In theory Sherlock Holmes knew a lot about dying, he was almost an expert. He had done it twice now after all. He knew it meant leaving people behind, people he loved, people he was supposed to protect. Sherlock Homes did love, he did feel, he had simply pushed the feelings down for years feelings weren't good or helpful. Not in the way the atomic mass of Hydrogen or hand-to-hand combat was helpful. Tonight though, sitting in front of the papers. The papers he both loved for existing and hated for being in the room. "Be rational, you're still alive, but given recent events, prepare for the worst outcome," Mycroft's voice barged in his head as he looked down at the paper. Sherlock stood up and walked up the stairs to go to bed, to sleep, the doctors said he would be doing that more and more often now. For once they were right.
John Watson had his dream life, wife and soon to be daughter, beautiful home, and an amazing best friend. He didn't have nearly enough time to spend with Sherlock, but they texted everyday. That was enough right? They were both busy adults and they kept in touch, that's what people do, move on. Sherlock had he had survived just fine for two years without John, it was normal they were a bit more distant now. He loved Mary, she was beautiful and sweet, and she helped him over Sherlock's death. Suddenly he was jolted out of his stupor by a voice, "John, come to bed love, and maybe leave your mobile in the living room, Sherlock will survive one night without your texts."
Sherlock dreamt of strange things cups of tea that didn't pour themselves, a fight with John over whether the fingers could go in the cheese drawer, and Moriarty. Always him, calling him a coward and telling him John was in danger. All of a sudden the dream turned strange, the scenario he had gone over so many times in his head. Where John hadn't forgiven Mary or hadn't met her at all, and still lived in the bedroom upstairs, not six blocks away. It was selfish and stupid and he awoke quickly. He got up and looked at the clock, five hours after he had gone to sleep, a new record. Sherlock yawned and stretched sliding out of bed and heading into his bathroom. Splashing water on his face and looking at his face in the mirror. He didn't look any different, shouldn't he look different? He was dying, then again the last two times he died he didn't look different either.
John chuckled softly setting his mobile down on the counter and heading up to bed. He changed quickly into his pajamas. They were his favourtie pair, expensive wool, Sherlock had given them to him for Christmas, and the first normal gift Sherlock had ever given him. In all honesty he missed the strange gifts from Sherlock. He slid into bed with Mary leaning over to kiss her cheek softly and then her now large belly before turning back over to flip off the small desk lamp. Mary curled up to his side, resting her head onto John's shoulder and pulling his arm over herself.
"Love you John"
"Love you too"
"Night"
"Night"
John sighed softly figuring this wasn't how normal marriages worked, they hardly talked. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping for a dreamless night.
Sherlock grabbed his violin from the table. He was careful not to disturb the papers on the table. He was stalling, he was leaving in a few hours, and he had to bring the papers to John before that point. For now though he wanted to forget everything, he wanted to forget that he was dying, for the third time, and that he was going to die alone. He began to play a song of his own composition, swaying and moving in time to the music, almost dancing. He hung on to the last note for as long as he could listening to it as it reverberated around the empty flat. The bow stayed rested in the same place, wanting to live in that note forever, in that note was safety. Sherlock walked slowly back to his room and began packing throwing in all his clothes, his violin, and a small wooden box he hadn't opened in mouths.
"Medic tent, John twelve o'clock. JOHN!" John twitched in his sleep, his arm coming off of Mary to clench his shoulder. He sat up quickly breathing heavily his head spinning. Mary used to wake up every time John had a nightmare, she'd rub his back and speak softly, guiding him back to his pillow and calming him down. Now she didn't even stir, not because she didn't care, John rationed. She was pregnant and they weren't exactly as close as they used to be, before he came back. He slid quickly out of bed going into the bathroom to splash water on his face. The mirror reflected back at him, he looked just like himself, but something was…off.
The large suitcase zipped up easily, the entirety of Sherlock's important possession fit into the black case. Mycroft would be by in an hour to take his papers to John. John and Mary, the Watson's. He was leaving everything in John's name but it would still legally belong to both of them. Sherlock liked Mary, he truly did, and she was wonderful and funny and good for John. John needed her and Sherlock was glad he was happy, there was nothing comforting in positing new scenarios. John was John and Sherlock was Sherlock. He set the case by the door and returned to the table, signing the papers and forging Mycroft's signature as a witness. He would have agreed anyways and did he really need someone to watch him sign his own will? Now came the tricky part, he still hadn't come up with a legitimate excuse for this, and he couldn't just say "I'm going to America, for treatment, probably to die," John would only worry.
John can you meet me at the airport? SH
I know you're busy with Mary, it will be quick. SH