen. But his hand still shook.

When he started to sob, he did so as quietly as he could, so that there was no chance of Mrs. Hudson hearing. He thought about walking around the flat, trying to calm down, until he thought about how he would see every reminder of Sherlock scattered about the rooms. He'd see the violin that would never be played again, the stupid blue dressing gown that would never be worn again, the chemicals in the kitchen that would never be tampered with again. That would be too much to see. So he stayed on his bed, feeling a physical ache start deep in the pit of his stomach.

And then the all too familiar pain shot down his leg. John clenched his teeth, but the physical pain, intense as it was, just could not compare to the emotional pain.

The dreams had been so vivid, such awful flashbacks. Would it be like this every night? It was after the war, until Sherlock had come along. But who would fix him now?

Sherlock had made the ghosts of his life disappear when they'd first met. But they were back full force, and now, Sherlock was one of them.

Things had gone downhill so quickly. It felt like it had stretched on for years, but in reality, the bulk of it had lasted only a few days. There was the agonizingly tedious process of Moriarty's trial. That had been bad enough. But once Donovan began suspecting Sherlock had something to do with the kidnapped children, all the events began racing out of control, blurring together into one seemingly endless day. John and Sherlock had had hardly any moments alone since it had all started. There was so much more to focus on then. And they both believed that this would end on a positive note eventually. They thought they had all the time in the world left. This was just a short hiatus from the comfortable lives they had been living.

John's patience had been growing rapidly strained the longer he had to listen to the crap Donovan was coming up with. No one seriously believed Sherlock would kidnap children! John had seethed at Lestrade when he'd watched them take Sherlock away in handcuffs. And when he heard a voice say Sherlock looked to be a "bit of a weirdo" and call him a "vigilante type," John snapped, and it was a full five seconds before he realized who he'd just punched in the face.

And John wished he could say he was surprised when he found himself running through London, cuffed to Sherlock, hearing the sirens blaring a few streets over. But after as many surprises as they'd had of late, they started to lose their potency.

The whole incident ended up being a perk, really. It allowed them that moment of solitude they'd been denied. They sat in the dark on the couch in Kitty Riley's home, waiting for her, and there they found some temporary peace.

"This is only going to get worse, John. You realize that, yes?"

"We'll figure it out. We both know you aren't a fraud, Sherlock."

"Your faith in me is astounding." John held tight to the hand in his and leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"You've given me no reason to doubt you."

"What if I did?"

"Sherlock, we've had this conversation a hundred times. I know you're for real."

"Thank you." There was a long pause. "I'm afraid I haven't been afforded the chance to do this recently, and I may not have another opportunity, at least, not for quite some time, so..." A quiet, gentle kiss. And not five minutes later, the lights came on, and the moment of peace was over.

It was the last good kiss.

John's therapist stared at him. He'd never understood why therapists and psychologists felt the need to do that. You already felt like you were under a microscope enough without having someone stare at you unrelentingly. She asked him questions that he could not answer, although she probably knew. Just wanted him to say it. But it was something that was his and his alone, and now that Sherlock was gone, he didn't think he wanted to share it with anyone else.

The funeral was nearly as horrible as the death had been. Lestrade looked very bad. He was suspended, and John thought he felt at least partially responsible. Donovan and Anderson looked downright guilt-ridden. Mrs. Hudson and Molly kept eyeing John, like they were both worried he would collapse.

Mycroft had had the nerve to show up. John refused to speak a word to him. Mycroft had tried to talk to him, but John was still so angry at him for selling out Sherlock's life story and for letting Moriarty loose on the streets that he saw red any time he was within ten feet of the pretentious git. He didn't care how bad Mycroft felt. He could have used his power to keep Moriarty locked up. He had resources that could end the world. Why couldn't he stop this? Toward the end of the service, Mycroft had sidled up next to him, trying to talk about how sorry he was, and John finally gave in and opened his mouth, only to growl, "Go to hell," at him. Mycroft didn't say another word.

John flexed his hand again, wishing the shaking was at least a little less obvious. He was glad that he and Sherlock had always been considered best friends. That made it easier to explain his reactions, which would be considered disproportionate in many other friendships. At least they were close enough that he wouldn't have to tell them why this hurt him so much more than it could ever hurt everyone else. He'd never have to explain why he was so heartbroken.

John hadn't gotten over the hurt, either. He was infuriated that he would never have closure. He would never know why. But wars of any kind never allow their victims much in the way of explanations.

They had always joked, how Sherlock was the only one in the world, but then, so was John. And he realized that that was indeed the case. They were one entity. The two of them together created the only one in the world. On their own, they were just two halves, just broken pieces of something bigger.

I will never be anyone's only one in the world ever again.

John kept the ridiculous blue dressing gown. He had folded it up and tucked it away in one of his dresser drawers. He couldn't decide if seeing it made him feel better or worse, but he felt compelled to hold on to some piece of Sherlock, some reminder that at one point, his life had been perfect.

Even a few weeks after the funeral, John was hardly speaking to anyone. But they didn't infringe upon his privacy and didn't try to make him end his silence.

One evening, John found himself back at the cemetery. He'd told himself he wouldn't do this, but he couldn't seem to help it. Sherlock would have called this behavior irrational, visiting the dead, but he found it more comforting than any visit to a therapist.

He'd brought flowers, too, red roses. Sherlock had never understood the importance of things like flowers and starlight, but he could at least appreciate them, and he had mentioned before that he truly appreciated flowers, roses in particular. He said that if there did turn out to be such a thing as a god that the flowers were our best signs of hope that the creator was a benevolent one. He said that a rose was an embellishment, that its only purpose was beauty. Even stars could have a practical function, but a rose was just a pleasant extra in an unpleasant world. John had kidded him about his moment of almost startling optimism, but Sherlock had argued that if he was capable of understanding love, then roses were no stretch for his brilliant intellect. They'd laughed quite a bit about it.

So it only seemed appropriate now that John should lay down roses in front of his tombstone. John sat there in front of it for the longest time, still asking questions he'd never have answers for, still fighting the pain in his leg and the tremor in his hand, and the crippling notion that he had no idea what to do with his life now.

He thought back to those perfect moments, the first and last good kisses. He'd dreamed about them once or twice, as if the universe saw fit to give him a second's reprieve from his nightmares. Sometimes those memories were the only things that got him up in the mornings.

John stood and walked up close to the tombstone. He'd never have that kind of good kiss again.

He blinked back a few stubborn tears. He kissed his own fingertips and rested them on the polished granite. It was the closest he would ever come to those moments again.

It was the last kiss.