I never get asked to do prompts and AlyReality asked me and I couldn't get the prompt out of my head. and this fic was born. It's tragic and sad and I almost cried, it's angsty and full of love, Johnlock and Mystrade (very very very minimal, mostly implied and off screen.)
I hope you guys enjoy.
Warnings: Character Deaths, violence, blood, gore etc.
Words: 6000+
Prompt:
I totally see John and Sherlock's life after the fall being very reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet. After Sherlock fakes his death John admits his love for Sherlock and writes about it in a dairy and stuff then kills himself. Then Sherlock comes back, finds the diary, finds John dead, admits his love and kills himself too. Definitely a one-shot but I think with your writing it could be a great read. Anyways, just a thought.
A man, tall, thin, intimating, stands outside of 221B Baker St.
He knows how long he has been away down to the second, he knows how London hasn't changed, he knows that he really shouldn't be here, he knows that this could jeopardize everything.
He knows all of this, but the detective in disguise doesn't care. One thought on his mind.
He walks into the flat's entryway, quickly and quietly before his brother's security detail can remove him. Mrs. Hudson is away, the detective hypothesises from the dust gathered by her door, visiting her sister perhaps.
The detective stares idly at the stairs in front of him. He needs to do this, he needs to see John. Three months is far too long. Sherlock doesn't know what is shattering his self-control but he welcomes it. Something is pulling at the detective to run up the seventeen steps and embrace the doctor, throwing all previous sociopath thoughts of emotions and sentiment out the window.
Sherlock reigns in his eagerness and ascends the steps quietly but diligently avoiding the third and twelfth steps that creak.
To tell the truth, the detective is apprehensive, afraid of how the doctor will react.
Finally,he reaches the landing, for a second his wonders if he should knock. Sherlock shakes his head at the silliness and carefully opens the door not making a sound.
The door opens soundlessly and the detective scans the room for signs of John. All he sees is emptiness. The sitting room is cold and hallow, as if no one has smiled in the room for three months. Sherlock muses that that could very well be the case. He notices right away how clean the flat is, overly clean, someone went through with a toothbrush and scrubbed everything, including the smiling face and the bullet holes. The room is in pristine condition. Sherlock panics slightly at these thoughts. If Mrs. Hudson is away visiting her sister that means she's been gone at least one, if not two days, there is still the strong smell of disinfectant in the air. The flat has been recently cleaned.
Alarm bells scream at Sherlock. There is no reason for the flat to be this clean, even if John is a diligent spring cleaner.
Sherlock detects a faint smell of tea in the air and moves towards the kitchen.
The kitchen is even worse. The appliances shine, although Sherlock's old experiments and microscope haven't moved, the microscope is shining and bright with cleanness, from a very thorough cleaning but the area around it is undisturbed, as if the cleaner couldn't bare to touch the experiments. Whether out of fear at what harm could be done or out of emotional distress. Sherlock deduces the latter when he sees the two chairs that occupy the sitting room. Sherlock's chair is clutter free but it hasn't been sat in or moved, neither has John's chair. It's cushions inflated and no evidence of anyone sitting in either chair for the past three months. However, the couch's cushions of seen better days. John hasn't let anyone touch the chairs since Sherlock 'died'.
And yet, no sign of John.
"John." Sherlock calls quietly, taking in all of the evidence and not liking his conclusion.
Something is seriously wrong. John is not alright.
Sherlock walks into the landing looking towards the bedroom.
The hallway is dark except for a faint light creepy through the doorway in Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock cocks his head in confusion. Why is the light in his bedroom on?
The detective saunters down the hallway, his mind uneasy and his panic clouding his thoughts.
He reaches his bedroom door and opens it slowly.
The sheets have been slept in, but the bed is made. The room is relatively clean but Sherlock can tell it has been occupied multiple times, if not constantly. There are clothes next to the bed, folded neatly, John's pajamas.
The doctor has been sleeping in Sherlock's bedroom, for quite awhile, if not ever since.
What really catches his eye is the brown leather bound diary laying on top of John's clothes. Sherlock grabs the book curiously and starts to open the diary when he hears a soft whimpering coming from the en suite bathroom. Sherlock drops the book automatically and simply runs to the bathroom, pushing the door open.
Sherlock freezes in panic, at first all he sees is blood, everywhere, leaking down the sides of the bathtub mixing in with the water, on the walls of the shower.
The detective resists the urge to expel the bile rising up his throat when he finally sees him.
John, fully clothed, encased in crimson water. Sherlock's limbs loosen and he rushes over to the doctor.
"John. John!" Sherlock screams as he jumps into the bathtub, immediately soaking himself and splashing numerous amounts of bloodied water onto the bathroom floor. The doctor's head is resting against the back of the tub lolled to one side. Sherlock regards the doctor urgently. His eyes frantically search for evidence. Sherlock plunges his hands into the dark red water of the tub and finds the doctor's wrists resting at the bottom. He surfaces John's wrist and his insides clench in heart wrenching agony, his wrist is littered with angry, bleeding cuts, all in neat, very deep, vertical lines. The detective freezes for a second, his mind not working, not telling him what needs to be done.
"Oh. John." Sherlock cries. Tears falling down his face shamelessly. Sherlock realises that he has to stop the bleeding, the genius yanks the towels off the near towel rack, wrapping them tightly around John's wrist.
Sherlock's mind is screaming at him, asking questions the detective doesn't know the answer too.
"John. You bastard." Sherlock spits angrily, cupping John's face in Sherlock's bloodied hands, transferring the crimson in smudges onto the doctor's gaunt and pale face.
"JOHN!" Sherlock bellows into the silent eyes and face of the doctor.
Mycroft enters the flat, furious at his younger brother. Who does he think he is? Sherlock ruined three months of resources and planning and lying to John and Greg. Mycroft grips the new identities in his hand tightly, getting ready to yell his brother and then escort them both out of London. He walks up the seventeen steps, swinging his umbrella angrily, listening for screams and yells of anger from John. At first he hears silence, then the landing erupts in screams.
"JOHN!" Mycroft drops the manilla envelop and his his umbrella at the scream of the younger Holmes, he races towards his brothers room.
Sherlock slaps John's face trying to wake the doctor.
"You better not die on me." Sherlock cries, he notices vaguely another figure in the bathroom with him.
"Sherlock. Dear god." Mycrofts voice flutters through the air followed by beeping of a mobile.
Sherlock can feel John shivering beneath him, and notices for the first time how cold the water is currently. With the help of adrenaline, Sherlock manages to heave the doctor out of the tub. Sherlock wordlessly catalogs how thin and weightless the doctor is.
Once the two of them are on the floor, Sherlock immediately cradles John into his lap. Trying to keep pressure onto his wrist, looking straight into the eyes of John. He can feel the shallowing breaths of the doctor.
"John, damnit, wake up." Sherlock shouts into John's ears. The doctor flinches and whimpers slightly. Sherlock yells again and again, causing John's eyelids to flutter erratically and then open a fraction. Pale, lifeless blue eyes look up at the genius.
"That didn't take long." John mumbles out, breaking Sherlock's heart in two. John thinks he is dead already. John smiles slightly, his whole body shaking and his breath getting weaker, Sherlock desperately wants to check his pulse but can't pull his hands away from keeping pressure on John's wrists.
"John. I'm here. You are going to be okay." Sherlock states very confidently, even thought the detective's body is shaking with fear and panic.
"I know, I'm with you know." John says, trying to raise his wrist to pat Sherlock's face but ends up being held down and then wincing in pain. "It's not supposed to hurt." John says, his eyes focusing and unfocusing against his will.
"Sherlock why does it hurt?" John's eyes well with silent tears and his voice sounds like that of a child. Sherlock hates this moment, right now, he hates how he is feeling.
"Shh. John...it's okay...we are going to get help." Sherlock says and looks up for the first time seeing a very frantic looking Mycroft. "Five minutes." Mycroft states, his eyes darting around the bathroom before settling on the doctor.
"I missed you. More than you will ever know." John says, stilling his body involuntarily. The blood loss is finally getting to the doctor.
"Stop that John Watson, you are going to fine." Sherlock says sternly, his brain scattered and his emotions running rampant.
John's lips curl into a sloppy smile, it's weak but Sherlock almost loses it right there. He reluctantly lets go of a wrist and pushes into John's neck.
The pulse is weak and getting weaker. Sherlock grips the doctor tighter.
"John you've got to stay with me okay." Sherlock yells. John doesn't respond, he stares right into the gray eyes of the detective.
"I love you, you know. I never got to tell you." The genius's feels a little shocked at the statement, but his tears are flowing so fiercely now that Sherlock can barely see John through the waterfall erupting from his eyes. In that second, Sherlock's emotions band together in one giant realisation.
"Oh my god John, I love you too. So much." Sherlock cries into John, holding the doctor tightly, tears mixing with John's wet hair. "I love you too." Sherlock repeats.
John's pulse stops suddenly, underneath the pads of Sherlock's fingertips.
"John. John...NO! no no no no no " Sherlock screams, "Mycroft." The man is instantly next to Sherlock and the doctor while the detective flattens John out. He opens up his airway and breaths into the doctor. John's chest inflates with Sherlock's breath. Mycroft pounds relentlessly onto John's chest.
"John. John. John. John." Mycroft's heart is breaking at the calls of his younger brother. Sherlock is desperately trying to bring John back.
The two brothers continuing doing CPR for the next two minutes until the flat starts echoing strange noises. Mycroft jumps up and peeks his head outside the bedroom door calling for the paramedics. Multiple people start bustling into the room, a blur of white uniforms and multiple duffel bags fill up the room. Sherlock notices none of this, he is too busy punching John forcibly in the chest, crying his name over and over. One of the paramedics lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, intent on pulling him aside.
Sherlock freaks, his arms flail and his voice screeches in incoherent words. Mycroft dashes over and forcibly removes Sherlock out o the way. With the detective moved, the paramedics jump next to John attempting to revive the doctor.
Sherlock fights against Mycroft's hold, screaming out John's name and lashing his arms, trying to connect violently with anything. Mycroft has never seen his brother like this. The image scares him down to his core. He keeps his face neutral and his emotions intact as he whispers into Sherlock's ear. "Sherlock, It's Mycroft, you have to calm down and let them do their job." The Elder Holmes repeats the phrase over and over like a mantra. Finally, Sherlock settles down. His stops fighting and calls John's name out in whispers. The detective shakes violently in Mycrofts grip as they both watch in horror at the paramedics attempt to revive John.
"Bloody hell." A new voice enters the room after what seems like hours but has only been a minute. Lestrade strolls into the room, tears already in his eyes at the sight. He almost screams once he sees Sherlock but reigns it in, he focuses instead upon the scene, the very bloody scene. Sherlock ignores the DI and focuses solely on John. The three men stare at the paramedics for minutes.
"He's lost too much blood." One of the paramedics states eventually.
"He went into cardiac arrest."Another paramedic says, his hands reluctantly leaving the doctor's chest, which lays still against the tile floor. Mycroft wraps his arms around his younger brother tightly, his own tears threatening to spill.
"I'm calling it." The last paramedic says. "April 23. 22:35pm." The paramedic looks up at Sherlock. "I'm very sorry, there is nothing we can do."
"NO. NO! YOU CANNOT JUST GIVE UP!" Sherlock loses it, fighting viciously against his older brother's grip. Lestrade runs over and adds his own strength into holding Sherlock in place. The detective notices nothing. He is vaguely aware of the arms around. He is vaguely aware of the blood and water soaking his clothes, he is vaguely aware that Greg and Mycroft are talking to him, whispering words of comfort in his ear.
Sherlock only sees John, and John alone. The lifeless bloody body of the man he loves.
"No. NO. No!" Sherlock yells and in one fluid motion, manages to pry himself from the two strong men holding him and kneel down next to John, scooping the doctor into his arms rocking back and forth.
"John." Sherlock cries and tears fall mixing in with the water and blood of both the detective and the doctor.
Minutes, if not hours pass. Sherlock looks into the lifeless eyes of John Hamish Watson, the man he loves, the man who accepted him no matter what, the man who believed him and had devote loyalty, the man who never hurt him, the man who he can't live without, the man who taught him how to love.
A hand finds Sherlock's shoulder and the detective doesn't move. Mycroft's face comes into view, speaking to the genius.
Sherlock is somewhere else. Somewhere else where John Watson is alive and well.
Suddenly, the lifeless corpse is being pulled out of the detective's grasp. "NO! NO! GET OFF!" Sherlock shouts. Two pairs of arms wrap around Sherlock's waist and limbs, prying him from the dead doctor. Sherlock screams and fights but is successfully pulled away from John. Mycroft and Greg stand him up, Sherlock watches as John is zipped up into a body bag. His face is puffy and red from the tears, his mind stops. Nothing is working, everything suddenly seems grayer, the warmth escape the detective's body in a rush.
Sherlock takes it upon himself, in that moment, to let all the emotional distress and exhaustion catch up to him. His knees buckle and his eyes roll back and the detective plummets to the ground, all emotion sending searing pain throughout his body until the blackness takes hold.
The morgue, once one of Sherlock's favorite places, will now, forever be the place were he had to look at a dead John Watson on a slab.
Sherlock grips the leather bounded diary, that he snatched from the bed on his way out, cradled tightly in his hand. The genius sits outside the morgue doors, on the hard plastic hospital chairs. Lestrade, Mycroft and Molly are inside, probably talking about John's death and other useless information. Sherlock is in shock, or that's what the symptoms suggest. His fingers tremble shakily over the diary.
Curiosity gets the best of him and he unwinds the wrapping, opening the diary to the first page. The enamoring scrawl of John's handwriting stop Sherlock's breathing for a minute as he reads the pages in front of him, his eyes already wet with tears.
January 26, 2012
I don't know why I bought this diary, I have my blog. I haven't log onto the blog since...it is too hard, it reminds me too much of the fun times we had and all of the cases we solved together. There is no more fun now, now the flat is empty and hollow without you.
Part of me feels like what I want to say is to personal for the public. I've never had a diary, I don't even know how to start it. 'Dear diary?' I'm not twelve.
How about Dear Sherlock?
That seems about right then.
January 27, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I don't know where to begin. Your funeral was yesterday. I almost couldn't go. My feet wouldn't work, my hands were shaking so bad. I had to use my cane to walk yesterday, in fact, I use my cane most days. I'm so lost without you, I wrote a eulogy but I couldn't read it. Lestrade did it for me...I can't do this.
January 31, 2012:
Dear Sherlock,
I've had the dream again. The one where you jump and I can't stop you. Why? Why is this happening to me? Why did you leave me? Why did you lie to me? I know you aren't a fraud, even you can't have that big of an ego.
February 1st, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I sleep in your room now, it stills smells of you. I don't leave the flat anymore. I don't eat, sometimes I don't even leave your bed.
If you were here, you would have found my behavior pathetic and sentimental.
It is.
February 2nd, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Mrs. Hudson pads around in the kitchen most days, I ignores her, feigning sleep. She either buys it or doesn't feel like prying. I don't care anymore. I don't want to feel. Everything hurts.
February 3nd, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Lestrade just came buy, I wouldn't leave your room. I couldn't, I couldn't face him, I can't face what has happened.
I feel as though if I leave, it will make everything real. The world isn't as vibrant without you here.
February 4th, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Your disgusting brother came by today. Stupid git forced me out of the flat. I never thought your brother would be so hands on. Apparently, Greg has done wonders. He made me get out of the flat. I stormed out, I didn't know where to go.
I ended up at your grave. The headstone is really beautiful. I broke down, laying down next to you, crying. You would be so disappointed in how weak I am being.
I hadn't been to your grave yet. I've been avoiding it, I'm sorry. I'm so lost without you and your big head and your experiments and your heads in the fridge and your skull and you.
I feel asleep next to your grave. I woke up back in my bed. Did I mention how much I hate your meddling brother?
February 7, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Lestrade made me go out for a pint, it ended up being six pints. I don't remember getting home or what I said, but now Mycroft has a detail stationed across the street in one of the empty flats.
February 14, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I came to a realization today, on Valentine's day of all days. I love you Sherlock Holmes.
And it took your death for me to admit it and I will never forgive myself
March 4, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
These past two weeks have been a blur of emotions. Guilt and hopelessness, anger and sadness.
I didn't go back to the surgery, I didn't want to be around happy people. I don't talk to Lestrade or your brother anymore. Their relationship tugs on my soul and feeds my loneliness and longing.
I miss you terribly.
March 10, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I can't feel anymore, I can't think. I'm numb, I'm losing a battle with my brain. All I can think about is you. When I try to eat, the image of you falling makes me nauseous, when I attempt to leave your bedroom, I fear that the scent will not be there when I return. So I don't eat and I don't sleep, I sit in bed all day and let my thoughts consume me into a black despair.
March 11, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I came home drunk last night again. Alcohol is the only thing that numbs me.
March 12, 2012 (This passage is extremely disheveled and the words are all scrambled together. John was clearly drunk when writing this passage.)
Dear Sherly.
I just laughed out loud, I miss my laugh, it's non...non... what's the word? Oh well, my laugh, it doesn't happen or exist anymore. I just so lonely now that you are gone. I don't even member getting home. The pub was boring, there weren't any adulterers or murderers So I got drunked. Well that's not the only reason. I got drunk because I can't feel anymore. I can't think. I can't eat.
Alcohol shuts downed my brain. You would hatee it Sherly.
I realised at the pub one thing though, If I could ever see you again, I would tell you I love you.
I need you.
March 14, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Your brother is following me again, tries to stop me from going into the pubs.
Now I just drink, throw up, and then sleep at the flat. I don't have to leave to be self-destructive.
Everyday I get up and repeat. Now I only leave when I need liquor.
March 15, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Harry called today, she yelled at me for being in a drunk stupor. I hung up on the disgusting, interfering hypocrite.
God, I miss you so much.
March 20, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
your sheets are losing your smell. I cried myself to sleep again.
March 24, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
I visited your grave today, you and Mr. Jack Daniels met. Jack liked you.
March 30, 2012. (This entry has visible wet marks all over it, John's tears smudge a couple of words. Sherlock thumbs a finger over every teardrop, adding some of his own to the pages.)
Dear Sherlock,
Fuck you. I hate you so much. Why did you do this to me?
You left me here? You didn't take me with you, you smug bastard. You tricked me.
God, I hate you so much. I just want to see you. I just want to be with you. You left me here. Why?
I know you aren't a fraud, I know that you are an insufferable git, who keeps heads in the fridge.
But you were my insufferable git. Why can't you just come back? Why did you just leave me here?
I'm rotting without you. I'm nothing without you.
I can't do this.
April 9, 2012
Your brother and I had a staring contest today. I don't know who won, I was slightly, if not fully inebriated. I don't remember what he said, I think it was something about my drinking. Now that I think about it I must of won because he left in a huff.
He said that you wouldn't want me to be this way, I replied that you were dead and no longer could control the matter.
For a minute, I let my mind wander to hope, that maybe you were alive, this was all some horrible dream and that at any moment you would walk up the steps and yell at me until I was sober.
Then I faced reality.
April 13, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
Ever since Mycroft's visit and facing reality, I haven't left your bedroom. I haven't eaten, I haven't slept. I've drunk all the bottles in the bedroom.
I'm miserable with you, I wish you were here next to me, hugging me. Kissing me. Making me feel alive again.
April 14, 2012
Dear Sherlock,
My throat is constricting, my brain is shorting out.
I can't do this anymore, I need to be with you, see you, talk to you again.
April 20, 2012
Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sisters, I told her I would be fine and that she didn't need to worry. That lady was always so good to us. We should have given her more credit.
I can't feel. I can't move.. I can't think.
I miss you so much. I love you soo much.
April 23, 2012
Dear Sherlock..
I know this would be disappointing for you if you were alive. I just can't feel anymore. I'm like a shell, you were always the one to say your body is transport.
I think it's time. I started tidying up the flat a little bit today, then I found your deerstalker hat, it had fallen underneath a pile of papers. I sat down and cried. I cried until I could feel my face. Then I started to get angry, I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned, My shoulder started to ache and my leg cramped up, I continued until everything was spotless. Even scrubbing off the smilie face and trying to patch the wall. When I went into the kitchen for the first time since it happened I couldn't breath. I slowly cleaned the appliances and even your microscope. You always liked it when your microscope shined. I made one last cup of tea and then I sat in the middle of the room and cried.
It was in the middle of the sitting room that I made my final decision. I know I need to see you again.
I can't feel all of these emotions anymore, I can't walk out of the flat in fear of seeing something that reminds me of you. I just can't. I can't leave without you, I can't handle this longing. I need to see you. I can't feel this love without you knowing too.
Now I can tell you how much I love you.
I just wish I could tell Mycroft and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and Molly and even Harry how sorry I am. I never really thought I would be one of these people.
But being a doctor does have it's advantage. I can make it quick and efficient.
I just can't wait to see you, even if we are both dead, I just need to tell you that I love you.
I love you Sherlock Holmes, and thanks to everyone.
Love
John Hamish Watson.
The detective's thumb runs over the last written thought. Guilt, hopelessness, agony, turmoil all course through him relentlessly, punishing him for causing John, his John so much pain. Sherlock's eyes seeped salt and wetness. He closes the diary gently, the cover becoming stained with Sherlock's own tears.
The genius's mind is blank. So many emotions are flooding Sherlock he can't think. He needs to do something, to run away from the pain to run away from John's dead corpse just beyond the doors. Sherlock hastily jumps up from his chair and runs down the hallway, runs away from his pain. He doesn't know where he is going, his vision blurred with tears. He feels the cool air of April hit his face suddenly. He rubs his tears away.
St. Barts Rooftop.
The sun is just breaking through the dawn clouds, purple and red streak across the sky with vibrancy. Sherlock just sees gray, the world is know dull.
It's been exactly three months to the day, Sherlock laughs hysterically at the irony.
Guilt flows through him painfully. He caused this, he caused John so much pain that he could handle it. Sherlock's heart clenches with something powerful, an emotion he has only felt once before, he felt it sitting in the bathroom at the flat all those hours ago, as he cradled John in his arms. Love. Sherlock feels love, he feels the turmoil and the agony. The emotions are crippling him. His knees almost buckle under the emotional exhaustion.
He can't live in a world with his blogger, without his John. Sherlock curses himself for not realising it sooner, not realising how much he truly loved the doctor.
He looks down at the leather book, it's writing loud in his mind.
"I love you Sherlock Holmes. It took your death for me to admit it to myself and I will never forgive myself."
"If I could ever see you again, I would tell you I love you."
"I can't do this anymore I need to be with you, see you, talk to you again."
"I can't feel. I can't move. I can't think."
"I just can't wait to see you, even if we are both dead, I just need to tell you that I love you."
"I love you Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock twirls his body maddeningly as the written thoughts swim in his mind. He dips his hands into his pocket, pulls out his mobile and places gently it on the ground beneath him. The detective is on the ledge now. He pulls out a pen he swiped from Molly's desk earlier. He opens up to the last page and write underneath scrawls a last message.
April 25, 2012
Dear John,
I have so much to say, but I'm going to wait until I can say it to you in person. I will see you up there. I love you.
Love
Sherlock.
Mycroft stands in the middle of 221B Baker Street's sitting room, just inside the door jam, breathing in what used to be. The fond memories of John making tea and Sherlock ignoring the elder Holmes in favor of his violin. The room is dark and dusty now, void of anything happy.
Now the world is down two of the most amazing, intellectual, kind, and loveable people it will ever know.
Love caused this tragedy and five people's lives are forever effected.
Harry Watson. Molly Hooper. Mrs. Hudson. Greg Lestrade. Mycroft Holmes.
The deaths of John Hamish Watson, the doctor and Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective will cause insufferable and prolonged turmoil, however, nobody will blame the two, no one will ever blame the detective and his doctor for loving each other with such deep passion.
There will be a death. Harriet Watson fell off the wagon hard and into the Thames.
There will be a marriage. Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes's eyes were opened to the depth of the love that took away two most important people away from them. They needed happiness, they need good in the world, they needed each other.
There will be a relocation. Mrs. Hudson couldn't stand the quiet of the flat anymore, she missed her family. She moved from Baker Street, far away to escape her own agony and love for the two boys she cared deeply for.
Baker Street remains bought and paid for by Mycroft Holmes. The Holmes's brothers have never been one for sentiment but it takes the catalyst of a doctor's death to cause both of the brothers to feel something, to experience emotions and act upon them. So Mycroft keeps the flat, he keeps it for the doctor and the memories of his brother. He owes the doctor, his owes the doctor for his happiness for his marriage. For everything.
John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Holmes together for ever now.
I kind of hate myself for how sad this story is.
I might go and eat a tub of ice cream to make me feel better.