Sherlock had always thought he would die young. His smoking habit did not count well to his name and neither did the drug abuse from his early adulthood. All of his habits would pull days from the final number he would live. His aversion to food, his refusal to sleep. Every last one of them made the clock tick a little bit faster.
When he met John Watson for the first time, he thought he'd found someone he would outlive. That John Watson was not a happy man, Sherlock could tell. That John Watson was just another shell-shocked soldier back from the war, just another face in the crowd. That was all John Watson was to Sherlock. Just another man. Someone that Sherlock thought he would outlive. Someone that Sherlock didn't really need.
The first time that Sherlock Holmes met John Watson, the veil of his brilliant mind hid him from the sunlight.
When he met John Watson for the second time, Sherlock realised what a fool he'd been. He saw what John Watson really was. John Watson was a light source, a strong, beautiful light source. He was Sherlock's sunlight, something he never knew he'd been missing until he tasted it.
And as he spoke into his phone, looking at the cold hard pavement below him, he knew that if his plan didn't work, John would be outliving him. John Watson, Sherlock's bright star, would live on. A world without John Watson seemed like a dull one. So Sherlock knew he had to do this. He wanted John to live. John would find someone else, and have a family. He would move on and he would be happy.
That didn't make it hurt any less.
The second time that Sherlock Holmes met John Watson, he denied himself the sunlight he'd wanted for so long.
When he met John Watson for the third time, Sherlock knew that he would be outlived by his partner. This John Watson was different to the John Watson Sherlock had met all those years ago at St Bart's. This John Watson was happy and smiling and shining, burning so close.
Sherlock's bright star didn't realise how much he was loved. Sherlock's bright star didn't realise how much his love meant to Sherlock. As a conductor of light, Sherlock's bright star was unbeatable.
John Watson was Sherlock's bright star, and Sherlock didn't know what he'd do without him.
The third time that Sherlock Holmes met John Watson, he smiled in the warm sunlight.
When he met John Watson for the fourth time, Sherlock didn't know what to do. His bright star had burnt out, and they had hidden his remains beneath the cold ground. The pale headstone was the only thing left to remind Sherlock of what had once been, and what a bitter reminder it was.
His bright star had shone to the very end. His bright star had been blind, his shoulder pained him more than he had been willing to admit and his joints would ache in the cold winter, but he still shone. He shone with a light that Sherlock had never had.
But now he was gone. And Sherlock was alone.
The fourth time that Sherlock Holmes met John Watson, he shivered in the absence of the warmth that had radiated from his bright star.
When he met John Watson for the last time, Sherlock was at peace. He knew what was happening. He was dying. He didn't fight it.
John Watson held out his hand and Sherlock took it. It was warm, a warmth Sherlock hadn't felt in a long time. It was a familiar warmth. A comforting warmth.
Sherlock walked beside his bright star and welcomed the light.
The last time that Sherlock Holmes met John Watson, he let himself fall, and the sunlight consumed him.