The only thing I own of this is... Well. The plot, I guess. Everything else belongs to the BBC, and formerly ACD
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It had been years since John Watson saw Sherlock Holmes, his (ex)best friend, (ex)flatmate, and (ex)boyfriend last. 2 years, 297 days, to be exact. And despite all that time, he still thought he saw the dark-haired, light-eyed man everywhere. But of course he knew that was impossible. Sherlock Holmes was dead. And he had died for the safety of everyone he cared for. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and most of all, John. But despite that, John couldn t get that feeling out of his mind, that Sherlock was still out there somewhere. He thought he saw him at Tesco, but of course that was preposterous. Sherlock never went shopping. He also thought he saw him at a book shop down the street. Before he could get a good look, though, the man had disappeared out into the crowded London streets. John had moved out of Baker St., and into a studio flat on the other side of town. As far away as he could get from all of the memories. Every morning, he expected to wake up in his bed at his old flat, with Sherlock out in the kitchen ruining the tabletop, or the microwave. But that never happened. Whenever he got a text, he expected it to be from Sherlock, telling him to get home so he could hand him a pen, or get something from his room for him.
That never happened.
The years passed slowly. Two turned into three, three into four. He never found love again. It wasn t a surprise, though. He knew that he d never love someone like loved-loves Sherlock.
As the years turned into decades, John gave up hope of ever seeing Sherlock again. He stopped seeing him in everything he did, and everywhere he went.
He eventually moved out of London, and to the country. He had had enough of the rushing of traffic, and the constant noise. It had all lost its appeal a long time ago. On his deathbed, John made one wish. To see his love one last time. He thought it was a dream, but late one night, the door to his bedroom opened. His caretaker had left for the night, and he thought it might be a burglar. He didn't care, though. There was only one thing worth taking, but he had given that to Sherlock long, long ago.
Stepping into the shadow of the bedroom from the bright hallway, he saw a silhouette of a tall, lean man, with curly hair. In the dim light, he could see the still-angular cheekbones, although they were now wrinkled. The hair was no longer dark, and thick. He could just barely tell that it was thinning, and grey. John. I m here now. He said, coming to his love s side. He slowly sat on the floor next to the bed, and grabbed John's wrinkled hand. Sher..Lock? His own voice sounded feeble, but there was shock and awe there.
You can go happy now. Sherlock said, kissing the top of his hand. he could see the faint glimmer of a tear going down the familiar, angular face.
I don t want to go. He gasped. Even then, he could still feel the life slipping out of him. Now that you re here.
Sherlock shook his head. There s nothing I can do. He slowly stood up again, and sat down again on the side of the bed. From there, he proceeded to lay down, and curl up against John's side. It was just how they remembered it. John felt so very tired, but he didn't want to sleep. He knew that he wouldn't wake up, and he wanted to stay with Sherlock forever. His Sherlock. Finally back where he belonged, at John's side.
It s okay, John. Sherlock muttered into his good shoulder. I ll be going with you. For some reason, John believed him, and he allowed himself to fall asleep.
And there, they went together. John still wasn t quite sure how Sherlock hadn't died at Barts, oh so many decades ago, but it didn't matter. Because they were going together, like they promised each other they would all those years ago.
For those last moments on Earth, everything seemed right.
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A/N: Well, did you like it? Feedback is love~
Written for my dear Britta.