A/N: I've been listening to this song with a verse that asks, "When does eternity end, I wonder?", and I thought of the end of life, and what that might mean for Sherlock and the ones he so obviously cares about. I don't know if this classifies as angst, but it has no happy ending. Sorry. :( xx

His Last Sentiment

To everyone who had come to see him, he had asked to see her. John and Mary had gone to see him, together with Mrs Hudson. Mycroft had gone to see him, shortly after Lestrade was sent out of the room. All their visits had been brief after being hastily ordered out by the detective who, in his own words, did not want "anymore outpouring of unnecessary sentiment."

"Is there necessary sentiment, then?" his brother had retorted sharply before swiftly leaving the room. It pained him to do so, but he understood Sherlock, that this was probably best.

It was Mycroft who had seen him last, and who had therefore been the one to fulfil his brother's last request. Molly had been aware of his predicament, but had not been informed of his latest turn for the worst. It was Mycroft who sent word to her, and within moments, had her brought to the hospital.

"Is he all right?" she asked quietly.
"No, Ms Hooper, he isn't." Mycroft replied.
"Oh."
"He asked only for you." he said solemnly.
"I see."
"Tell him what he won't let us, will you?" Mycroft turned his head quickly, but not before Molly caught his eyes furtively betraying a moment of undeniable emotion.
"I will, Mycroft," she whispered, briefly reaching to touch the tense knuckles wrapped over the hook of Mycroft's umbrella.

As the older and wiser of the Holmes' brothers walked silently away, Molly took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

He greeted her with a smile. It was weak from his predicament, but gentle from his affection for her. If there ever was a time to display it, it was now.

"Hello," she said, smiling gently and moving to sit by his bed.

He surprised her by reaching automatically for her hand, clasping it tightly in his cool ones.

"You know, Molly…" he began, his voice a low whisper.
"Mmm?"
"You've helped me cheat death so many times."
"I have, haven't I?" she said with a warm, nostalgic chuckle.
"I suppose you can only try so many times," he said, smiling sadly.
"I'm not a god, Sherlock," she remarked gently, "And neither are you."
"Pity…," he said with a smirk.

Her free hand moved to wrap his clasped ones as they sat like that in comfortable quietness. She never once took her eyes off him, just as his eyes never left the sight of their hands intertwined.

"This feels nice," he whispered.
"It does," she answered, gently running her fingers over his.
"I suppose…" he said, sinking back into his pillows with a sigh, "This is the best way to do it, isn't it?"
"I suppose…" she answered, her voice unable to stop from cracking.
"Before I go," he said, looking right at her, "Could you do one thing for me?"
"Anything," she whispered.
"Tell John and Mary, Mrs Hudson, Geoff…"
"Greg…"
"Greg…and most of all, my brother…" it was his turn for his voice to crack.

He shut his eyes and took another deep, tired breath.

"That I thank them. And that with all of my stupid, cold, dying heart…I love them."
"Of course," Molly said, smiling at this bittersweet confession of his.

She got up to kiss him on the cheek, resting her lips against his skin, not wanting to part from him. With her face so close to his, he tilted his head to return the gesture, kissing her gently on her cheek. She smiled against his skin, as a warm tear slid noiselessly between her lips and his cheek.

"They want you to know, that they love you too," she said, whispering into his ear.
"I've always known that…" he answered, still managing to sound cocky.

She laughed softly as she planted one more kiss on his temple, shutting her eyes to remember the lingering warmth of his skin.

"I'm sorry I can't save you this time," she whispered, almost angrily, leaning her forehead against the side of his face.
"Don't make jokes, Molly," he said with a weak laugh.

He turned to face her such that their foreheads were touching.

"You always save me," he whispered. "Even now, you save me."
"Tummyrot," she muttered between clenched teeth.
"I should have had that coffee with you…" he remarked gently, reaching to touch her face.
"Yes, you should have, you idiot…" Molly answered fiercely.

He withdrew his hand but maintained his posture, keeping their foreheads touching.

"I suppose I should say it now before it's too late." he whispered, smiling.

Molly smiled and shut her eyes. She could not bear to see this.

When those words were whispered, revealing an age-old sentiment to the woman beside him, Sherlock Holmes also said his goodbyes, but not without his hand firmly clasped between the hands of the one who always mattered the most.

END