The moon hung low over London and a drizzle fell during these early hours of the night. Sherlock Holmes looked up to the windows of Baker Street 221 B. There it was, finally, the day he waited two years for. The day when he would be at John's side again, where he belonged all the time.
His heart jumped when he approached the front door. Two long years. But he had watched John - of course, he had to know what was going on.
Sherlock,
can you hear me?
At first he had hoped for John to begin a new life, without any murder mysteries, but apparently that wasn't how John wanted it to be.
After sleeping at a shabby motel for two months, he returned to the Baker Street rooms which they used to share.
Sherlock watched him attending sessions with his therapist and even getting antidepressants and sleeping pills. But John obviously didn't take them.
I've to talk to you, even though you may not hear me.
Do you miss me? Like I miss you?
Sherlock watched the apartment windows almost every evening. He knew that John didn't sleep well. He didn't touch the pills. He just sat in his usual chair until late in the night. Whatever awaited him in his dreams, John could certainly not stand it. He dreams of Afghanistan again, thought Sherlock.
I'm not dreaming of war anymore, Sherlock. I'm dreaming of falling. With you. I see you die every night in my dreams. And I can't save you. I reach for your hand, but I can't save you.
Sherlock could read all the tiny details like a book. John didn't feel well, but Sherlock would have thought that John would get better after a time. He did not.
Somehow Sherlock was glad to see that John still thought of him. That John missed him even after two years without any sign of him. Eventually John had to accept that Sherlock really died.
I cannot tell you how much I need you. I need you every day. I mean, I miss you every day. At first I couldn't stand coming back to this apartment, but after a time I got so numb, that I needed this pain more than anything. I needed to see all those things that belonged to you. They waited for you to return. Like me.
But you never did.
Slowly he ascended the stairs, trying to avoid any noise. He would have liked a dramatic effect. Coming into the apartment, like he had imagined it every day for the past few months, and saying something like: 'John, I'm home!' - but no, that sounded too flat. He would just stand there and wait for a reaction. At first John would probably be furiously mad at him. That would be alright. Every reaction would be alright, as long as he'd finally forgive him. He had to. At the latest when Sherlock would tell him all about Moriarty's game.
He waited for so long to be able to tell John everything. Finally the day was there.
I asked myself why you did it. But I can't understand it. You're smarter than Moriarty. You're smarter than everyone.
And yet, you never understood how much you meant to me.
Sherlock opened the unlocked door of the rooms which they shared two years ago silently. Nothing had changed, but Sherlock already knew that John hadn't rearranged the furniture. He had even seen John sitting in Sherlock's chair and listening to violin music, certainly imagining that Sherlock was still there playing for him. 'I'll play for you again, John.', he thought, entering their apartment.
You saved me once, Sherlock. I wish I could have saved you, too. I'm sorry. At first I was mad at you, leaving me alone like that. Leaving me behind.
I was mad at you, going to a place where I can't follow.
But then I understood.
For an instant Sherlock observed the empty pill bottles on the coffee table in their living room. The ones prescribed from John's therapist - the ones he never took. No, he had taken them now. All of them and some pills Sherlock didn't recognize.
I understood that I can follow you. I realized that there was a way to be whole again. To be with you again and forever.
I called you a machine once. I'm sorry. Machines are cold, but I can still feel your warm hand in mine.
'John!'
Sherlock stumbled towards the crouched person on the couch.
'No-', he fell down on his knees. 'This can't be-'
Sherlock's mind was spinning. This couldn't be true. John would never do such a thing. He, Sherlock, could read in John's mind like a book – he'd never do such a thing. He'd never kill himself. Why would he?
I'm tired of missing you, Sherlock. I'm tired of seeing you die every night in my dreams. I'm tired of seeing you every day in the crowd, knowing that it's just what I want to see, not reality. I've to sleep once more. Only once more.
Tears were streaming down Sherlock's pale face and his lips were trembling while saying the name of the one person in the whole world he cared for more than anything else.
He felt for a pulse, but there was none.
He turned John's face towards his and held it in both hands. John looked like he was sleeping, pale and stern. His skin was still slightly warm.
When I fall asleep, I'll be falling one last time. But this time, I won't see you die. You'll await me on the ground, and we can be together again.
In my last dream you'll take my hand, and we'll jump together. I'd jump with you, Sherlock. I don't want to be without you anymore.
He was too late. This very day he was too late. He had waited too long. The one thing he hadn't foreseen.
'Why would you do that, John?', he whispered crying. He hugged him and kissed the cooling lips.
But Sherlock knew the answer.
Not in his head, no, but in his heart.
Because the pain was too much to take. Losing the one person who can make you complete. Because -
'I love you.'