"John," rang out the familiar voice that had only survived in his memories. John spun his head around to find that the source was his former companion, looking gaunt and miserable. He stepped toward the unforgettable silhouette of Sherlock, leaning against the kitchen wall.
"Sherl-" he began, his voice wavering.
"Please don't. I just need you to listen, John. Can you do that?" John answered with a nod and he continued, "My entire life, I have been tormented for being the way that I am. At times, I have been so alone and so scared, that I thought I was out of options. I was fresh out of school when I started using. I began taking cases, and I invested all of my time and emotions into my work and drugs. So much that I ended up building a wall around myself. After my fourth overdose, Mycroft forced me to move into 221B, with the exception that I had to find a flatmate. I thought it was ridiculous, of course. Who would want to share a flat with me?" He paused, while John let out a dry laugh.
"And then I met you. I expected you to be appalled by me, to call me a freak, but you didn't. You called me amazing and fantastic. In my moment of shock, my wall crumbled a bit, allowing you to climb over. I let you become my friend, and I am so sorry for that, John. When I realised that Moriarty would use you against me, I regretted ever letting you in. That was when I knew that Sherlock Holmes would have to die. When I was standing on that rooftop, listening to him explaining that it was either my life or those of all my friends, it was your face that came to mind. And, in that moment, John, I knew that I loved you. I love you more than the sun loves the stars; more than is humanly possible." The detective's normally stony expression had been replaced by one of true despair. Tears openly fell, painting the crinkled, white canvas that was his face.
"And even though I knew that you would never feel the same way, I was willing to disappear for you. If I knew that it wouldn't break you, I would actually die for you. I would die for you a million times over, John. The only thing that kept me alive was the thought that I needed to apologize to you. For all of the danger and sorrow I have given you in the years. I know you would have been much better off if you had never come to meet me at the morgue that day. Now, I expect you to make me leave, and I will. I will make it so that you never see or hear of me again, because I was so alone and I owe you so much," he finished, quoting John's words from his funeral.
"How could you-" John began shaking his head.
"John, please."
"Let me finish. How could your beautiful, genius mind think that I could possibly be happy without you? How is it that you think I could make you leave after a speech like that?" he asked, striding across the room until he was right in front of the tall, raven-haired man.
"I was kind of hoping you wouldn't."
"How could think that I don't love you?" Their gazes connected, and the space between them got gradually smaller. "Oh, Sherlock Holmes, you are never leaving my sight again."
"John Watson, I would give you everything."
"Please do," whispered John, as their lips connected in a kiss so passionate, it could move worlds.