The Last Day on Earth
Sherlock did not move. He wished he hadn't woken up at all. He just wanted to stay there. Next to John, listening to him breathing. But soon the slow rhythm changed and then John rolled over on his side. Sherlock sighed as he reached out to run a finger gently over John's cheek.
"Good morning," John said, leaning in and kissing him softly.
"Is it?" Sherlock answered wryly, but unable not to smile a little at John's croaky morning voice and funny breath. How strange that he was noticing all those little things now. Of all days.
John answered his smile. "We'd better make it good. It's our last one. And I have loved every one of these mornings with you."
Sherlock nodded and then pulled John closer, kissing him again.
John hummed and stroked his shoulder. "What do you want to do today?" he asked when they broke apart.
Sherlock thought for a moment, then chuckled. "You," he said, holding on to John and rolling them both over so he could playfully pin him down.
…
John hummed, giving Sherlock another kiss before he finally untangled himself from him. "That really was worth it all," he smiled. "If it had to happen now, I'd die happy." He wished he wouldn't have mentioned it again, as they both knew well enough how the day would end, but he couldn't help it being on his mind. And he did want Sherlock to know how grateful he was for their time together. Still, he quickly changed the subject before Sherlock had a chance to react.
"Do you want breakfast? Or just tea?"
"Tea is fine," Sherlock said, stretching. "I really don't want to be wasting time digesting today."
John smiled. "Just stay in bed. I'll bring it."
As he returned, he also picked up Sherlock's laptop. They had not really discussed their plans for the day, but he could imagine that Sherlock would want to solve a last case.
Sherlock glared at the laptop. "What did you bring that for?" he asked. "Wouldn't you rather we just… talked? With each other? Do we really need to know what is happening out there?"
John put down the tea and sat down next to him, taking his hand. "Of course I want to spend time with you. But… Solving cases was… is… your life. It's what you love doing. All those mysteries. The game is still on. So I thought you might want one today."
Sherlock studied him for a moment, then smiled. "It's good of you to be thinking of me in that way, but today shouldn't be about work. It should be about us. I've put off so many of the things you wanted us to do together, because I thought there'd be plenty of time, and now…" He stopped and closed his eyes for a moment. "Now time is almost up…"
John gently squeezed his hand and pressed his lips to Sherlock's jaw. "I don't mind. I mean, of course I would have wanted more time. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time so I could have told you how I felt about you earlier, so we could have had more of this. But even then, every moment has been a pleasure. If you asked me to run around London all day, I would gladly follow you as I have always done."
"I don't want to run," Sherlock said. "Not today." He put his teacup down and reached up to stroke John's cheek gently.
John gave him another soft kiss. "So… We just stay in bed and have sex all day?"
Sherlock grinned. "Sounds like a plan," he said, putting his other hand on John's thigh.
John chuckled, but then grew serious again. "What about that woman who sent you a message?"
"Lots of women send me messages," Sherlock said, grinning cheekily.
John slapped his arm, enjoying the childish gesture ridiculously much. "You know which one I mean."
"The one whose daughter ran away thirty years ago," Sherlock said, frowning. John had been nagging him for weeks to at least take a look at it, but Sherlock had dismissed it as being too trivial.
"I just… I can imagine that she wants closure," John said. "Certainly now it's her last chance. I feel we should help her to get an answer to that one last question."
"But how will it help her?" Sherlock asked. "She'll be dead by tonight anyway. And so will her daughter. She probably already is."
John had looked up sharply as he mentioned the daughter, hoping it meant Sherlock had a theory, but now he sighed. "It might still make a difference. Just… knowing. I think these last moments are important to everyone. If I imagine having to spend today somewhere far away from you… I just know it is important."
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, then pulled him into a hug. "I'll do it," he whispered in his ear. "I'll solve this last case. For you."
…
While John was fixing himself some breakfast, Sherlock found the original message from the woman. Her daughter had just turned fourteen when one day, she didn't return from school. The police had done the usual lousy job of investigating it and then closed the case as just another run-away. Sherlock had agreed, but John had gone behind his back and got in touch with the woman, who had sent them some items that had belonged to her daughter, as well as a picture of her together with some school friends.
He studied the three smiling girls. "Why did anyone ever think hair like that was a good idea?" he asked, frowning.
John's laugh sounded from the kitchen. "One of the mysteries about the eighties that I guess will never be solved."
Sherlock chuckled. "Well… Given enough time I might have been able to…" He sighed. Would the whole day be like this? Would everything they said be a reminder? He really did not want that. For the first time in his life he wanted not to think. To just be. Just be with John and be happy.
But he had promised to do this, so he rummaged through the large brown envelope and found the girl's diary. He had flicked through it before, but never really given it much attention.
As John sat down across from him to eat, Sherlock began reading.
…
When Sherlock had still been in the bedroom, John hadn't felt like making himself breakfast. It would mean being away from Sherlock for longer than necessary, and it wasn't like they had to care about a healthy lifestyle anymore. But once he could actually start on his bacon, eggs, and toast, he realised he had been hungry and really did enjoy this last breakfast. Even though John made a point of paying attention to every bite, Sherlock was still surprisingly focused on the teenage girl's diary by the time he went to put his plate in the sink.
He wouldn't disturb Sherlock while he was engrossed in the case, but now John felt strangely lost. A lot of things he would get up to do at a moment like this just didn't make any sense now. They were habits that all had their use in a normal life with no definite end point, but with the certainty that everything would be brought to a close on that very same day, it wasn't like he was going out for shopping, start cleaning or do the dishes.
For a while, he simply sat across from Sherlock, admiring him. The brilliant man's look of concentration; the pale skin that only John knew was softer than it looked, covered by that deep-blue dressing gown; his large, elegant hands making the book he was holding seem so small; the dark wild curls John so loved to play with. He promised himself to touch Sherlock's hair as soon as it wouldn't distract him from his thought process.
Yet for now, there actually still were a few things John had planned. He had decided to do them later that day, as a way of saying goodbye, but now that time came closer, he realised he'd rather get the obligations over with. That, however fond he was of a lot of people, those last hours were only to be shared with the single most important person in his life.
Sherlock didn't seem to notice him getting up to take his phone. First, John rang Mrs Hudson, staying in the kitchen where he wouldn't disturb Sherlock with his talking, but could still look over at him now and then. Fortunately their landlady didn't sound panicky at all. She was chatting happily, as if it were any other day, about the things she had still planned to bake with her sister that afternoon, and that Mr Chatterjee had promised to come over all that way to see her.
John was happy for her, even though her remark before she had left to her sister's, that family was all they had in the end, had hurt him more than he had cared to admit. He had gone to visit Harry the day before that, attempting to make things right between them. She had been so drunk that she hardly seemed to recognise him.
John swallowed, trying to banish the thought, and made the calls to his other friends. Mike, Bill, Ted, Molly, and Greg.
By the time he was finished, he felt strangely freed, and a little guilty about that. But now, all the time that was left was to be filled in whatever way he and Sherlock decided. He returned to the living room, where Sherlock had put down the diary and had his hands pressed together under his chin in his usual thinking position.
Sherlock smiled, without looking at him. "Said all your goodbyes?" he asked. "Are they all coping?"
John nodded. "Sort of. Greg's even still working."
"I guess the criminal world has decided they might as well make the most of it," Sherlock said, frowning slightly. He reached for the large envelope and poured the rest of the contents out on the table.
"Still…" John sighed. "I don't think Greg would have imagined his last day like that."
"If he wanted to, he could just walk out," Sherlock said. "What can they do? Fire him?"
"I know," John said. "He's only there because he doesn't have other options. I think he'd have wanted to spend the time with his wife, but... Apparently she had other priorities."
Sherlock nodded, then smiled as he found the object he had been looking for. A battered cassette tape with a yellowed label, marked in faded pencil. He squinted at it. "Can you read this?" he asked.
John took it and frowned. "Not really... That looks like an 'e'… Is that a 'W'?"
"Have you seen my magnifying glass?" Sherlock asked, looking around.
John nodded and got up to pull it from under a stack of paper on the kitchen table, then threw it at Sherlock.
Sherlock caught it and flashed him a quick smile. "Thank you," he said, before opening it so he could study the label more closely. "Oh..." he said, excitedly. "Wednesday!"
"Ah," John said. "Not very useful, then."
The look Sherlock gave him was genuinely puzzled. "You're joking, right?" he said. "Wednesday... The day she disappeared. This may very well be a message from her. Her... note..."
"Oh. I didn't know she disappeared on a Wednesday. So... Can we play it?" John gave the tape a doubtful look.
"Sure," Sherlock said. "Just get my walkman from my gym bag."
John rolled his eyes.
Sherlock chuckled at his expression, then thought for a moment. "I think Mrs Hudson may have an old radio with a cassette deck in it. If it still works."
John nodded. "I guess she won't mind if we go into her flat now."
Sherlock grinned as he got to his feet. "If she does, we'll never know about it." He gave John a quick kiss and then headed for the stairs, the cassette in his hand.
...
"What the hell?" Sherlock exclaimed as the noisy pop-music blared out of the old radio.
She must have taped over something. He tried forwarding a bit. And a bit more. He turned over the tape.
Nothing. Well... Nothing but the annoyingly cheery music with sobby lyrics and an excess of electrical drums.
He stopped the tape. "Guess I was wrong," he said, shooting John one of his looks to warn him not to comment on this statement. "I guess it's just a copy of an album. It's got nothing to do with her disappearance."
"Maybe there's a clue in the lyrics or something?" John suggested.
Sherlock smiled at him. "Not a bad suggestion," he said, and chuckled as John's smile turned a little proud. "But I doubt it. It's not like she wrote this crap. And there are over 100 minutes worth of music. No one would bother to listen to the whole thing. Except silly teenage fangirls."
He frowned as something poked at the back of his mind. There was something about this tape. But what?
He studied his boyfriend. "John..." he said hesitantly. "You are almost Lizzie's age. You must have listened to stuff like this back when you were a teen."
John raised his eyebrows. "You assume I listened to the same things as a teenage girl with frankly horrible taste?"
Sherlock laughed. "You were a teenage boy. Was your taste much better?"
"Of course," John said haughtily, laughing a little. "What did you listen to, then?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Bach," he said. "Chopin. Vivaldi. That sort of stuff." He studied John for a moment. "Let me guess... You claimed to be into glam, but secretly borrowed your sister's Wham records?"
John rolled his eyes and waved at the cassette. "No reason to dwell in the past. We should look up what that music actually is."
Sherlock nodded. He picked up the radio and headed for the door. "I think I caught enough of the lyrics," he said. "Otherwise you can do some more listening." He winked at John.
"I'm really not going to listen to any more of that now," John said, wrinkling his nose.
Sherlock chuckled and began humming one of the tunes as he walked up the stairs to their own flat.
…
"Can you stop humming? Please? Now the bloody thing is stuck in my head and there is no way I am going to d- to end the day thinking of that," John bristled, as Sherlock was still humming when they had both taken their chairs, back in the flat.
"Sorry," Sherlock chuckled and focused on the screen. "Ah... Here they are. 'Reckless Rita'. Two albums, one hit song. Did a single tour in the mid eighties and then vanish..." The last word trailed off as he leaned in to study something on the screen.
"What is it?" John asked, getting up to look over his shoulder.
"Their tour," Sherlock said, pointing. "They played their last concert that night. When Lizzie disappeared."
John frowned. "Do you think they have something to do with it? That they had to disappear?"
Sherlock studied him for a moment. "No," he said. "They're just a band. But I don't think it's a coincidence either. I think Lizzie was going to that concert."
He picked up her diary again and began flicking through the pages, searching for something.
John looked back at the website. "But it was in Leven. And she lived in Manchester."
Sherlock nodded. "Precisely. Many things could have gone wrong between here and there. And she must have gone without her mother's knowledge or consent or she would have told the police."
"But if something happened to her on the way there, it's almost impossible to find out now..." John sighed.
"Oh, I doubt she was going alone," Sherlock said, pointing to a line in the last but one entry in the book.
"'Sas can be a real cow, sometimes'," he read. "'I told her 'no' a thousand times, but she just won't listen. Today she gave me a gift. Something I've been asking her to get me for over a month. But I know she only gave it to me now to make me come. But I can't. Mum would freak.'"
He turned the page. "And then the next day," he said. "She writes: 'Kay's going too. She says it will be fine. That she'll take care of everything. I know I will regret it forever if I don't do this.'"
John frowned. "Are you sure that is telling you something? The police must have read this too, back in the day."
"Of course they did. And they concluded that Sas and Kay were some homeless kids that she knew and they talked her into helping them traffic something illegal. That the gift was probably some kind of narcotic to get her hooked..."
John stared at him. "Really? Even I think that that sounds ridiculously far-fetched."
Sherlock shrugged. "Local law enforcement," he said simply, before picking up the picture and handing it to John. "Sas and Kay… They're her best friends." He pointed at the other girls. "Sarah and Karen. Look." He unfolded a small piece of paper that had been stuck into the diary. Scribbled on it in faded pencil were the words: "Ann has got a crush on Mr Lewis." It was signed "S."
He then held up the tape. "See? Same handwriting. Sarah gave her the tape with Reckless Rita's newest album to convince her to go to the concert, which might be their last chance ever to see the band live, since there were already rumours of them splitting up. Lizzie didn't want to go, but Karen must have had some kind of plan that made it seem doable."
"But what happened to her then?" John asked. "Did she taste the freedom and run off? Or did something bad happen when they were there?"
"I don't know," he said. "Yet. But I am going to find out." He picked up his phone and began dialing.
...
Sherlock frowned slightly as he hung up. Rarely had he felt less pleased about solving a case. He turned to look at John, attempting a smile. "Well," he said. "That's that..."
John looked a little worried and took his hand. "What did you find out?"
Sherlock considered for a moment how best to explain it. "She's dead," he said, deciding to get that out of the way. "She died that day. In Scotland."
John's shoulders sagged and he shook his head a little. "On the way to the concert?"
Sherlock nodded. "Just outside the town, actually," he said. "Karen had gotten them a ride with a friend of her cousin's, who was a lorry driver. He had dropped them off with less than a mile to walk."
"And what happened?"
"Sarah, the one who made the tape, wanted to... take a more scenic route... To go up the hill and take a picture of them with Reckless Rita's hometown in the background."
John nodded and stroked the back of Sherlock's fingers with his thumb.
"Karen told me that she asked them to stand right on the edge for the picture. Lizzie slipped and fell." He sighed. "Simple as that. She hit the cliffs on the way down and ended up in the water. The other girls panicked. Blamed themselves. So they swore never to tell anyone and headed home. They were all safely in their beds before Lizzie's mother ever realised her daughter was really missing and hadn't just gone home with a friend or something. And all these years, they never told anyone."
John looked shocked and was now squeezing Sherlock's fingers. "How could they? Seeing her mother suffer and hope, and never tell her what had happened?" He sighed. "I guess Karen was relieved you asked her now. Get it off her heart at the last minute."
"She was," Sherlock said. "And she said she'd call Sarah." He shrugged. "They were just kids, John. Barely into their teens. They were not supposed to even be there. They had gone out of town without their parents' permission. Without even telling them. They were convinced that if anyone ever knew what had happened, it would be worse than they could even imagine. That it would be..." He stopped, as the words for a moment got stuck in his throat. He swallowed. "That it would be the end of the world."
John got up and stood next to Sherlock's chair to give him a hug. "Well. We should tell her mother."
"Why?" Sherlock said, leaning on John. "Will it make her feel better? Now?"
"I don't know. She must have wanted to know, or she wouldn't have sent us the case... Now is the last chance for her to get closure." John gently threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair.
"To know that she's been dead all this time," Sherlock said. "Rather than thinking that maybe, just maybe, she's still out there. Has had a life. Maybe a family." He closed his eyes, enjoying John's touch. "Isn't hope better? Now?"
John was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking it over. "Maybe," he sighed. "But it feels wrong that we know now, but won't tell her. She'll have spent her life not knowing what became of her own daughter. It seems so... cruel..."
Sherlock frowned. "You think so?" he said. It didn't make sense to him, but he had learned to trust John on matters like this. "You really think we should tell her?"
John bit his lip, stroking Sherlock's shoulder. "I really don't know."
Something in John's eyes made Sherlock's chest ache and he pulled him close and kissed him.
John stroked Sherlock's neck as he kissed him back, half sitting in Sherlock's lap.
Sherlock sighed. "Anything else you want to do today?" he asked.
John smiled a little and traced Sherlock's collarbone with a fingertip. "Yes..."
"Oh?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And what might that be?"
John chuckled. "Let's go to the bedroom," he said, standing up and reaching for Sherlock's hand. Then his expression fell. "Unless... What about you? Don't you want to call Mycroft? Or take one last case from Lestrade?"
Sherlock shook his head as he took John's hand. "I talked to Mycroft last week. After we got the news. There is nothing more to say. And I think we have already proved that there is very little use in solving cases." He stood up too. "The only thing left is you."
John nodded slowly, pulling Sherlock close again. "And I guess you're right about Lizzie's mother. Maybe... Maybe she's doing something fun today. Then we shouldn't turn her attention back to the past... right?"
"Right." Sherlock nodded and kissed him.
Once in the bedroom, they stripped to their pants and then snuggled up under the covers. John pulled Sherlock half on top of him and stroked his back, sighing. "I love you."
Sherlock smiled. "I love you too," he said, and then rested his head on John's shoulder. "Always have and always will."
"Until the end of time." John smiled a little and kissed his hair. "It has been a privilege spending this with you."
"My one regret," Sherlock whispered, "is all the time I wasted that I could have spent with you."
John sighed and hugged him more tightly. "Everyone would have wanted more time. And you've always been by my side. I count the cases too, as being time we spent together. So please... Don't feel guilty."
Sherlock chuckled. "Guilty? Hardly. I'm just annoyed at the thought of what I've missed out on. All the kisses I could have enjoyed instead of sulking. The times I could have taken you rather than thrown a tantrum. The times you could have held me instead of me retreating to my mind palace. What use is that thing to me now? It all seems so pointless now. Everything but this." He raised his head up so he could kiss John.
John kissed him back and then stroked his cheek, smiling a little. "I know a way how you can make up for it."
Sherlock grinned and then deepened the kiss, letting his hands wander slowly down John's body.
John grinned back and shifted a little. "Well, yes, that too... But could you play something for me? So that damned song is out of my head?"
Sherlock groaned as he pulled away. "Now?" he whined.
But actually he liked the idea of playing one more time. So, after a quick kiss, he got out of the bed and went into the living room to find his violin. "Anything in particular?" he asked as he tightened the bow.
"Just whatever you feel like playing," John said, sitting up on the bed. "Something good enough to be the last piece of music we hear. I'll enjoy the sound anyway. And the view." He smirked.
Sherlock considered, then played one of his own tunes. A slow, plaintive thing from their first winter at Baker Street.
…
By the end of the tune, John's eyes were dry from trying not to blink. That look of passion and concentration had never stopped to be stunning to him. Combined with those long, nimble fingers caressing the strings, just watching Sherlock play the violin was almost erotic. He didn't even think of the pop song anymore, his head now filled with the beautiful notes and melancholic thoughts. When Sherlock put the instrument down, John sighed and sat closer to him.
"That was amazing," he said.
"That was you," Sherlock replied as he put down the violin. "Or rather how I felt when I did not know if I would ever get to hold you."
John softly kissed his shoulder. "I'm glad we didn't wait too long to tell each other how we really felt. We could so easily have been too late. Have missed out on it all."
Sherlock nodded and then turned to pull John into a tight embrace. He seemed about to speak, but changed his mind.
John nuzzled his neck, holding him close.
Sherlock nodded. "I'm sorry it took me so long," he said, leaning his cheek against John's.
"Don't think of that now," John said softly. "I love you, and I know you love me, and that's all that is important in the end."
Sherlock bit his lip. "I know," he said. After a long pause, he shifted a little. "Let's lie down again," he said. "I want to be as close to you as possible."
John nodded, pulling him along towards the pillows.
They lay there for a long while, just holding each other close and now and then exchanging a kiss, until John was feeling comfortably warm and sleepy. Humming, he nuzzled Sherlock's shoulder, his eyes closed.
Sherlock yawned. "I'm sorry," he said. "I... I wanted us to make love but... It's just so comfortable like this. Is it okay? If we just do this?"
John smiled warmly, looking into his eyes. "It's perfect, love. I couldn't think of a better end than falling asleep in your arms."
Sherlock smiled and gave him a soft kiss. "Sweet dreams, my love."