'For how long?'

'Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong.'

'And then what?'

Sherlock wants to tell him, has to tell him. He feels like he'll suffocate if he doesn't tell him, like he physically can't breathe if John doesn't know that this is the last time they will ever speak, that this is what the game comes down to, in the end. But he can't, he won't.

He doesn't want to see the look on John's face.

'Who knows?' He wants to be glib but he can feel pinpricks behind his eyes and a juddering in his chest that won't go away. Sherlock breathes in, feels the air catching in his throat, clawing at his oesophagus as it makes its way down. He wants to cry. He actually wants to cry, and that just upsets him more, he feels childish. Stupid. Sentimental. It's ridiculous.

John's looking at him, and glancing away, and then back up at him and Sherlock aches, physically aches, in a way he'd never felt before he met John. It had confused him at first; it might have scared him even, if he were in the habit of being afraid. But now he's come to associate this feeling with everything that is John, that tugging in his stomach, the tightening of his chest, the ineffable clawing sensation that makes him feel like he can't breathe in the most wonderful way possible. He'd never expected to, he'd never even believed he could, care this much.

It hurts.

It hurts because he didn't have friends and he certainly didn't… god he can't even say it internally. He certainly didn't feel this way about anyone, not until now. He never thought he would, and now for the first time in his life he does. He cares so desperately and so deeply that he can barely even remember what it was like before this, before John.

He doesn't understand beauty, or sentiment, or love. Except he does, he really, really does and it's destroying him from the inside out , raging through his veins like the fire drugs could never quite ignite, clouding his mind, weakening him, and he doesn't even care.

Human error.

'John, there's something… I should say, I meant to say always and I never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.' This is it. His skin thrums with anticipation and terror, his fists clench, preparing for an attack that's never going to come. Confusion flickers across John's face, like a candle that's clinging to life, but he watches Sherlock just as he always has, expectant.

Sherlock can't breathe; there is oxygen is passing his lips but somehow it's getting lost along the way. Blood pounds in his ears, and he can feel his pulse in his fingertips. Every sense is heightened, but it all comes down to one thing: John.

Everything hurts: the face Sherlock has memorised so many times smiling unsurely up at him, breaking his heart, the sound of John's breathing too loud against Sherlock's oversensitive ears, the feel of this thing between them, infallible and intangible, breathing hard and heavy against Sherlock's chest. All of it blazes through his body, inciting something deep within in him that blisters just beneath his skin.

He breathes in, and out, and then in again once more before the words come tumbling out of his mouth, spilling, overflowing, cascading in one breath held for far too long.

'I love you.'

Every part of his body slumps, the weight suddenly lifted off his chest, arms springing free from a straitjacket as all the oxygen rushes to his head. He hadn't realised how long he'd kept the words hidden just behind his teeth, a whisper on a breath released too late. He'd never said them, even to himself, not out loud, not in anything other than dreams or half-sober stupors. It's a relief (terrifying, but a relief) to see them bloom in the air, hang from the corners of John's confused eyes, drape themselves over both of their strung out bodies.

The words are clear even though his mouth is dry, his throat screaming and his head numb with too many feelings he's unequipped to deal with. They ring in his ears long after they've dissipated into oblivion. Suddenly there's too much oxygen. He can't breathe. John blinks.

'I'm sorry what? What did you say?'

'I… love you.' He repeats, feeling his skin crawl from the unfamiliarity of vulnerability. It is as if he has finally turned down the collar, slipped off the coat with a flourish and bared his soul to the world, raw and ready for the taking.

It would almost be comical to watch John's eyes widen and his mouth gape, if it weren't so heartbreaking. Sherlock feels exposed, watched, there's a reason he never lays his heart on the line. A terrifying rush of adrenaline courses through his veins, ebbing away all the numbness that had once resided there, only he's not sure whether he'd rather have fire or ice. John blinks again.

'I don't understand, I don't- are you joking? You're not serious.'

Sherlock laughs, humourlessly, to disguise the sound of his heart wrenching itself from its cage, and falling, lifeless, somewhere between his feet.

'I'm afraid not, John. When I first met you, I thought myself almost incapable of emotion, I didn't feel, I didn't want to, and… when the time came, I didn't understand. But as it turns out, you are my pressure point, you are the strongest, bravest, wisest man I have ever known, and I am in love with you. I never expressed these sentiments before because I never knew what to do with them, and I knew that you would never return my feelings, and that was okay because I'm abhorrent and obnoxious and terrible to share a flat with, let alone a life. Who'd want me? It's alright, John, I just didn't want to leave without admitting it, both to you and myself, and I wanted you to know, how deeply you are cared for.'

'You…love…me?' The words don't sound right coming out of John's mouth, they're slow and disjointed, tinged with disbelief. It's not what Sherlock expected. Then again he hadn't known what to expect, sometimes people are so easy to read, and other times he has no idea what goes on in their funny little heads. People are messy, irrational, unpredictable, it makes him ache.

'Yes.' His gaze is unwavering , eyes searching John's: looking for something, anything, not reciprocation but something, understanding? Acknowledgment? He doesn't know. 'For quite some time now. I probably should have told you but, well, it never seemed relevant, and I've never been good at expressing emotion, and besides, what would have been the point? You're married, you-'

'Not relevant? Not- SHERLOCK! Why are you telling me this now?' John is like a gun fired too late, an explosion after the enemy is already down. He's not angry or upset, or even flattered, he's confused. That just seems to make everything worse.

'Because it became relevant.'

'It became- Jesus.' John doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to react and all of a sudden Sherlock wishes he could have done this any other way, sooner, or later, or some other time when this wasn't so hurried and his own imminent death wasn't hanging over them, not that John knows that of course, but still, Sherlock's fucked everything up.

'I'm sorry.' Sherlock's trying so hard not to cry, not to be so human. He can't remember the last time he cried.

'What? No, why are you sorry?'

'Are you not mad? I thought you'd be angry. You are married after all, and this is a lot to take in, and I'm leaving, possibly to never return.'

'Sherlock I'm not-' John's face softens and he smiles wryly, almost mocking. It's reassuring, Sherlock supposes it's meant to be. 'I've been angrier with you than I have been with anything else in life, I've lost nights cursing your bloody name and all the insane things you do, but if I can promise you one thing, it's that I'm not angry with you now.'

'Thank you.' It's almost a whisper, Sherlock isn't sure if he wants to say it and John isn't sure if he wants to hear it, so they both let it die in the air, hovering lost like a phantom in their ears. 'I never felt the need to say it before but this is likely to be the last time I see you, John, and I didn't want to leave without saying the words that I have so desperately wanted to say.'

They stare, cautious and resolute, at each other until John can't take the open look on Sherlock's face anymore, can't stand being able to read every thought on a face that had for so long been an enigma, and drops his eyes. Sherlock doesn't make a sound. All the times John had wished he could read Sherlock's thoughts and the one time he can it just about kills him.

'Sherlock, I-'

'Mr. Holmes, the plane is waiting.' Whatever John was about to say is cut off by the cold voice of the guard who had been standing beside Mycroft only moments ago. Sherlock nods once, not looking at him, eyes still trained on John. He smiles sadly to himself, no more than a twitch of his lips, before he meets John Watson's eyes for the very last time.

'Goodbye, John.'

'No, Sherlock, I'm not done. Can't we just have five more minutes?' John turns to the security officer, frantic and pleading. 'Just a few more minutes that's all I need.' He's practically begging, his voice strangled and wild, his eyes desperate as they search the man's for some sign of remorse.

'The plane is about to leave.' The man's voice is clipped and unwavering, his expression cold and demeaning. John opens his mouth, ready to yell that he doesn't care about the bloody plane. He'll punch his way out of this conversation if he has to, take whatever repercussions come so long as he can say something to Sherlock. Anything.

But Sherlock's already gone, faded into the air like a wisp of smoke and all John has left is this gaping expanse of nothing in front of him, this cold void that rages with Sherlock's absence. The other man is already halfway up the plane's staircase by now, his back turned to John and his coat billowing in the wind.

'Sherlock wait- NO- SHERLOCK!' John's voice pierces the air, more sure than he has been all day, just a few more minutes, he can't let Sherlock leave like this, not without speaking to him, not without fixing this. Nothing is more clear than the pounding in his chest, the shrieking in his head that he has to stop Sherlock getting on the plane right this second.

'Goodbye John.' Sherlock turns, hand hovering precariously at the door to the plane. He smiles once at John but it doesn't meet his eyes. John can't even look at them, he's afraid of what he'll see there.

And then Sherlock is gone, enveloped by the heavy, industrial vastness of the door, swallowed up by a plane too big for a single passenger, ready to be taken from John forever. And John is screaming, shouting and spitting like a man deranged, his eyes cloudy with tears he can't comprehend as he cries Sherlock's name and struggles against Mycroft and Mary's arms.

'Sherlock!'

Thank you for reading, title from the song of the same name by The Smiths. Beta'd by .com