AN: Okay, I've been writing this for what feels like forever and it probably is. This is my first really long oneshot and I didn't think I'd ever write one of those, but it just didn't feel right to separate this somehow.
This is actually the first thing I wrote which is sad; so sad, I actually made myself cry while writing this. So, if you don't feel like reading something like this, I suggest you go back and search for something else.
This started out as a way to deal with my father's heart condition which made me almost lose him. He was operated on on my 20th birthday over a year ago and he still has problems... In the end it turned into an emotional downward spiral which made me even cry at work where I write my stuff during my break.
Warning: Major character death, lots of tears, just a small amount of sad fluff, loads of swearing. Read at your own risk.
If you're easily affected by suicide, I suggest you use that backward arrow now.
Sherlock had lost track of time when tidying up his mind palace, but looking at the altitude of the sun, Sherlock found it to be early morning.
A noise had torn him out of his thoughts and he realized John was late.
It was Saturday and John was off work, but his inner clock from the military had still remained, at least a bit. He always woke up around the same time in the mornings, whether he'd have to work or not, and according to the clock in Sherlock's mobile, John was already ten minutes late.
He wanted to yell for his shorter flatmate, but quickly jumped up when he heard a groan roaming through the flat that was definitely coming from John.
Taking the steps two at a time, Sherlock stormed up the stairs to John's room. The detective had never cared about modesty and personal space or privacy and he most definitely wasn't going to start now, especially when his flatmate seemed not alright.
Breathing heavily, Sherlock threw the door open to find John on the floor, obviously writhing in agony. He immediately knelt down next to his flatmate, trying to assess any wounds John might have, but the smaller man just shook his head.
"What is it then, John? Tell me, please!"
This wasn't a good time for Sherlock to lose his calm, but this was John.
The blond in question tried to grip at his chest and that was when it clicked in the detective's head.
-His heart. My heart.-
Sherlock put one hand on John's cheek, trying to comfort him as he fiddled for the phone in his pocket with the other. Dialling, Sherlock spoke to John.
"You're going to be okay, John. I promise."
Just as he'd finished that sentence, the ringing next to his hear died down, making room for the voice he usually dreaded to hear, but needed to hear now.
"Brother dear, to what-"
"No time, Mycroft. Car! Now!" He growled the last word, daring his brother to ask any more stupid questions.
"Waiting in front of your door." Sherlock hung up and quickly picked John up, who was trying to keep still in the detective's arms, his face scrunched up in pain.
"I've got you, John. You'll be fine, trust me."
John managed a nod as he was carried downstairs to the car. After laying him down across the back seat, he slid inside as well, putting the shorter man's head in his lap.
The driver knew better than to ask and Sherlock is glad as they simply drive off without him having to give directions. He immediately started stroking John's hair and felt him calming a little in his lap.
As they arrived at St. Bart's, they were already expected by 2 doctors and 3 nurses with a stretcher. Sherlock was just able to get out of the car, wanting to explain what was wrong with his flatmate, before he was pushed away so they could get to John.
He was quickly laid down onto the stretcher before they hurriedly pulled him through the doors, assessing John's condition.
Over the talking of the doctors and nurses Sherlock, who was running beside the stretcher, heard his thoughts racing through his head, shouting at him.
-He's going to die, Sherlock. You're going to lose the one thing you never thought you had. You're going to lose your heart, the first person you've loved and most likely the only one you'll ever love. This is the end, Sherlock, for him and for you. He will have to leave you and you can't protect him nor would you be able to get him back. You failed, Sherlock.-
Closing his eyes, he tried forcing the voice out of his head, the voice which sounded a lot like his father, to focus on John and what the doctors were saying.
"Trouble breathing, pain in the chest area, low pulse, 45 per minute, hardly palpable, high blood pressure, 180/120-"
Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't understand what they were saying anymore, the voice in his head back on full volume, drowning out every noise around him.
-He won't survive and you know it, Sherlock. This will be your last chance to say what you've never dared to say, do what you've wanted to, but never had the guts to do. Your last chance, Sherlock, but go ahead and leave, blow it, it will hurt either way. You love this man and he will be the death of you. You stooped so low as to fall in love and now that you're going to lose that one person, you're going to feel what it's like, being human.-
Sherlock was held back by a hand on his chest, standing in front of a double door and he had to blink once to focus on the person ripping him out of his thoughts but keeping him away from John.
"What?" was all Sherlock ground out through gritted teeth, glaring at the man in front of him.
"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to wait here until further notice." The voice of the man was soft, soothing, calming.
And Sherlock loathed it.
"Why?" His jaw must've hurt by now, but Sherlock didn't seem to care.
"Because it's standard procedure and I. Say. So." The man stepped into the detective's personal space now, keeping him from entering the section behind his back, standing his ground, even though Sherlock was way taller than him. The voice had raised with the last three words the man had spoken and Sherlock's shoulders slumped, his posture changing, signalling defeat.
She man gently led Sherlock towards a seat where the detective just flopped down, now staring straight ahead again.
-Your John is going to die, Sherlock without ever knowing he is yours. Don't let that happen, just go and tell him.-
-Sherlock, you failed. You failed in being who you say you are, started having feelings and look where it got you now that you also failed to save him. You're pathetic. You're better off alone, not that it would make you any less a failure, but then I wouldn't need to tell you. One thing John will see as positive in his death: Being rid of you.
Just leave him be, Sherlock. You're not worth any of what little time he's got left. He wouldn't want to waste it with you. Let him at least die in peace, he wouldn't want you next to him on his death bed. He'd rather die all alone than see your pathetic figure once again. But go ahead, take away the last thing he may be able to wish for, the last wish someone could fulfil. Let that person be you, Sherlock, give him that one last thing. You've already ruined his life, don't ruin his death as well.-
Sherlock was shaking now, still staring at the blank wall in front of him. The man who'd knelt in front of him was gone and Sherlock felt lonely for the first time since meeting John. Trying to drown out the voices in his head that were growing louder, taking over his thoughts completely, Sherlock started screaming.
His voice was ringing through the hallway, ripping through the deafening silence that had allowed the voices to earn power over his thoughts.
He was screaming too loud to even realize someone walking over and sitting down next to him until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
His screaming died down and as he came back to reality his mind started rebelling against the weight on his shoulder, now quite clear as to whom the hand belonged to. It became even clearer when the owner of the hand started talking.
"Sherlock, I'm-"
He was harshly interrupted by his brother, who'd shaken off his hand, now standing in front of him.
"No, Mycroft!" He spat the name out as if it was poison in his mouth. "Don't you dare! Don't you fucking dare tell me you're sorry! I don't give a shit! You've been monitoring me for god knows how long yet you failed to inform me of his state or to get your minions to come in and get him to a hospital! We both know how hard it is to get me out of my mind palace. What is your supervision good for if you're not able to save John using it?"
"It was primarily to protect you, Sherlock; to protect you from yourself. Dr. Watson just-"
"John simply came limping into my life. Yes, I know. But don't you realize...?"
Mycroft narrowed his eyes as his brother trailed off.
"What? How much he means to you? That you're in love with him?"
"No. Yes. Maybe. Hell, what do I know? What I'm certain of is that the one thing I always wanted to prevent was losing him. And now I will. I can't lose him, Mycroft. How am I supposed to live alone again after him? It's unacceptable!"
Mycroft sighed as his brother tried calming down, sitting next to him.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock but not even you and I can protect John from dying. You will have to let go."
Sherlock knew Mycroft was right, but they didn't know it it was as bad as the voices wanted to make him believe, yet. There was still hope until a doctor comes out to tell them differently. So they waited.
Sherlock found he still couldn't stay seated for a longer period of time, so he started pacing relentlessly.
"Sherlock, would you please sit back down. The floor won't be able to take much more of you wearing it thin."
"Shut up, Mycroft! The floor will have to endure it!" He turned towards his brother who was calmly sitting in his chair, umbrella in his lap "I can't just sit here while waiting for someone to come walking through this" pointing towards where he'd been stopped from entering "fucking door to tell me what exactly is wrong with John!"
"They will tell you as soon as your doctor is stable."
There it was again. That tone Mycroft used when he wanted to reassure his brother while still trying to sound aloof and much like Mycroft, the man who works in the government.
The words were ringing in his ears: "Caring is not an advantage". His brother included him as well when saying that; he didn't care for Sherlock either.
Ever since meeting John, this affected Sherlock more and more even though he didn't let it show in front of his brother.
John knows though. John knows so much about him, much more than anyone else he's ever met. John is the only person who wants to know, is interested enough in him to ask.
And Sherlock was interested in John so he had to answer and ask questions of his own to get to know the small ex-army doctor. It was weird, unusual for him to be that entranced by someone. It took him some time to get used to it, but with John it'd been easy. He'd just come into his life and turned everything around.
Of course John was right about one thing: Sherlock's not a sociopath, so it was easy to fall for his flatmate and blogger without actually realizing it; up until today.
As he came to realize his brother had been right about him loving John, his pacing stopped immediately and he came to stand in front of Lestrade.
"How is he?"
Sherlock turned around, refusing to answer. Instead, he threw another question into the room that was heavy with silence.
"How do you know?" He turned back towards the D.I., glaring at him as his eyes flickered towards Sherlock's brother. The detective's head shot in the same direction and he snorted.
"No, you're actually- I can't believe this!" He stepped towards where his gaze was glued, glaring, coming to stand in front of his brother who still hadn't moved so much as a muscle since Lestrade had entered the room.
"You, you kept telling me how caring is not an advantage and here you are, sitting on that damned chair with your stupid umbrella, letting the man you're fucking come over to mess with me!" Greg was stepping forward, hands held up in surrender and as Sherlock didn't make any motion, he went to lay a hand on the detective's shoulder.
"Don't you fucking dare touch me, Lestrade!" Now he whirled around, glaring gaze switching between the two. "You're already so much alike. I can't stand looking at you two. Why don't you go play `Hide and go fuck yourself or each other´?"
His glare fixed on Mycroft, he stepped into his brother's personal space.
"You are a lousy excuse for a a brother, I don't need you nor do I want you here! Get the fuck out of my sight!" He turned towards Lestrade again. "Both of you, now!"
Mycroft slowly got up and as he was walking past his brother, he quietly said "For what it's worth, brother: I really am sorry".
Standing next to each other, facing in opposite directions, Sherlock broke the resulting silence.
"Actually, I don't give a flying fuck."
Mycroft walked away, slightly tugging the dumbfounded Gregory Lestrade with him towards the exit. The last thing Sherlock heard was Mycroft saying "The doctor has got a bigger influence on my brother than I previously thought" before the door closed shut after them.
Sherlock slumped down into one of the seats again, face covered by his hands.
He was out of his depth, but he would do anything to save John, so he folded his hands and started speaking quietly.
"I don't believe you exist, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I can't believe I'm doing this, but it's for John. I want him to live his life to the fullest, not letting him die not long after almost dying for the first time. And he is still so young, it would be unfair it he had to leave now. I admit it, it's selfish, but I can't lose him. I don't want to be alone again. I don't want to delete him just so I can go on living instead of dying from the pain of losing him. He shouldn't be the one of us to leave so soon, I should. He's the one who served Queen and Country, saved the lives of so many people. Everybody likes him – I admit it, it's unbelievably difficult... no, impossible not to like him - , he will be missed by so many people; you can't tear him out of their lives. Take me instead. I want to die for John! Why? Because I fucking love him so much, I'd do anything to keep him safe and sound."
Tears were slipping past his eyelids now, rolling down his cheek to fall onto his folded hands in his lap. He didn't want to cry, but he couldn't help it, it was all too much. The voices in his head were back, screaming even louder than before, especially his father's voice seemed to drown everything out.
"I'm only asking you for this one thing, please. Just one miracle for me. You can't let him die, please!"
Sobbing, Sherlock fell onto his knees, to weak to stand. "I can't live without him anymore! He's the only one I got."
For once, he didn't care if anyone saw him in this state, it didn't matter.
He didn't realize he'd started screaming again nor did he react to one of the nurses trying to talk to him.
Suddenly he felt a sting in his arm and as he wanted to see what was happening, his vision went blurry before going black. The last thing he heard was his own voice whispering "Thank you" as the voices in his head shut up.
He was again woken up by the voices in his head, just as loud as before. Sherlock started screaming again, crying because it hurt so goddamn much!
A nurse came running inside, trying to shake him out of his state, but to no avail, so she tried something different. It was hard to get through to him, but she kept whispering in his ear until his brain registered another voice repeating four words over and over again.
"He asked for you."
His tear stained face turned towards her as she was sitting on his bed, their gazes meeting.
"Are you with me?" Sherlock couldn't do more than give a simple nod, looking at her expectantly. His face showed what he wanted. She slowly and carefully wiped away the tears so as not to scare her patient away. Sherlock let her as she repeated "He asked for you".
The detective managed another nod as well as a small smile which the nurse returned. She nudged him with her shoulder as he sat up. "You're fine, considering the circumstances. Go to him, he's waiting for you."
Again, Sherlock nodded wordlessly and got up to leave the room. Just as he was closing the door, he murmured another quiet "thank you" before shutting the door behind him. The nurse smiled after him before getting up to resume her work.
Sherlock stepped out into the hallway, looking around. Whatever they'd given him to calm down, it had worked so good, he had no idea where in the hospital he was.
He didn't realize the nurse coming out of his room until she started speaking to him.
"He is lying in the room just next to you." Sherlock's room laid at the end of the hallway, so there was only one room next to his. He nodded once and closed the distance to the door. He knocked once softly and John answered with a quiet "come in", so he did.
Slowly opening the door, Sherlock stuck his head inside and John's head came sticking out from under the duvet.
"There you are" he said smiling, but to Sherlock it looked like a grimace.
"Here I am" he answered, almost shyly stepping inside so he could close the door after himself. He took a deep breath before turning towards his friend again.
"You really scared the staff, Sherlock. Would've scared the shit out of me if I'd been there." Sherlock looked at him, taking everything in.
John was hooked up to an IV drip, oxygen and a machine that Sherlock supposed was keeping him alive. It hurt seeing him like that when just yesterday they'd been running around London to solve their latest case. Sherlock thought he couldn't cry anymore, but he was wrong as tears found their way past his lashes as he closed his eyes against what was right in front of him.
"Are you okay?"
This time, Sherlock actually snapped.
"The fuck I am okay! How can you even ask that question? You know bloody well I'm not okay!"
John flinched at the outburst, beckoning the detective over. "Come here."
He obliged, sitting down on the chair standing next to John's bed, but the blond shook his head, patting the bed beside him. "No, I meant come here."
The detective let the tears run free now as he followed John's instructions. The shorter man wiped away the tears before enveloping his sniffling friend in a hug, laying them down on the bed.
Sherlock let himself be held as John tried to calm him down. He'd never seen the detective cry, which made it all the more heartbreaking.
"It's fine, Sherlock. Don't cry."
"I just can't stop. It's not fine, it will never be fine – I will never be fine again - because you are going to leave me. I will be alone again and contrary to what people believe, that is the last thing I want."
John smiled to himself, recognizing the effect he has on the detective.
"Why are you smiling? Don't you understand that I'm going to lose you, John? I just don't want to live without you."
He huddled closer to his shorter friend, feeling the arms around him tightening, the tubes straining to stay where they are.
"Me neither, you madman." He tilted the detective's head so their gazes met. "Sherlock, I love you. I don't want to leave you, do you hear me?" He closed the distance between them, pressing a soft, lingering kiss on the taller man's lips. No tongue, just a small, delicate press of lips that still sent a shiver down his spine.
Before Sherlock pulled back, he tasted something wet and salty.
-John is crying as well.-
They kept holding each other, staying silent, Sherlock listening to John's quiet heartbeat beneath his ear while John carded his fingers through the black curls.
Sherlock broke the silence first. "How long?"
John understood what he wanted to know and now that the detective was here in his arms and he'd told him how he felt, it wasn't that hard to accept anymore.
"A couple of hours at the most."
"You don't even have one day left? I can't even take you out today to do everything you want to do?"
"It's okay. I'm content to just lie here with you, Sherlock." He craned his neck to kiss the taller man's forehead before they both closed their eyes, listening to each other breathing.
"What am I going to do without you, John?"
As an answer, the shorter man tightened his arms around his whatever-they-were-now.
"I'll be lost without you."
John forced him to meet his gaze. "I love you and I always will, okay? I will be forever in your heart."
"I don't have one." Before his blogger could correct him, he went on. "Because I gave it to you. It's yours, John." After a short pause, he said more quietly "It's always been yours".
"Then you need to keep me in your mind palace, Sherlock." He looked him in the eyes. "I don't want you to delete me. Can you promise me that?"
The detective nodded weakly. "I could never delete anything that has to do with you. I love you, John." He curled tighter around the smaller man, felling his breathing become more shallow.
It wasn't fair, they both knew it, but John was more concerned for Sherlock, not knowing how he would deal with all this.
They kept cuddling, both realizing how hard it got for John to breathe now.
"Sherlock, look at me, please. I love you... so much. I want you to know that. But after this, I don't want you to become someone else. I want you to stay who you are, because that is the person... I fell i-in love with... And please, don't beat yourself up over this, love... You couldn't have prevented it... and neither could've Mycroft, no matter how many cameras... a-and microphones he's hidden... okay?"
"Okay." It was a quiet answer, but due to their closeness, John was still able to hear it.
"And my final wish: I don't want you to be alone again, so go find someone else."
"But John...!" He looked shocked.
"Don't `But John` me, Sherlock! I mean it!" He tried sounding stern, but was interrupted by a fit of wheezing coughs. "I-I don't want you to drown in loneliness."
"I'm a so-"
"Don't give me that bullshit, you insufferable but loveable git! You-You're not the same person you were a couple years ago. You have... changed, love... and I'm so glad and proud you did."
"You're the reason, John. You made me change so much." He propped himself up, head on his hand to look at his blogger. "This is all your fault, John!"
"Are you mad at me for... for walking into your life and n-not leaving before now?"
Sherlock looked down. "No, of course not. I wouldn't have wanted anyone else as my flatmate."
"Is that... all that I am?" He managed to grin at the detective who groaned and rolled his eyes.
"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"
Still grinning, John nodded weakly.
"When I found you on the floor, I felt like I couldn't breathe. I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise."
John smiled weakly. "It's not your fault. What happens, happens."
Another kiss was shared before both laid back down, holding each other tightly.
Sherlock felt the grip around him slowly weaken, along with the breath of his blogger becoming even more shallow.
"I love you" was the last thing he heard, whispered in his ear, before the thumping beneath his ear died down.
"You're glad I've been with you, aren't you?" Sherlock asked John, crying again. But he didn't get an answer.
"He was." Sherlock shot up at the voice, still clutching John's lifeless hand. He hadn't heard the door neither open nor close, but she was standing in front of him, hands still on the handle. Her face was tear-stained, her clothes rumpled and her hair dishevelled, but she seemed sober for once.
"Harriet." He sounded cold again, nothing compared to how he'd talked to John. "What is it you want?"
She slowly stepped forward, arms crossed in front of her chest. "I wanted to see him, show him I'd gotten the drinking under control." She now stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her feet. "Guess I'm too late..." She walked closer, tears slipping down her cheeks again. Standing next to the bed on the side John was lying on, she took the hand that wasn't in between Sherlock's.
Leaning down, so her mouth was next to her brother's right ear, she whispered "I'm sorry. I love you".
As she straightened up again, Sherlock was looking at her, sitting up, but never letting go of John's hand. "What did you mean with `he was´?"
Harry sadly smiled at him, her glance wavering between Sherlock and her brother until it stayed on the small, pale figure on the bed.
"You have no idea how glad he was that you were here with him, that the person he loved- loves was the last thing he saw. You were the only person he wanted here with him in his last moments. He loves you, Sherlock. Nobody would've been enough to make him happy, so he could let go." She paused shortly, waiting for any reaction from the detective who simply nodded, his gaze fixed on his John. "He was broken when he came back from Afghanistan and I know I didn't make it any easier for him with my drinking, but you, Sherlock bloody Holmes, you gave him a new purpose in life. He was happy with you, and only with you. So yeah, he was glad you were here. You were the only one he wanted and needed.
Don't get me wrong, I still don't like you." At this, Sherlock scoffed. "But you kept him alive, so I ought to thank you, Sherlock Holmes."
With that, she turned to leave, but she was held back as the detective called out to her. "Thank you for telling me that."
She nodded before closing the door. Sherlock knew he would never see her again. He jerked up as the door opened again and a nurse stepped inside.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" He nodded. "I was instructed to give you this." Holding up an envelope, she walked towards Sherlock.
"What is this?" "I'm not allowed to tell you. You'll just have to read what it says."
The detective stared at the envelope until a shaking beneath him tore him out of his reverie. "What?!"
"May I kindly ask you to leave? He needs to be prepared."
"Oh... yes, of course..." He shortly squeezed the hand he'd been holding, not daring to give in to the urge of kissing him once more, before he got up to leave.
As he came to stand at the door, he held on a few seconds.
"Mrs King? Get a divorce, your husband is cheating on you and you deserve much better." The rustling of the sheets had stopped. "And you have no need to be scared of your exam, you're going to be a great doctor. Take care of him, will you?"
Before she could say anything, Sherlock left the room, closing the door behind him. He stood in front of the door for what felt like hours, but were mere minutes, just breathing and turning the envelope. It simply said "Sherlock", nothing more, nothing less. For all he knew, it could very well be from Moriarty. Was he ready to read whatever he'd planned for... him now?
He pocketed the envelope and left the hospital, heavy hearted. He got himself a cab and went home, hands wandering back to the envelope, thoughts occupied by John. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't even realize they'd arrived at 221B.
"Oi! I also have other customers!" Sherlock threw some notes at him before exiting the cab.
Running up the stairs, barely acknowledging his landlady, Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him before flopping down in his chair.
Turning the envelope over in his fingers, he contemplated reading it. He just wasn't sure if he was ready for what it said. But if it was from John, it wouldn't be mean, he was sure about that. John just wasn't like that. But what was this then?
He had nothing to go on, so he succumbed to his curiosity and ran into John's room, which was devoid of any cameras or microphones and flopped down on the bed that still smelt like him, ripping the envelope open.
He unfolded the paper and let his eyes wander across the words, not really absorbing them yet. After reading it for the third time, the words sunk in.
"Hey Sherlock,
If you got this, I'm not there anymore. I'm sorry that I'm supposed to leave you and if I had had the choice, I wouldn't have left you. Ever. I wish it wouldn't be like this. I wish you wouldn't have to get to know all this from a stupid piece of paper instead of me saying the words to you and I'm so terribly sorry that I can't.
There are a few things I want you to know which is why I made sure you'd get this letter. The nurse is really nice, she'll take good care of me, don't worry.
But I'm sure you'd already deduced that.
It still sounds so unreal...
Anyways, I'm sure my sister planned to come visit me and we just barely missed each other. She has never been on time, so why should this time be any different? I guess I'd hoped... Well, if you see her again – at my funeral possibly – I want you to tell her that I'm not mad at her. Tell her, even if you don't like her. Don't do it for her, do it for me, love.
Another thing: Don't you dare blame yourself for this! You're the person who is the least responsible for what happened. And neither is Mycroft! I don't blame you either. Those are just things that happen which you can't prevent.
The most important thing: I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Which is why I want you to have all my things. I know it's not much, but it's all yours. But don't go running for the gun now; it's gone. I wouldn't want to leave Mrs. Hudson at your madness. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I couldn't have left you with that gun. But everything else is yours, love.
I'm sorry for not being able to give you more than that, but I guess this will just have to suffice. In case you haven't noticed, I took something of yours with me. I hope you're not mad.
Remember what you promised me! I will hold you to your word, Sherlock.
And never forget that I love you, whatever you do.
John"
Sherlock wiped away the few tears that had managed to slip past his eyelashes and found that John had given him one last challenge. He quickly pocketed the letter and went in search of what was missing.
Running through the flat, he looked around, frantically trying to pinpoint what John had taken with him.
After a good quarter of an hour of flipping things over and throwing them around to get a look at what's underneath, Sherlock suddenly came to a halt in the middle of the living room.
"If John has taken something with him, surely he would leave me a clue somewhere... There has to be a clue in this letter."
He hurried to the kitchen table and sat down with the paper spread out in front of him.
He realized his magnifying glass was in his coat pocket, so he got up to get it. There was a strange noise as he reached into his pocket and attached to his magnifying glass was a small piece of paper. He unfolded it and read aloud:
"It's not your magnifying glass. And no cheating, Sherlock! You're better than that. You'll figure it out. I love you."
-So John has spread little notes all across the flat for me to find. Let's see where they are.-
Walking back to the table, he opened his magnifying glass to take a better look at the letter. He turned it around, but couldn't find anything. As he put it back on the table, he saw a tiny spot in the corner of the paper.
-So this is the clue he left me. Wonderful John.-
He shot up, frantically turning around, his eyes flickering over the flat in search for a candle.
"Mrs Hudson! Do you have a candle for me? Oh, and a lighter!"
Some time after he'd shouted this down the stairs, the head of his landlady popped around the corner and she smiled at him sadly.
"I do, but please leave the flat intact."
"Will do, I just want to read this." He briskly walked over to her, took the candle and the lighter out of her hands and kissed her cheek before quickly turning back around to sit down at the table again. He was already back deep in thought as Mrs. Hudson left him alone again.
"Let's see what you've left me."
He lit the candle and held it in front of the paper and suddenly there were words visible that hadn't been there before.
"So you've figured it out. Of course you would. You'll find little notes all over the flat which will help you figure out what I took. Wouldn't want you to get bored so quickly. I love you."
Thinking, he went to his room to search through his things to find out what was missing and to find all the notes John had written.
He had worn his coat when he'd been with John, but nevertheless, he found a note in the other coat pocket.
"Couldn't let you freeze to death now could I? So no, not your coat. I love you."
Reaching for his scarf, he found another note. "No, same goes for your scarf and your gloves. I want you to keep them, no matter how much I love your scarf and your gloves. And you."
Sherlock got an idea what could be missing, so he ran to his bookshelf in search of his favourite book. Looking closely, he found it with a small piece of paper sticking out.
"I can't have you get bored. Poor Mrs. Hudson. I will always love you, you madman."
Another possibility would've been his mug, but that was also a dead end, he realized as he opened the cabinet and found it there, a small note in it, simply "No. ILY."
As he turned back around, his glance stayed hooked to his Cluedo board and the knife that held it in place on the wall. To both things was a note attached. How could he have possibly done this?
As he unfolded the note attached to the knife, he realized it couldn't be anyone else but Mycroft.
"The knife would be a `bit not good´, so I refrained from choosing this. And yes, it was Mycroft who helped me set all this up. So please, behave like adults. I love you, my dear."
He opened the other one and read aloud. "If I took your beloved Cluedo board, I would in my mind never hear the end of it. Plus, it wouldn't be enough of you. I know, nothing but you yourself could be enough, but I can't take you. The board doesn't smell like you though. I love you."
-Smell like me then, huh? So it must be something fabric.-
So he went back to his room to go through his wardrobe. Digging through his shirts, he threw them all behind him, most of his pants going after them. As soon as he'd gotten his wardrobe devoid of any clothes, he turned the light on to find a note sticking on the floor.
"So, managed to find out what it was? You're so close, Sherlock. I love you, genius."
Said genius whirled around, scanning the pile of clothes on the floor, trying to find the piece of clothing that was missing.
All of his pants where there, except for the one he was wearing right now. But after scanning the shirt-part of the pile, he found that two shirts were missing. He was wearing one, so John must've taken the other. He looked down at himself.
"I'm wearing the white one I bought two months ago. So John has taken the purple one. I should've known. It was obvious that one was his favourite."
He took the note from the wardrobe and ran back into the kitchen.
The candle was still burning, so he held the piece of paper in front of the flame and sure enough, the letters he'd seen on the other paper appeared.
"I'm sure you figured out what I've taken with me since you found this note. I could never keep anything from you, you are just too smart. I guess that is one reason why I fell in love with you.
I hope you're not mad I took your shirt, it's just... If I can't see you in it anymore, nobody should. It makes you look too sexy.
I didn't want to share you, not when you look like this. Now that I'm gone, I can't share you anymore, so I took the shirt. It's selfish, I know. But I couldn't help it. I just love you too much.
The last thing I want is to thank you for giving me back the will to live again. If it hadn't been for you, I would have died long ago, so I owe you.
I love you."
As he turned the paper around, he saw a small number written in the bottom right corner.
-One... what does that mean?-
This couldn't be a coincidence. He turned the paper back around and looked at the bottom right corner. It was possible John had used numbered paper, but there was no number to be seen. So, there was a meaning behind that number.
Sherlock got up to flop back down on the sofa and went to his mind palace, searching for something with a connection between the number one and himself in his room labelled 'John'. It had to be there somewhere!
Going through the scenes, Sherlock got more and more impatient with every minute.
"Of course, our first case! I need to visit the building where the cabbie had taken me. Where John has saved my life for the first time."
He hurriedly grabbed his coat and his scarf before running down the stairs so fast, he almost stumbled. Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat, concern all over her face.
"Bye, Mrs. Hudson" was all she got before her tenant ran out the door, slamming it shut behind him. He quickly assessed the route they'd taken before hailing a cab to give the directions to the driver.
As he arrived, he hastily threw some cash at the cabbie before jumping out to run into the building. Upon entering, he saw a small white envelope on the table where he'd sat that night. He stepped forward and picked it up. It was blank, no name on it.
Before opening the envelope, Sherlock inspected it thoroughly. It could still be a trap after all; using John for this wasn't a new idea.
He couldn't see anything suspicious, so he opened it and unfolded the paper inside.
"Hey you.
I knew you'd figure out what was going on. I'm sure it wasn't difficult for you, but my mind has never been as sharp as yours. So because this isn't really going to be a challenge for you otherwise, I'm not going to give you a hint as to what you'll have to do. Only know this: I love you.
Jawn"
-No hint to what is going to happen? There must be more letters left for me to find but where? There has to be the connection of John in this.-
He looked at the paper to find another number, but John hadn't lied when he wrote he wasn't going to give Sherlock a clue.
But that fact itself was already a clue. Nobody could do something like this without leaving anything behind. So, John had left something behind without meaning to.
So far, Sherlock had gotten the number one as a hint towards their first case. But he was supposed to be here first, which means he shouldn't visit the places in chronological order. So, maybe this has another order. Something to do with John himself.
He went back outside, smiling that John had arranged something like this only for him. He hailed another cab and got inside, telling the cabbie to wait a minute as Sherlock went to his mind palace. -How much these places meant to him, maybe? So, saving Sherlock's life, then... their first meeting! Of course!-
It took him exactly one minute to figure out where to go next.
"St. Bart's, please."
They drove off and Sherlock folded the letter back together and put it in the envelope, pocketing it.
While they drove, Sherlock looked out the window, his thoughts wandering towards John. How he'd managed to pull this off. Sure, he'd had help, but nevertheless, he had managed entertaining him as well as making him smile. Since having known John, that had happened more often, but now that he was gone, there would be no more happiness. His smile faltered and his hand wandered into his pocket again.
As they arrived, Sherlock told the driver to wait before running inside the hospital. He first hurried to the room John had been in, but as he opened the door, he found the room still empty. So he slammed the door closed behind him and ran down to the lab.
-Stupid, stupid! It's about our first case, of course there wouldn't be anything in his hospital room. There should be a note in the lab though.-
As he realized, the elevator was occupied, he quickly ran down the stairs until he was on the floor the lab was on. Running down the corridor, he almost hit one of the swinging doors in Molly's face.
"Sherlock? Why are you in such a hurry? Listen, I'm sorry about John, I'll really miss him very much-"
"I'm sorry, Molly, but I've got to go." He made sure the door wouldn't close in her face, because that would be 'a bit not good', then he went farther down the corridor until he came to stand in front of the door of the laboratory.
He slowly opened it and went to the desk he'd been sitting at when meeting John. There was another white envelope right next to the microscope. It simply had his name written on it, nothing else; just 'Sherlock'.
He opened it to read the letter inside.
"Sherlock,
when we first met, you were distant and a bit cold. But you were also quite intriguing. After you'd deduced me, I was drawn to you like a moth to the light. This metaphor is actually quite fitting: You've been the light in the dark, Sherlock. I was the moth that didn't know where to got, but you brought the light back into my life, so I was able to see the world again, properly. And I can't thank you enough for that.
This is an important room for the both of us, so I had to make sure you'd come here one last time just for me.
But there is one last location I want you to visit again. I'm sure you know which one it is already, so you most likely told the driver to wait. So, go on, hurry!
I love you.
John"
He hurriedly put the letter back in the envelope before putting it in his pocket with the others. Just as he was about to open the door, it swung open to reveal Molly again. Before she could say anything, Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders, switching their positions to quickly run out of the building. Molly could just stare after him.
He'd only just closed the door behind him as the cabbie drove off. Sherlock told him the address and the ride went by in silence. He didn't feel like talking, ever, since John has gone. The silence was welcome, so he didn't dare break it.
-Still, how did he do it? How did John pull all this off with only the help of my brother? Sure, that man can not only capture you and try bribing you, he can do something like this, but in that short amount of time? It seems impossible. Except when... No! John would have told me!-
He was still pondering that question leaning against the window as the driver tore him out of his thoughts by actually yelling at him because they'd reached their destination.
Sherlock got out and handed the driver some cash, thanking him. The cabbie stared at the detective.
"You okay, mate?" He managed to sound genuinely worried. Probably from being a taxi driver for so long. You're practically a driving bartender, only without the drinks.
"Not that it's any of your business, but no. I'll never be okay again."
With that, he turned around and walked away as the cabbie was called to pick up another passenger elsewhere and he drove off.
Sherlock walked towards the door and looked through the window. The place was empty, save for the man himself who was busy cleaning.
He opened the door and stepped inside without the small Italian noticing. Looking around, he went further inside. It has been some time since he and John had last been here. Sherlock had insisted they go eat some place else to show him the restaurants he liked during their post-case "not-dates".
But "Angelo's" and its owner hadn't changed at all. It seemed he still liked to keep it as it was.
Sherlock cleared his throat to get the Italian's attention and the man in question whirled around to face the detective immediately.
"Sherlock! So good to see you! I haven't seen you around for a long time."
"Yes, I am aware. Apologies, Angelo. John and I have been... quite busy."
The Italian nodded. "I see. Speaking of which: Where is he? You've been inseparable since I've seen you two together for the first time."
Sherlock didn't answer and looked away.
"Sherlock! Where is that doctor of yours?"
His head shot up again so he could look into Angelo's eyes. He could see the detective didn't want to talk about it, so he thought his part and let it go.
"Angelo... the table where him and I... is it available right now?"
"Of course, this way." He followed the Italian to "their" table – even though he knew perfectly well where in the small restaurant it was - sat down and nodded a "thank you" before Angelo left him.
Just as he was gone, Sherlock frantically started searching beneath the seats and the table for the last envelope. He could feel something sticking to the underside of the tabletop, so he carefully ripped it off.
"One word, four letters" was written on it.
He opened it to unsurprisingly reveal another letter.
These were his last words; John's last words and they were addressed to him. He slowly unfolded the paper and saw it covered in John's doctor scrawl which was still well and easily readable for a doctor's.
"Dear Sherlock,
when you've found this, you probably also own the other two letters I'd placed in spots important to us. Well, they are for me, I never know about you, but I just hope they're as meaningful for you as they are for me. I'm sorry, I'm even babbling when I'm just writing you. Do you see what you've done to me?"
-I believe it's around the same thing you have done to me, John.-
"So, you've got my heart, my love all my things and all my messages. Don't ask how I know, of course you would find them all.
This here is probably the most important place for me. I keep remembering this evening: us in here during our first case, the candle on the table and you looking as handsome as ever. Yes, I did try asking you for a date back then, but when you told me that dating in general wasn't your area, that you were actually "Mr. Work", I lied to you and myself. If we'd have had more time had I told you? I don't know. Probably not because I guess you just weren't ready back then after what you had to go through. I know you said you don't care, but you do Sherlock. Which is why I want to apologize to you for the stupidity and closed-mindedness of humanity on behalf of everyone."
-Oh John. You really are something special. But you shouldn't apologize for them.
"I know I shouldn't apologize for them, but I have to. This is because of you. And I apologized so you wouldn't be mad at me when I thank them. They're the reason you are who you are today, so I'm quite happy, not with what they did to you, but with who you turned out to be because of that. Without them, you wouldn't be here today, being the man I love, the first man I love and the only one I'll ever love."
-So are you, John. The only one.-
"Really, it's far from easy to let you go and I wouldn't if I had a say. But I don't and neither do you.
In case you're wondering how I did all this: I knew, Sherlock."
-No... Why didn't you tell me?-
"Well, you were probably already suspecting this wouldn't have worked otherwise, even with Mycroft's help. He couldn't – wait, well he probably could fake my writing, but I wouldn't have had that. So rest assured that I've written all this myself and by myself. You're the only one to see this unless you wish otherwise.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my condition, but I didn't want to worry you nor wasn't there anything that could've been done to save me. I know you would've gone to hell and back for me (figure of speech, Sherlock!) but you would've been devastated if it still wouldn't have made a difference. I didn't want to see you like that.
I'm so sorry, Sherlock. This isn't how it was supposed to be. We were supposed to catch criminals together until we were too old for this and then spend the rest of our lives growing old together (and I would be looking at you, how beautiful you are... Sorry, I got distracted by you just standing a few metres away from me, looking at photos of a crime scene...).
This should've been our future, but unfortunately we weren't that gifted – I wasn't that gifted. But I'm glad I was blessed enough to have met you, to have been your friend (for way too long), and to have been the man you love (because then I would've been able to be this longer).
I shouldn't have been such a coward, I usually am not, but it's different with you. And I have to admit:You kind of intimidated me because you're (almost) flawless. What would you want with someone like me? An old, broken soldier with an unsteady hand and a psychosymatic limp. I'm ordinary and you are just not; you're more, way more."
-But John, so are you! You're not ordinary, you're more exceptional than anyone else I've ever had to deal with.-
"I'm not as smart as you are; no one is."
-But you come pretty damn close.-
"I know it wasn't always easy between us, it never is, but I want you to know that despite every guy who tried to kill one or both of us, despite all the fights we had over whatever, despite your attitude towards other people, despite your past... despite everything in our way, I never regretted having met you, less so moving in with you. I'm glad to have known you.
But the thing I'm most proud of is the fact that I was the one to have broken through the wall you'd built around yourself. You have no idea how happy I am that you let me in to see who you really are. You're the best thing that I ever could've hoped for."
-Oh, John. But so are you. Nobody could have been more fitting for me than you – in every sense possible...-
"I've already told you what you mean to me and I hope you'll never forget what I wrote and what you promised me. It's just that I can't seem to tell you often enough. I'm not ready to let you go – well, I'll probably never be – but... god, it hurts to leave you alone. I write this before it all happens, but the finality of it and knowing that it's going to happen soon... it tears me apart."
-I know what you mean. Never thought I would say this, but I actually know how you feel...-
"You know me best, so I gave you all my things and made sure you had every say with my funeral. I don't want anyone interfering, this is about you and me, Sherlock.
Is it always this difficult to let go? You're right next door and it looks like I've written down everything I feel I needed to,but I just can't seem to put the pen aside and declare this letter finished and this part of your life done, a chapter closed. Because that would be the last nail in the coffin that is the finality of this."
At this point, the words were harder to read as there were stains all over the last paragraph.
-Tears?-
"I need you, Sherlock! I would've taken you with me, wherever I'd go. But this is the one journey where I can't take you with me. This I have to do all alone. I love you too much to take you with me and I'm just not that selfish enough to rip you from the grasp of the world. I know you think the world only consists of idiots and Andersons (and I know you deem him a whole new level of dumb leading to him probably being a new species) and I'm sorry you'll have to deal with him on your own again – not that you haven't done so while I was there – but you are more than him, more than anyone else of us.
You'll make it through this, Sherlock. You have lived without me. This won't be much different. You have changed, I know, but you're strong and this is just another test which you'll pass with flying colours."
-John, I have lived without you, but I've only been able to do so because I didn't know what I was missing out on. I can't live without you anymore.-
"You promised me to find someone to have in your life and to never delete me. Don't you dare break those promises!
I should probably finish this now or I'll keep writing until my heart actually gives out and an unfinished goodbye-letter is the last thing I want you to have. So, Sherlock, one last question: What is the word that I described on the front of the envelope? It's to do with you and me."
Sherlock picked it up from the tabletop and turned it so he could read what was written on it once again.
-One word, four letters.-
It should be easy, shouldn't it? It got Sherlock thinking though. And so, he didn't realize Angelo coming over. Just as he blurted "Amore" did the detective react.
"What?" He looked at the Italian confused.
"Amore, Sherlock! Love is the word that is meant on this envelope."
Sherlock stared down at the written words before hurriedly picking both the envelope and the letter up, quickly throwing a "thank you" in Angelo's direction before he ran out the door.
He immediately caught a cab and got in.
"221 Baker Street." He sat back in his seat, his fingers playing with the letters already in his pockets which were joined by the last one he'd just found.
The drive didn't take too long and again, Sherlock was truly grateful for it. The driver didn't try to make small talk either, so Sherlock got lost in his thoughts again.
-I understand why John didn't want to tell me about his condition. But there is still something that bothers me. I have a weird feeling in my stomach that I have to assess. I need Mrs. Hudson's help.-
They soon arrived at 221 Baker Street and Sherlock held the bills to the front of the cab and got out as soon as they were grabbed from his hand. The cabbie yelled after him because of the change, but the door to 221 Baker Street was already closed, the inhabitant of 221b on the other side of the door, not to be seen.
Sherlock went to apartment a and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson quickly opened for her tenant.
"Sherlock, dear! My, come inside and sit down. I'll make you a cuppa. But mind you, just this once. I'm not your housekeeper."
Lethargically, Sherlock stepped inside to sit down on the sofa in her living room while she hurried into the kitchen, busying herself with the kettle. She realized that her detective was more than affected by what had happened.
As the kettle whistled, she finished making their tea and brought both their cups into the living room, placing one in front of Sherlock on the table.
He was torn out of his stupor as his landlady sat down next to him.
He didn't pick up his cup right away, instead Mrs. Hudson put it in his hands. As his eyes focused on his landlady, she sadly smiled at him before they both took a sip of the tea. Sherlock was the first one to break the silence as he put his cup back down on the table.
"How did you come to know?" He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the steam swirling above his cup, but neither did she as she answered.
"Your brother came over with this detective. They told me why there wouldn't be anyone home for an indefinite amount of time."
There was a longer silence between the two as Mrs. Hudson kept sipping her tea while her tenant never took his eyes off his own cup still resting and slowly cooling on the table in front of him. Neither spoke a word until Mrs. Hudson had finished her tea and Sherlock's had gone cold.
"Mrs. Hudson, there is something important I need your help with." He still refused to look at her as he was waiting for an answer.
"What is it, dear?" The tone in her voice made him meet her eyes for the first time since knocking at her door.
"John had... he... he was very sick, but he didn't tell me about it. He wrote me three letters, leading me across London to places that... that meant something to him because they had to do with us. In those letters he also explained why he kept me in the dark about his condition and it makes sense. I understand why he thought he had to do... what he did. But I'm still not feeling alright. Why?"
She had listened to him intently and didn't interrupt him while he explained what was bothering him. He looked at her expectantly, waiting for an answer.
"What you're experiencing besides grief, dear, is disappointment. You understand why he did it because it was reasonable. But at the same time you're sad that he didn't put his trust in you. Don't get me wrong, Sherlock, he trusts you with his life. This was a way to protect you. He knows how much he means to you and you would've done everything possible to try to save him and who knows what would've happened if after all you've tried he still had died? He was sure you wouldn't have recovered from that. And there was a selfish component: He didn't want to see you like this. It may have killed him before he actually died."
Sherlock was silent for a while, taking in what his landlady had said. She left him to it, taking both their mugs into the kitchen.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." The voice saying those words was right behind her, so she startled a little. "I understand it now." He shortly let himself be hugged before quickly mumbling "Thank you for the tea" as he turned around to leave.
"Where are you going, dear?"
"There are some things I need to deal with." And with that, he was out the door and gone.
Sherlock hailed a cab and got in, telling the cabbie to take him to St. Bart's.
His hand wandered back into his pocket where he'd stored all of John's letters. Unconsciously, he gripped them, staring out the window until they arrived at his desired destination.
He threw some bills at the driver and left without saying a word.
Stepping inside, Sherlock's fingers tightened around John's letters and he stared ahead while his feet simply lead him where he wanted to go. Therefore, it was only a matter of time until his feet directed him into something solid – or rather someone. His eyes focused on Molly who was looking at him with wide eyes.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry, I-"
"No, it was my fault. I wasn't looking where I was going. Apologies, Molly."
"Are you alright?" She now had a look of pure worry on her face as she stepped closer, putting a hand on his arm. Sherlock tensed immediately as he felt the warmth of her hand seep through his clothes and his hand gripped the letters in his pocket even tighter.
"Sherlock, talk to me, please!" She stepped closer into his personal space, yet he didn't flinch as she had expected. He just kept staring ahead, still not showing any reaction.
"Sherlock..." Molly enveloped him in a hug and slowly, she felt arms wrap around her as well.
The embrace was over quite quickly as Sherlock pulled back, kissed her on the cheek and said s"goodbye" before turning around to disappear back around the corner.
He walked towards the elevators, but suddenly, they seemed too slow for him. So, Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, running upstairs.
He stopped at one floor, turning around the corner, sneaking to nick a pen and paper. Getting what he wanted, he went back towards the stairs unnoticed to continue his journey upstairs.
As he arrived on the roof of Bart's he sat down on the floor, took out the pen and paper he'd just nicked and began to write.
"To whoever finds this (Mycroft or Lestrade are the most likely),
I have letters on my person that include the final wish of Dr. John Hamish Watson. He has given all his belongings to me, but I don't want them. Please donate them to an organisation; John wouldn't oppose to this.
He also put me in charge of his funeral. But that is just something I can't do.
Usually, I'm able to deal with death quite well – otherwise I wouldn't have been able to do my job – but this is John. I'm already too overwhelmed by dealing with his death.
He was mine and now that he's gone, I'm all alone again. So, I'm just not able to take care of his funeral, but please give my brother Mycroft my list of wishes from John so he can organise everything. Because I just can't.
The letters are all addressed to me, so I hope you'll refrain from reading those very personal words.
There is one thing I promised John when we said our goodbyes. He got me to promise to never forget him and find someone else in my life. The first thing I can definitely promise because he is just that person you will never be able to forget, simple as that. But the second promise... I'm very sorry, John, but that is just a promise I'm not able to keep. My God, I'm writing as if he were still able to read that.
He is too special to forget, which is also why I'm simply not able to be happy without him; I can't live without him. He has had such a big impact on my life that there can't be anybody else but him. Without him, there's so much I have lost that I will never be able to recover from. Any I can't deal with this.
I know all of you people think I don't have a heart and I usually tended to agree and I do now. But in between I had one. John brought it with him as he came into my life and he took it with him when he died. So, I won't be able to go on living without my heart since I've forgotten how to do it and he can't teach me anymore. Which is why I'm going to die as well.
Mycroft, from now on you won't have to worry about me. You're better off spying on Lestrade since your relationship has developed.
And Lestrade: You be careful with my brother. Let him help you solve your cases. He's not worse than me. Oh, and fire Anderson!
And to both of you: I'm sorry for the way I acted. It was uncalled for because you two were only there to support us and now I really appreciate it.
I have to admit: this is not what I had expected, but it is how it is and I can't change anything.
Molly, if you get this letter know that I am grateful for all that you have done. You always mattered to me, just not in the way you'd wished for. You're going to find someone, it's just not going to be me.
Two other things: For one, there is one of John's jumpers... I put it on the table in the living room. I want to be buried with it. And secondly, I want my grave to be next to John's.
I apologize that it has to end this way, but I love John too much to simply let him go. I won't let him go down this road alone.
So this is farewell. Thank you.
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective
and John Hamish Watson, his blogger and only love"
It was personal, but as Sherlock put the pen aside, he felt a weight being lifted off of his shoulders. He folded the paper and put it in his empty pocket before he stepped forwards to the ledge and looked down.
That jump would kill him, but he could already feel that John's death would lead to the same and he just wanted to be with his love as soon as possible.
So he spread his arms and closed his eyes, letting himself fall forward.
The last thing he heard was the wind whispering to him with what sounded like John's voice: "You broke your promise, Sherlock" and with tears rushing down his face he whispered back: "I know. But I'm not sorry".
The voices had died down, finally, once and for all. Everything would be okay.
AN: Yeah, just a short one. I'm a little bit sorry for writing this and for letting it end this way, but I felt it had to.
If you read this, I hope you "enjoyed", those were just 11.5 k/ 15 1/2 pages in open office of sadness, tears and tragedy.
Thank you for reading, favouriting, alerting, whatever.
Oh, another thing: This is not made to offend anyone, okay? I just felt this would be the best way to end this story and I have no means of upsetting anyone. I hope you understand.
See you soon, hopefully.
xxx SoDamnSherlocked