For Sharon and Red, who bid for me in the Fandom Trumps Hate 2018 Auction. I know we've had some trouble communicating my dears, but I still hope you'll enjoy my final work. I've enjoyed so much participating in this auction and hope to repeat this experience in the future.

Now, this fic does follow a prompt, somewhat, it's as follows:
It's for a Sherlock AU based loosely on the movie Forever Young. John's a soldier in the late 1800s (like in Canon) and he's friends with the Sherlock of that time and vaguely in love with him but because of social reasons he never ever let's Sherlock know. Sherlock does his reichenbach stunt and John is heartbroken. He expresses his desire to essentially die to a friend and the friend is like, 'Or you could participate in my attempt at cryogenesis where your almost certain to die but at least you'll be furthering science.' And John is like, 'ok'. He gets frozen. Flash forward to 2009 and for some reason he's still frozen but fresh and he gets woken up. He's thrown for a loop by the modern world. He ends up meeting modern Sherlock who's a spitting image of his Sherlock, though more acerbic and not as soft as his was. Sherlock is intrigued by John and the mystery of his past and helps John find out what happend to past Sherlock and why John was stored for over 100 years. Of course Sherlock softens up to John and John is smitten by this modern Sherlock and now it's modern times so now maybe it's John's chance to have that love?

I was also inspired somewhat by the song "Who Wants to Live Forever" I recommend a particular cover The Tenors, ft. Lindsey Stirling. The song is beautiful, fits this fic very well, and the violin added in parts is what first made me connect it to Sherlock so...

The fic doesn't follow the prompt to the letter (or the song), but the essence is there, I think; also, Red and Sharon knew and agreed with the idea I gave them before I wrote it so... here goes. I hope you all will enjoy!

P.S. There are some important notes at the end, you might want to wait until the end to read them, unless you get too confused at some point. Then go ahead.

Forever

By: Lalaith Quetzalli

He once thought he had the world, but then he lost it, lost the world… his world. He once thought he had lost everything, that there was nothing in the world left for him, only to discover a whole new world of possibilities. Two Lives… One Love… He knows it may not last forever, but who wants forever anyway?

Part 1.

"There's no time for us.

There's no place for us.

What is this thing that builds our dreams, yet slips away from us?"

"Who wants to live forever?

Who wants to live forever? Oh,"

It was bad, so very very bad… There was shouting, and shooting, with the sun burning down on them and sand flying everywhere. It was almost like a scene out of a horror film. It wasn't even his training keeping him focused, no, it was his instincts. He was a soldier, and a doctor, and that meant something to him. It meant that no matter how bad things got all around him, he had a duty to his patients. No matter the sand, the heat, the bullets… the sudden, terrible burning low on his right shoulder. He was just aware enough to process the fact that the bullet had gone straight through, and no bones appeared to have been broken, though he was bleeding, a lot; which meant his subclavian artery had at the very least been nicked, if not worse.

He didn't even hear one of his teammates calling out to him, reaching for him as the blonde began falling; he blacked out completely before his head hit the sand.

xXx

He's drowning… or perhaps not drowning, the exact opposite in fact. The hacking coughs allow him to get the water out. His throat hurts, but he doesn't focus on that. He has no idea at all where he is, how he got there. He can vaguely hear someone calling to him, asking his name… what's his name anyway? He doesn't have a chance to focus too much on that, as he loses consciousness completely but seconds later.

The next time he wakes up he's on a bed, an actual bed. Comfortable. He knows right away it cannot be a hospital, the sheets are much too soft for that, and there is no smell of alcohol and disinfectant.

"Are you feeling better now?" a female voice asks him.

He turns instinctively in her direction. He picks up on as many details as possible, as fast as his still-somewhat-sluggish mind can. She's a brunette and her hair is curly, her eyes are a blue-grey and she's dressed in clothes that are as far from what he ever expected to see a woman wearing as it's possible. That last one tells him that something has gone wrong, something has definitely gone very, very wrong.

"Can you tell me your name?" she asks him, softly but with authority.

She reminds him a bit of his old wife, and that thought brings forth a pang of pain. Even then, he knows how dangerous it can be, if he's with the wrong kind of people. He was warned, after all, about the dangers of joining Finley's project. What could happen if his research ever fell into the wrong hands…

"Ian Morstan," he answers eventually. "and you, ma'am?"

"Cassia Abrams."

He can tell immediately it's an alias, but since the name he gave her is one as well…

"Do you know where you were?" she asks. "Where we found you?"

"Not really." It's not really a lie, he wasn't aware enough when they first woke him up to pay attention. "My memory's a bit splotchy."

"You were found in a the second basement level of an old warehouse in south London, a location that, legally, doesn't exist at all," she points out.

"How did you find me then?" he asks, not quite buying it.

"Let me clarify. The warehouse does exist, first basement included. The second one, though, doesn't. My boss acquired the place recently and I was tasked with supervising the crew going through everything that was left there when the last owner some crazy doctor, passed away. The warehouse wasn't mentioned in any will, so no one even knew it belonged to him until recently."

"Dr. Finley?" The name is out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

The way her eyes sparkle show she was expecting something like that. But it's alright, he's a soldier, he can handle a setback.

"You knew him then?" is all she asks in the end.

"As you can probably guess, yes," he states, evenly.

He's still on a bed, but sitting up, so he doesn't feel too uncomfortable as they talk. He's already made up his mind to tell her the truth. If Dr. Finley is really dead (and he has no reason to believe she lied about that) then he won't be in danger; and something tells him that it's been a lot longer than the agreed time since he went under.

"I knew Dr. Finley, worked with him on a top-secret project for years," he explains calmly. "I also offered myself as test subject."

"What was the topic of the project?" she asks, though he has a feeling she already knows the answer, she has to.

"Cryogenic freezing," he answers anyway.

There is shock in her expression, only for a moment, but he sees it. So apparently she did not know, or not for sure at least.

"What is the date?" he asks, unexpectedly.

"December 4th, 2009," she answers calmly. "We found you five days ago, on November 29th."

He cannot help himself, doesn't even try. He curses, long and colourful, in at least three different languages; it's enough to make the woman sitting on the armchair beside his bed straighten up, taken aback.

"When were you put under, Mr. Morstan?" she asks, curious.

Things are so far out of control, so insane, that he doesn't see a point in lying, or even trying to hide the truth from her (she's still not getting his real name though):

"May 4th, 1893." He answers, quiet and somewhat breathless.

She's really taken aback by that one. She'd known there was something really off about him, how could she not? But she could have never imagined that. She doesn't want to believe him and yet, she can see how shocked he is by the date she gave him, and the way he's eyed her clothing… can it be? Was that man in cryogenic sleep for more than a hundred years? It doesn't seem possible, and yet…

"It was only supposed to be for a year!" He's beginning to rant by that point. "No more! It was one of the first tests on humans! The first long one." He looks like he's about to scream. "What the bloody hell was Henry thinking?! To leave me there for over a century…"

"Dr. Finley died under suspicious circumstances on early 1894," she tells him softly. "According to what we know, his own daughter, Susan, knew nothing of what he might have been working on at the time of his death."

"Suspicious circumstances?" He wants clarification on that.

"It was believed, at the time, that it was a heart condition of some kind that caused his death, the stress as his resources ran low and he had trouble continuing with his project," she explains. "It was until later on that there were reasons to believe he might have been poisoned."

Ian isn't surprised, at all.

"That's why he never told Susan about what he was doing, what we were doing," he nods. "Something like that in the wrong hands… we'd all seen what Blackwood did, and the Professor. We didn't need to give people like them any more weapons."

"But you were still working on it..." It isn't an accusation, not from her.

Ian just shrugs, not seeing the point of explaining himself.

"You must have known how dangerous it was," she goes on. "Why do it then? Why risk it? Especially when you offered yourself as test subject."

"Because I had nothing left," Ian admits quietly, eyes staring into nothing. "My best friend, my brother, my… omi*…"

The last word seems to be ripped of him, something he didn't intend to say. She never gets the chance to ask about it, as he goes on.

"He was gone and it was my fault, I should have been there, I should have… but I couldn't break down. Things needed to be done. My wife needed me… until she didn't any more."

Cassia doesn't dare ask what that means, and she doesn't have to:

"We were going to be a family, we were supposed to be happy…" There's a sob lodged in his throat, making his voice watery, but he doesn't stop talking. "Mary died giving birth to our only son… who followed her into the grave not even a week later. There was nothing I could do. And what good is being a doctor when you cannot save your own family?" he shakes his head. "So, as you can see. I'd nothing left to lose, which is why I didn't even doubt to offer myself for the experiment. It was supposed to only be one year. But if Henry was murdered… I suppose it's enough of a miracle, my being alive right now."

Not that it seems so right now. He just doesn't see the point. It's not like he expected things to be any better a year after he went under, or maybe he did… maybe a part of him had believed there would be some kind of miracle and he'd wake up to find someone there, waiting for him (other than Henry) and he'd no longer have to be alone. Sentiment!

xXx

It doesn't take long for Ian to realize that, while he's not exactly a prisoner, he's not exactly free to leave either. It's obvious that whoever found him, whoever 'Cassia' works for, doesn't want the outside world to know about him. They're also limiting the information he has access to. He may not be able to use those machines, the computers, and the internet. But he can read a newspaper (or many) and he can tell pieces are missing. Sometimes just pages, sections, and here and there an entire day.

Ian has no idea if they're worried about overwhelming him, about him finding out specific things. He's also quite sure they must know already Ian Morstan isn't his real name, but it's not like they can find out the truth. Finley was very conscientious about that, the records never had any names but his own. And even then, from what he's been told, most of those records were burnt at some point. It's why they didn't even know his alias when they found him.

Also, there's something wrong with him. No one has told him, not Cassia, and not the team of doctors and nurses doing check-ups practically every other day; but he's a doctor himself and, more importantly, he's not stupid. He can feel it, he's less fit than he was just a week ago, there are more wrinkles on him, and his hair has begun to grey. He doesn't need to be Sherlock-bloody-Holmes to know that he's ageing, and fast.

xXx

It's two weeks before Ian gets to meet the 'boss' Cassia alluded to every so often. By now he looks more like a man in his early sixties, rather than the forty-one years of age he was when going into the cryogenic sleep. No one has told him a thing, and Ian has begun wondering if they believe him to be blind, or just stupid. It's not like he couldn't notice when it's all happening to him. They might measure the changes in his blood, his hair, his skin… but he was seeing them every time he looked into the mirror, and what's more, he can feel it. His limp has been getting progressively worse, and his shoulder pains him sometimes too. Also, his nightmares aren't getting any better. Sometimes of the war, others of the loss of his wife and child, but most nights… most nights it's about him… him, and that so-called Professor, and the Fall…

The moment the man enters the drawing room where Ian keeps busy reading whatever materials are put at his disposal, he cannot help but get a sense of familiarity. Though it's until he hears the name that he understands why.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes," he announces.

Ian cannot help but react, and he's no doubt the other man has noticed it. So he decides to cut his loses, while still not giving away everything.

"I knew a Mycroft Holmes," he admits with a shrug. "Worked for the government."

"How did you know each other?" This new Mycroft is obviously interested.

"There was a thing… I think it was in 1890," Ian thinks back, trying to think of the best way to justify his knowledge without revealing the whole truth. "As your assistant has probably told you already, I'm a Doctor, or should that be I was a doctor? There was a bit of a tizzy when a man who'd been supposedly executed turned up alive and nearly murdered half the House of Lords. I was only involved in the aftermath, as they needed a lot of medics to do check-ups on people then. At some point Lord Holmes approached us, extolling the importance on keeping quiet regarding what we may have seen or heard that day."

He snorts even as he says that. He knows Mycroft Holmes did exactly that, but it was pretty pointless with the short novels that kept being sold, relating Sherlock Holmes's and Dr. Watson's adventures. The mess with Blackwood had certainly rated one.

"You have many secrets Dr. Morstan," Mycroft says out-of-nowhere.

Ian isn't surprised at all.

"As do you, Lord Holmes," Ian replies easily. "How long did you and your doctors think you could have hid the truth from me? I'm a Doctor myself!"

"And what truth is that?"

"That I'm dying!"

"Everyone dies. In life there is a single certainty, that we will one day die."

"True, and if you want to get technical I should have died a long time ago, more than half a century at the very least. But that's not what I'm talking about right now and you know that as well as I do."

Thankfully Mycroft doesn't try to lie, or give pointless platitudes, Ian might have screamed bloody murder then. Instead, he gets to the point.

"We know not what is happening, or how," Mycroft admits. "Truth is, without any access to Dr. Finley's papers, his original research, we don't understand much of what he did, of how you were kept frozen. At first some believed your body was just failing to adapt to the changes, to being frozen and unfrozen."

"Like fruit badly handled." Ian cannot help but snort at his own comparison.

"But it's not that," Mycroft goes on, ignoring his comment. "This goes beyond your body shutting down. It's…"

"I'm ageing," Ian finishes for him, dead-honest and completely calm. "At such a rate I'll be lucky if I live past the end of the month."

Truth is, he's not afraid of dying, he never has been; and since the loss of the three people he loved the most… well, those who might have suggested that he volunteered to be Henry's guinea-pig because a part of him actually expected to die… they weren't that wrong. He would have never taken his own life, that was a path only cowards took, and he was no coward; but still, it wasn't like he had much to live for either.

xXx

Once it's out that he's ageing fast and won't be living long, one of the junior assistants takes pity on him and teaches him a bit how to use the computer and the internet. It's actually quite simple. One just has to type a question in the right spot to get an answer. Of course the girl gives him a dozen and a half warnings about not trusting information unless he can confirm it on at least three other sites, and to be careful of something called fake-news. Ian is relatively sure that what he's looking for is not the kind of thing people would be interested in writing 'fake news' about.

First he looks up Henry Finley because, why not? He finds old newspaper scans, and mentions of papers he published. It's all very formal, and he can see where the government, or someone else, made sure to delete whatever they considered too dangerous. Next he looks up his wife's name. He finds her obituary, and their son's. He also finds the column written about their wedding. Because, well, while he wasn't exactly 'famous', he wasn't a completely unknown, and had warranted a column in the paper. It includes their wedding picture, and Ian cannot help but cry for several minutes.

He can still remember the day. So incredible in ways both good and bad. So much could have gone so wrong. And yet thanks to… him, it didn't. Granted, he'd gotten Ian into trouble first, but still. And Mary… she was a godsend, that woman must have been a Saint in another life for the way she managed to deal with both of them. The way she loved Ian even knowing what was in his heart. It wasn't that he didn't love her, because of course he did; and she loved him and understood him enough to know that him loving… Him, didn't make Ian love her any less.

Next he finds his own obituary. Apparently the official version is that he died in the same fire where most of Finley's research was lost, the day before he himself died of poisoning. What he really, really wasn't expecting, was the news announcing His return. Return… after he was supposed to have died! Ian saw him Fall! Saw the two of them… But he survived… He survived, and for more than two years, Ian knew nothing about it. And according to the article, he wasn't kidnapped, or being held against his will, he was travelling… He… he faked his death, left him behind to mourn and… Suddenly the emotion is just too great, he blacks out.

When he wakes up Cassia is by his bedside. With the junior assistant… Jenny, standing behind her, looking quite distraught.

"You had a heart attack," Cassia informs him straight out.

All things told, Ian is not surprised.

"This is why we were trying to limit the information," she tries to explain.

"I'm dying anyway," he cuts her off. "I deserve to know what became of my loved ones, of my friends, before I go."

"Very well," Cassia agrees, making it obvious that she was already expecting such a response. "But you'll allow Jennifer to stay. She'll help you and make sure you do not kill yourself."

Ian could almost snort. Almost, but the heartache of what he's just discovered is still too near, he cannot make himself even fake laughter. Not in the slightest. And yet, much as it might pain him, a part of him just needs to know what else happened. After… he Needs to Know…

xXx

The first thing he finds, or rather that Jenny finds for him. Is a sort-of biography he wrote yet never published. Except apparently someone had it published after his 'death'. Jenny is such a godsend, she actually gets him a copy of the book, in paper. It's all exactly as he wrote it, even parts he was sure He would have deleted before the thing ever went to print (if it ever did… even as he wrote it he wasn't sure he'd ever publish it… writing short stories for the paper was one thing, but a biography?). Only the last chapter is new to him, narrating what happened after the Fall, including several paragraphs about his family, their deaths and his own loss.

"You're him, aren't you?" Jenny asks after he closes the book, tears on the corners of his eyes.

He turns to look at her, even as the first tears fall. He's been holding onto the truth, his truth, ever since the start; but in that moment… he just doesn't know how to do it any more.

"Yeah," He drops his head back, against the back of the armchair he's sitting on, closing his eyes tight, trying to stop crying.

"Your secret is safe with me, Dr. Watson," she assures him very softly.

He's not sure that's true. Nothing against the girl, but Holmes probably has him under constant surveillance. He knows that much. Still, he's grateful to her either way.

"I need to know what happened to Sherlock after I… after I was gone," he states after what seems like forever.

Jenny nods once and gets to work.

It's not a nice story, what they find. Holmes had a few cases, not many, and not for long. After he almost got himself killed for the third time in a month Scotland Yard had cut him off completely. Deciding he was too much of a danger, both to himself and those around him. His brother had somehow managed to convince him to leave London, and Holmes went on to spend the rest of his life in a cottage on the country, keeping bees. Died in his nineties, with no family, leaving all he had to the housekeeper and her son, who'd helped him in his last years.

There are even notes from the son: Roger Munro, he'd written about his days with Mr. Holmes, hearing about his cases, learning all he could about deductions. The boy had eventually gone to become a Private Investigator himself. What hits Watson most though, is the boy's mention of how sometimes, during the night, after a nightmare, or in his last year, when sickness took him, he'd call for him, for Watson, his omi*… the boy didn't known what that word meant, of course not. Why would he? Few people had known Polari even back then, and from those few groups who used the vocabulary… well, few would have expected the reason why Holmes and he did. And perhaps it's better that way, while the world has certainly changed, there's no need to disturb the dead… Who knows? Perhaps he'll be lucky enough and some day get the chance to see Holmes again…

xXx

Ian knew they were keeping something from him. But it's until halfway through the last week of December that he finds out what that is, exactly. He knows that the Mycroft Holmes who was connected to his being found, who sent first Cassia and then Jenny to help him, was a direct descendant of the Mycroft Holmes he used to know, back in the 1890s. He also knew already that he's not the only descendant. It still takes him by surprise when, completely by accident, he finds the unedited Holmes family tree, and gets to see the name beside Mycroft Reginald Siger Holmes. It's William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

What are the odds? It's not like he's expecting that Sherlock to be his Sherlock or anything like that. But what are the odds of there being a Mycroft and a Sherlock Holmes, brothers, and considering the former was as much a politician as the 'other one' had been…

Ian has no idea why exactly they've been keeping that information from him. Did they think he might go crazy, seek out William and try to… what? He cannot even fathom. Then again, he's not a Holmes, or a genius in any understanding of the term, so that might have something to do with it. Ian tries to push all thought of William away, he really does. But he's getting old fast. Already looks like he must be somewhere between late seventies and early eighties… and he certainly feels it. And a part of him, in his core, his heart (his soul) just wants to see…

When the 29th comes Ian knows his time is coming to an end, and he so hates the idea of just laying down to die, to remain a nobody to the end. It's really not his style.

It's easy enough to convince Jenny he'd like to take a stroll somewhere beyond his 'gilded cage'. He actually does use those words, and by the sheepish look Jenny directs at him, it's obvious she has thought the same. The estate may be beautiful, but it's still a cage in its own way. It's not like anyone would be able to recognize him or anything, he's so old… in the end Jenny manages to convince her boss, somehow. They arrange for a taxi and take him to a park so he might take a walk, breathe some fresh and all that…

They end up at Primrose Hill, and Ian gets this insane idea… and he knows it's truly insane. He didn't plan it when he first decided he wanted to go out. Ok… so he might have planned on doing something, but not exactly that! When the moment comes it's actually quite easy, more than he expected. He slips away from Jenny while she's busy looking at something on her mobile (she tried to explain the device to him, Ian still doesn't understand what the point of the bloody thing is). It's almost ridiculously easy to slip away from the guards Mr. Holmes insisted on sending along. Cane in hand and looking (and feeling) like quite the old man, it doesn't take long for someone to help him cross the road, and then he's at Regent's Park.

He takes his time, not only because he's old and tires easily, but also because he does truly want to enjoy the stroll. He knows Regent's Park like the back of his hand, and while so much has changed, that little piece of London remains just enough like he remembers it for him to feel at ease, walking through it. Or maybe… maybe it's not that it hasn't changed (because it certainly has), it's that he's finally accepted that he's no longer in the old London, in the place he called home, but that doesn't mean he cannot enjoy this little piece of the new one anyway.

Ian never expected to make it all the way across Regent's Park, much less onto Baker Street, yet he does. The Sandwich Bar, Speedy's, takes him completely by surprise. All the same, it's a good excuse for him to stay right there, without looking too suspicious. He buys a cup of tea, it's about all he has the money for (which he took from one of the 'pseudo-assistants' that accompanied him and Jenny); and things have definitely become much more expensive since he was last around!

That last thing he could have ever expected, is when a young man, no older than early thirties really, abruptly drops onto the chair across from him, carrying a cup of tea, a sandwich cut in fourths and what could be considered an unhealthy amount of chips on the side.

It takes all of Ian's old training not to gape like stupid. Because he might have gotten old, and the man across him might look nothing like the Sherlock Holmes he used to know… but something inside him, in his gut (his core… his heart… his very soul) is telling him that the man sitting right there, is, in fact, none other than William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Ian cannot help it, he stares, for quite a while.

"What you staring at old man?" the young… new Holmes asks bluntly.

He sounds nothing like Holmes at all… and at the same time seems so much like him. Ian cannot even explain it, not even to himself. It makes no sense at all except… except inside him, at his core, he can feel the pull. The pull he's always felt towards Sherlock-bloody-Holmes!

"I… you kind of remind me of someone," he admits.

"Someone..." He's under the penetrating gaze of those all-too-familiar stormy eyes, and then it comes, like he knew it would. "Someone important… family… more than family… a man… not a brother… more… but you had a wife… she died… you were alone… but He…"

"He was my whole world," Ian admits softly. "The sun, the moon and every star in the sky."

He can hear the other man scoff, but he's still staring.

"Why can't I deduce you?" he asks eventually. "It's like… some things are right there, but aren't logical, and others… they're contradictory."

"Why do you think that is?" Ian cannot help but ask in return.

"It's quite impossible for you to be old and young at the same time. You are married, but your wife is dead. The person I remind you of, family, but more than family, a man, so not your wife, yet you weren't cheating on her… What am I missing?"

Something huge, but he cannot really tell him. As much as a part of him really wants to, it isn't fair to this new, younger Sherlock. Because as much as he might seem like the old one, like His Sherlock… he really isn't.

"Perhaps it's not that you're missing something, but you are not seeing the whole picture," Ian offers eventually.

"Should I ask you to turn around?" Sherlock asks in return.

Ian cannot help himself, he guffaws.

Sherlock somehow manages to convince him to eat half of the sandwich, and some of the chips. They're the only things (aside from the tea) that he's eaten all day. Not that he's been really hungry lately.

"Not eating… you're dying," Sherlock deduces another piece as they finish the chips.

"Brilliant." Ian cannot hold himself back any more, he just has to praise him.

In the past he was sporadic and even a tad sarcastic when giving praise. But not right then. He cannot help but think of all the lost opportunities, all the times he didn't get the chance to tell his Holmes how amazing he was. Also, judging by the way the other man falls silent, his eyes wide, it's obvious he hasn't been on the receiving end of such comments too often, either. Ian briefly wishes he had the chance to do more for him, for the young man before him who so painfully reminds him of his own, his detective, his man, his… but he has no time left. None at all.

"What do I keep missing?" Sherlock practically demands.

"It's a long story, you wouldn't believe me if I told you." Ian states.

"Try me." The young Holmes demands.

Ian will never know what made him do exactly that, but he does. He doesn't tell everything, and certainly no names, but just enough for H… Sherlock to know where he comes from, how he's there, and what he left behind. He can see the curiosity fighting with the disbelief. A good deal of the man probably wants to call bullshit; but Ian has dropped all pretences, gone back to his old accent and speech patterns which, he knows, are nothing like people speak nowadays.

"You miss… Him, more than Them," Sherlock murmurs eventually. "Why?"

"I loved my wife, I still do. And our son… even though I had so short a time with him, I loved him dearly. They were my life, especially after I lost… Him," Ian admits quietly. "But He… he wasn't my life, he was the universe, a piece of my heart and of my very soul…" He breaths deeply. "Mary… for her I survived, she gave me a reason to keep going. But S… Him, he gave my life meaning, purpose, he made me feel like I mattered, not for just one person, but to the world. That I had a destiny to fulfil…"

"Do you hate…?" Sherlock starts.

He never gets to finish the question. There's a commotion on the street and Ian instinctively knows his time is up. But he's not ready yet! And it's not even about H… Sherlock. He's not ready to go back to that prison masquerading as a safe-house. He's dying, he's quite sure of that, it's unlikely he'll see another dawn. But as long as its up to him, he will not die in that golden cage Mycroft Holmes insists on keeping him in.

Ian is so focused on making a plan, he doesn't notice when Sherlock first takes his hand, pulling him out of his chair. Only instead of making for the front of the shop, they make for the back, straight into what must be the flat owner's private living quarters. He vaguely hears Sherlock calling to the woman… Mrs. Hudson… the mere name is enough to leave him reeling, so much he's not fully aware of anything until they're going out some kind of backdoor, some alley, and next thing he knows they're walking down Siddons Lane. A moment later Sherlock calls a cab.

"He'll take you wherever you want," he informs Ian.

Ian can only blink, not quite understanding why Sherlock is doing that.

"Kurt owes me a favour, he'll take you wherever you need to go," Sherlock elaborates, then adds: "I've no idea how much of what you told me is true, I don't care. What I know for sure is that my brother is looking for you… I've always liked making things a bit harder for him." He makes a pause. "You do know he'll find you?"

"I know," Ian shrugs, but not yet.

As if able to read Ian's mind, Sherlock nods. The old man has just climbed into the cab, when something else occurs to him.

"Ian Morstan." He tells him with a small smirk. "In case you were interested in a name."

Sherlock is smart enough to know it's not the real one, but still.

The taxi starts. Ian waits until he turns the corner onto Glentworth Street to give him instructions:

"Kensal Green Cemetery please."

"Right away sir." The man, Kurt, replies immediately.

The sun is almost completely down by the time they make it to the cemetery. Kurt asks him once if he's sure, and he is. Ian reassures him as well he can, then leaves the taxi and begins the walk he knows well. Doesn't matter how much time has passed. That's one route Ian/John is quite sure he'd be able to walk even were he to go suddenly blind.

First he reaches a mausoleum. With the name Holmes inscribed over the door. He knows His rests are there and he cannot help but run a hand across the heavy iron door, a part of him wishing there was a way he could get closer. In the end he shakes his head and, with some effort, manages to push himself to walk the missing yards. Just past the mausoleum, there are two graves. The first has one single name, his… he knows it's empty, that it was Holmes who insisted on the gravestone, even if they never found his body. And the one beside it… that one has two names: Mary Elizabeth Watson is first, with her Date of Birth and of Death… she was so young… not even thirty years old yet. The second name though, that one pains him the most, with dates that show how short his life was; his baby, his son: Ian Sherlock Watson.

John drops to the grass, caring very little for his clothes, his cane, or even his own body in that moment. He is where he wants to be… were he needs to be. Let Mycroft Holmes find him, he isn't leaving his family again.

xXx

Mycroft, Cassia, Jenny and a team find the man the following morning, or what's left of him. In a single night he hasn't just passed away, his body looks as if he's been dead for weeks, if not longer. They don't even see the point in taking him away, instead make arrangements to lay him to rest right there, in his own grave.

At the same time, in Queen Elizabeth's Hospital, nurses are going nuts, as the patient who'd arrived as an emergency almost a month prior, in a comma and whom so many have given up on, has just woken up. The chart at his feet reveals the man's identity: Captain John H. Watson, RAMC.

This fic takes three different versions of Sherlock Holmes: the Sherlock Holmes movies with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law, the Mr. Holmes movie with Ian McKellen, and of course the BBC tv show with our dear Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. The first two are, for this fic, supposed to be the same life, the current Sherlock and John's (and Mycroft's, Mrs. Hudson's, etc.) past lives. This is actually mentioned in the fic itself, but I clarify it just in case. Also because there's one single but very important change made to the Downey movies: Watson never got the package from which he inferred Holmes's survival. That's very important because it's the catalyzer for everything else that happens, and the fic itself. The latter fate of Mrs. Watson and the infant comes from things I've read regarding what apparently happens to them in the original Arthur Conan Doyle novels, though I'll be completely honest and admit I've never read them.

Remember that full-sized poster/cover can be found, as always, on DeviantArt.

So, that's what needed to be said. Hope you all enjoyed/enjoy this fic and please don't forget to leave kudos, comments, etc. Hope to see you around!