When Sherlock Holmes finally returns to 221B Baker Street, his friend John Watson has long since moved out of their old flat.
As a matter of fact, there is no flat to come back to. The building he once called home was torn down shortly after Mrs. Hudson passed away three years prior, and in its place is a pretty antiques shop with all manner of elegant china and age-worn furniture and vaguely creepy porcelain dolls wearing satin dresses. It's a good thing, Sherlock supposes, that the spot isn't sitting around empty and useless, a ghostly reminder of its former inhabitants. Mrs. Hudson would have been pleased.
Of course, Sherlock knows that the flat is gone long before he ever steps foot back on Baker Street. Mycroft, insufferable prat though he is, has been useful in keeping him up-to-date on relevant events in London since his departure fifteen years ago. Still, there is something drawing him to the place where his home once stood. Whether it is sentiment or procrastination, even he isn't sure, but as staring through the window at the young cashier standing in the place where Mrs. Hudson used to cook dinner makes him feel slightly ill, he decides not to stay long enough to find out.
The sky is darkening fast when he steps up to the curb, and many of the cabs have already gone off duty, but he manages to flag one down almost immediately. He hasn't lost his touch.
"St. Bart's," he says, and the cab takes off.
With every city block they pass, Sherlock feels his pulse quicken, his heart pounding ever harder in his chest. He doesn't dare lift his phone to find something to distract himself, knowing full well that his hands will be shaking. Instead, he keeps his hands folded tightly in his lap and stares out the window. There are crowds of people still shuffling about outside, their shadows growing and shrinking under the street lamps as they huddle together against the chilly autumn night. Sherlock doesn't deduce a single one.
The cab pulls up to the hospital just as the last rays of sunlight disappear from the sky. Sherlock pays the driver and leaves without so much as a thank you, his heart practically beating out of his chest.
"I need the room number for John Watson," he says to the silver-haired woman sitting behind the front desk.
"Visiting hours are over," she replies without looking up from her computer.
"I believe an exception will be made for me," Sherlock says coolly. "My brother Mycroft may have phoned ahead?"
This time the woman does look up, painted mouth falling open slightly as her eyes meet the ice-cold ones staring down at her.
"Oh. Right. I, er, I'm sorry about that, Mr. Holmes."
"I'm sure you are. Now, the room number, if you don't mind?"
"Room 324," she says, still gawking as she hands him a visitor's pass.
"Thank you," he says over his shoulder as he walks to the elevator. He does not sound thankful.
John is asleep when Sherlock finds his room. He stares at John's chest, making sure he sees it rise and fall (shallowly) before approaching the bed and taking a seat on the edge. Mycroft told him of John's condition, explained to him that he wouldn't be the strong, sturdy army doctor he used to know, but actually seeing the wrinkles and worry lines on his old friend's too-thin face makes his breath catch, and he has to look away for a moment.
When he looks back, John's eyes are just beginning to open. Sherlock's posture stays rigid, but he places his gloved hand over John's thin, pale one. John glances down at their hands and then back up at Sherlock's face.
"Hey," he whispers hoarsely.
"John." Without thinking, Sherlock leans his head down onto John's shoulder. John flinches, and Sherlock sits up quickly. "Sorry." He isn't sure whether he's apologising for forgetting how weak John must be or for everything else.
"It's okay." John isn't sure either. Somehow it doesn't matter.
They sit in silence for what feels like hours (really, only a few minutes pass) before Sherlock speaks.
"I guess, erm, I mean…Mycroft did tell you everything, didn't he?" It doesn't sound like a question.
"Yeah. Yesterday. Right after, well…you know."
"Yes," Sherlock says, glancing at John's inner forearms where the little red dots that once held IV needles sprinkle his greying flesh. "I know."
More silence.
"I should have come sooner," Sherlock says. John just shrugs; he isn't wrong. "I never thought…I expected it to take a few years. Moriarty's snipers are almost as clever as he was, and I imagine he gave them several tricks. I knew I'd be gone for two years at least. Maybe three or four. And then I'd come back to find you had moved on, gotten a family, that you had forgotten about me and found happiness amongst people who wouldn't constantly put you in danger. And everything would be okay."
"Yeah? And when have we ever been okay?"
Sherlock sighs. "Believe me John, if I had known that this was going to happen, that I'd be gone for this long and that when I came back you'd be…" He inhaled sharply. "Well, I wish that I had never left."
Me too, John thinks. "You kept me safe for as long as you could," he says instead.
"I kept the snipers busy, sure. We chased each other all over Europe and, briefly, into Asia. But…I didn't win John."
"Sher—"
"No, it's true. I didn't…I couldn't bring down any of Moriarty's men. Could never end their lives like they wanted to end yours." He shakes his head. "Not even one."
"But you kept them away from me, and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade too. Mycroft told me about all the effort you put into keeping us safe. You're a hero, Sherlock."
Sherlock laughs bitterly. "And look how much good it did."
"It did plenty of good! Mrs. Hudson lived to a ripe old age, Lestrade is happily retired in Sussex, and I'm…well I'm alive."
"But soon you won't be." This time, Sherlock's voice cracks. He clears his throat and finally asks the question he's been wanting to ask since Mycroft called him the night before. "Why did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"You know," Sherlock gestures vaguely toward the space where machines that monitored the doctor's health used to be. "Why did you…give up?"
"I didn't give up, Sherlock. I got tired. Hey, look at me." Sherlock, who has been glaring pointedly at the wall, returns his attention to John. "When they told me that the treatments weren't going to do any good, that I was going to die anyway, I just thought, 'what is the point?' They might be able to keep me around a little longer, sure, but…well, what exactly do I have to live for anyway?"
"Me," Sherlock responds. "You have me."
"And up until yesterday I didn't even know you were alive."
"But you know now."
"That's right. I do. And what would happen if I did go back to the treatments, huh? I'd spend another couple of weeks alone in this damned hospital room, feeling like absolute shit, while you took off again to hunt down those bloody snipers."
"I could stay with you."
"Yeah, Sherlock, you could. But you wouldn't. It may have been fifteen years since I last saw you, but I know you, and I know that if there was even one tiny chance that you could keep me safe until I had the chance to die naturally, you would take it without a second thought. And damnit Sherlock, I don't want you to!" John's voice is still weak, but it is rapidly rising to a hoarse shout. "I don't want to live the next month alone doing chemo and radiation that just make me feel sicker and sicker! I just want you!"
John sighs, continues. "I'm not going to pretend that I'm ready to die. I'm not. I worked too damn hard to keep living after you left for me to die now. But if it means spending my last few hours with you—no pills, no needles, no stupid machines—well I'll choose that option over a few extra weeks any day."
Sherlock's eyes sting and he has to look away, but he doesn't cry. "I don't want you to leave me," he says.
"I know." And I don't want you to leave me again, goes unsaid.
"Sherlock?" John says after a few moments.
"Yes?"
"Do you happen to have a razor?"
Sherlock turns to face John again, eyebrows furrowed. "Why?"
"Not for that," John chuckles, knowing he is being a bit morbid by laughing at such a thing but not caring much. This is Sherlock he is talking to after all. "I'm not going to end it like that. I just want to do something about this." He points to his head where the few remaining strands of wispy grey hair sit in smoothed down tufts. "Been meaning to do it since I first started chemo a few months back, but I never got around to it and now I'm too weak."
"Oh," says Sherlock, standing and proceeding to dig around in his coat pockets. "No razor," he says. "But will these work?" He holds up a small pair of sewing scissors. Why Sherlock has them and how he managed to sneak them past hospital security, John doesn't want to know.
"Come here," he says, smiling genuinely for the first time that night. The first time in a long time, actually.
And so Sherlock finds himself sitting once again on the edge of John's bed, carefully cutting the tufts of hair as close as he can to John's scalp. When he is finished, he hands John his phone with the camera set to front-facing.
"Alright?" Sherlock asks.
"Yeah," John says, examining his head in the phone's screen. "Not bad, not bad at all. I think I look rather dapper as a bald man."
"You could practically be an army boy," Sherlock grins.
John grins back, then glances at the top of Sherlock's own head and starts to laugh.
Sherlock's smile fades. "What?"
"It's just…your hair."
"My hair?"
"It's red," John gasps between laughs.
"You're just now noticing this?"
"No," John says, finally calming down a bit. "It's just suddenly quite funny, you as a ginger."
Sherlock frowns. "It's nearly grey at the roots now." He pauses. "That's not why I dyed it."
"Sure," John says. "You just keep telling yourself that."
"It's the truth," Sherlock huffs indignantly. "It was part of my disguise."
"And the fact that you chose to dye your hair red instead of just putting on a wig or a cap says nothing about your life-long dream to be a ginger."
"Don't be ridiculous. I only care for my appearance when it can help me toward a goal, namely aiding in concealing my true identity. I've dyed it numerous different colors since you last saw me. Why on earth would I—"
He stops when he notices John snickering again, finally cracking a smile himself before succumbing to great rolls of laughter.
When they finally compose themselves, John reaches for the loaf of bread on his bedside table. "Only real food I can keep down anymore," he explains, taking out a slice and chewing on it slowly. "Want a piece?"
No thanks, Sherlock is about to say, but then his stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn't eaten a thing all day. John raises his eyebrows. Sherlock rolls his eyes and accepts a single slice of bread. The heel, as he remembers John doesn't like those.
"You know," John says, taking another bite of bread, "I kind of like it. The hair I mean. Makes you look all young and untamed."
Sherlock chuckles. "I haven't been young in a long time."
"Nor have I. Cheers to becoming a couple of old farts." Too bad we couldn't become old farts together.
"Cheers." They clink their bread slices together.
"Are you going to spend the night?" John asks as he finishes his bread, wiping the crumbs off the sheets.
"Do you want me to?"
"Yes." There is no hesitation in John's voice.
"Then I'll stay," Sherlock says, setting his remaining bit of bread on the nightstand and standing up. John watches as he removes his scarf, coat, gloves, and shoes, then respectfully turns away as he sees Sherlock begin to take off his suit jacket.
"You can look, you know," Sherlock says. "I don't have anything to change into, so I'm afraid you're just going to have to live with seeing me in my undershirt and pants."
John turns back, blushing but smiling despite himself. "You know, don't you?" he finds himself asking, then chuckles. "Hell, you probably always knew."
Sherlock doesn't say anything for a moment, focusing instead on unbuttoning his shirt.
"Yes," he says finally as he throws the shirt carelessly on the floor and unbuttons his trousers.
"Figures," John says. "Should have known I couldn't hide something like that from you."
"You say that like you don't think your feelings were ever reciprocated."
"Were they?"
Sherlock is now standing in just his white undershirt and a pair of black cotton pants. He stares at John, unblinking, and slowly walks back to the bed. John shivers as Sherlock leans forward, still staring intently as he brings their faces only inches apart.
"I jumped off a building for you, didn't I?"
John manages to scrounge up every ounce of strength that he has to pull Sherlock's face down to his, meeting his lips in a rough kiss. Sherlock braces his arms on either side of John's shoulders, trying to lean as far into John's lips as he can without falling on top of him. John, in the meantime, ignores the shaking in his limbs and threads his fingers through Sherlock's copper-coloured hair.
A moment later, Sherlock feels a wet spot on his check where it brushes against John's.
"What's wrong?" he asks, pulling away and looking into John's tear-streaked face.
"Nothing," John says, wiping a hand across his eyes. "Just…I'm really glad you're back. And I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"Come on Sherlock, we both know you wouldn't have left in the first place if you didn't feel like you had to keep me safe." He sighs. "I spent so long, fifteen years of my life, waiting and hoping that somehow, someday, you would come back. And now you have, and I have to leave you." His fingers are still in Sherlock's hair. He massages the back of his head gently. "And I'm so, so sorry."
Sherlock nods. "Me too." He stands, letting the hand fall from his hair before pushing back the bed sheets and climbing in next to John.
"Will you still be here in the morning?" John asks, threading his fingers once again through the gingery curls.
"Of course," Sherlock says. "Will you?"
"I wish I knew." He purses his lips. "Actually, you know what? I take that back. No I don't. I don't want to know. I just want to lay here with you and enjoy it while it lasts."
Sherlock doesn't respond, but he places his hand over the one that is currently tangled in his hair.
John closes his eyes, sighing. "You're beautiful, you know." He is asleep before Sherlock has time to respond.
Sherlock once again watches John breathe, struggling to force air into lungs that don't want to work anymore, before reaching over and turning off the bedside lamp.
"Goodnight, John," he whispers.
He decides to stay awake, wanting to make sure John will be okay, but it has been days since he slept, and soon his eyelids begin to grow heavy, and he decides to close them for just a moment.
It is four hours later when Sherlock wakes with a start. Before he is even sure where he is, he looks to his side. John is lying peacefully next to him, his fingers still resting in Sherlock's hair.
He already knows that when he checks John's wrist he won't find a pulse.