John Watson heard his name being called.
He was in his army gear, ready to fly out to Afghanistan.
He was going to be a real army doctor at last.
But his name wasn't being called by one of the Majors.
His name was being called by a man, who was quite tall, with short brown hair, a finely-cut grey suit. He was running along the line of soldiers that John was in, calling for John.
"John! John Watson!" he shouted.
He ran all the way up to John, and stopped next to him.
"John Watson... you have to go somewhere... before you leave for... Afghanistan..." the man panted.
"And why the hell should I? I'm due to leave now." John snapped.
"Yes, but I can assure you that your commanding officer will not mind."
The man smiled smugly, and walked towards the Majors, who were staring at him with looks of pure shock on their faces.
He talked to them for a few moments, then returned to John.
"Kindly come with me." he said, yanking on John's arm.
John grimaced, and went along with the man, pulling his arm out of his strong grip.
The man led him along a road, up a steep hill, then finally to Bartholomew Hospital.
The angel followed them.
The man in the hospital bed was a stranger to John. But his face lit up like someone had flicked a switch inside him when John came into the room. His face was scarred, and wrinkled, and it showed so much, but the weak smile that spread across it then illuminated his eyes, and made him seem younger.
He looked so happy to see John, but at the same time, so sad.
John had never seen him before in his life.
The man who brought him there exited the room, with a sad grimace on his face.
"J-John. It's so... so good to see you." the man croaked, tears streaming down his face.
He reached out with one shaking, wrinkled hand, and John walked over and took it.
The man grasped John's hand hard, and John could feel the coldness that radiated from it.
"It has..." he coughed, "it has been so long."
"I've never seen you before today." John remarked, confused.
"Of course... you wouldn't have..."
John held the man's hand with both of his, and stared into his eyes.
"Why do you look so happy to see me? And how do you even know me?"
"I..." he coughed again; one, long throaty cough, "I was always in... love with John Watson... but I never told him... and then it happened... and he will never know..." his eyes widened when he said 'it'.
"But... I'm John Watson."
"I know... but I fell in love with you... when you were older..."
His voice was getting weaker and weaker, quieter and quieter.
"You have to... find Sherlock Holmes... and you need to..." he croaked.
"I need to what? I need to what?" John asked, desperate.
"You need to... stay with him... let him... fall in love with... you. Don't leave... him... no matter... what... happens." his voice was practically a whisper now.
"Let him fall in love with me? But you just said... oh. You're Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yes... but.. I am... old before my... time... long before... my time..."
"How do you love me if I've never met you?"
"It will... all become... clear... just find... Sherlock Holmes... and let him... love... you...and... watch out... for the... weeping... angel..." his voice slurred, and he stopped talking.
His head fell to the side, and his eyes closed.
He looked so peaceful. So contented.
Like he'd done what he needed to do.
What he wanted to do.
John called a nurse, and slipped the white sheet over Sherlock Holmes' body, bowing his head in respect for a moment.
He walked out of the room, and headed out of the hospital, running, trying to get away from the horror inside there.
He was ready to face Afghanistan.
He had something to look forward to.
The angel watched him closely.
The cane that had always supported John was cast aside in the cafe, as he chased after Sherlock Holmes. He was running, un-aided, determined not to lose him. He ran through streets, over the tops of buildings, following the billowing dark-navy coat in front of him.
Of course, this Sherlock Holmes was young, clever, full of life.
Most unlike the Sherlock that John had met first.
John had decided that, when he was sure that Sherlock loved him, he would tell him.
But that time had not come yet.
Of course, John loved Sherlock.
From the minute they'd met, he'd loved him.
There was something about him that fascinated John, and he wasn't just staying with Sherlock to do the bidding of a dying man; he was staying because he completely and utterly loved him. He'd never loved a man, or a woman, as much as he loved Sherlock.
And, as they ran through the dark, quiet streets of London, John realized that he couldn't live without him.
He didn't realize that there was a lone, stone angel watching them run, perched atop a building, watching the world pass by.
As the lean figure of Sherlock Holmes, consulting dectective, tumbled to the ground, John felt fear like he had never felt it before.
Nothing had ever scared him as much as losing Sherlock did.
And here he was, facing his fear.
John ran forward.
Maybe he could catch Sherlock.
Maybe he could just do anything.
Anything at all to stop him dying.
Anything.
A grey blur shot through the sky, and into the path of Sherlock.
A cyclist came out of nowhere and smacked John to the ground.
He fell.
So did Sherlock.
John heard the thump.
He scrambled to his feet, swaying.
His brain screamed at him.
No! he can't be dead! I haven't told him. I haven't told him. I haven't told him. I haven't told him.
Over and over it was screamed at him.
I haven't told him.
He ran over to the small crowd of people gathered around the body that was lying on the ground.
I haven't told him.
The body that was wearing a navy-blue coat.
I haven't told him.
The body that was Sherlock's.
I haven't told him.
I haven't told him.
I haven't told him.
John's dreams were the same every night.
No matter what he did, he always dreamt the same thing.
A falling figure.
Always falling.
A flash of grey.
Then crashing to the earth.
Never stopping.
And over and over the words were repeated.
I haven't told him.
The figure fell another meter.
I haven't told him.
The figure's coat billowed out.
I haven't told him.
The figure hit the ground.
I haven't told him.
John woke up with a start.
"I haven't... I haven't told him..." he slurred.
Wait... what hasn't he told him?
What did he never tell him?
I haven't told him.
That he loved him?
That he, John Watson, loved Sherlock Holmes from the moment they met until the moment he died?
That he, John Watson, would continue to love Sherlock Holmes until he, too, died.
I haven't told him.
A distant memory, sparked by grief.
An old man, lying in a hospital bed, stricken with illness.
An old man, who said he loved John Watson.
An old man, who's name was Sherlock Holmes.
I haven't told him.
But he told me.
The angel outside Bartholomew Hospital was eerie, and it looked old, despite the fact the hospital staff said it had never been there before that day. It was cracked, and the once smooth stone was marred with chips and dirt. It had a pair of elegent wings, which were unfolded. It looked like it was crying, weeping even.
Weeping...
A weeping angel...
John's heart felt like it was being torn from his chest.
The last words of his lover... of Sherlock.
He'd said... watch out for the weeping angel...
Fear shot through his body.
Watch out for the weeping angel.
Sherlock wouldn't have warned him unless it was very dangerous.
John turned around slowly.
The statue was gone.