Mrs. Hudson had gone. Mycroft had gone. Lestrade had gone. And now his beloved John was going too. Sherlock clutched a yellowed newspaper, inching his way towards the room John resided in. Down the dim corridor he went, his cane thumping on the plush carpet. He reached the door that bore a brass 121, shifted his weight and the newspaper in order to knock on the heavy oaken door.
"Come In," a sweet female voice called from the other side.
Sherlock turned the doorknob, and went into the wide drafty room.
"Sherlock, dear, thank you for coming. He's been asking for you," Molly Hooper-Watson greeted him with a smile. His never changing icy gaze locked with hers, and he noticed the smile did not reach her eyes. Her face was care worn, her long, curly, salt-and-pepper hair was tied back into a messy bun. And although it was a sad smile, it was still as beautiful as it had been 40 years ago. Molly finally broke under his inquisitive gaze (she'd known Sherlock for 45 years, and was still not quite used to his deep, deductive mind).
"Do you want to see him?" she asked, breaking eye contact.
"Yes," Sherlock heard his own voice creak out from nonuse.
He rarely talked after John had left 221b Baker Street for the nursing home. Much of Sherlock's time was spent reading. Old posts from John's blog, case files, the entirety of the Harry Potter series (he would never forgive John for giving him the Potter bug), and things of that sort. Numerous times, he had tried to play his violin, but eventually his arthritis made it unbearable.
Mostly, he reminisced about the old days. Back then, he would have scoffed at the very idea of reminiscing and lingering in the past, but he found it amusing how things could change so quickly. Sherlock thought back to the time he was about to take that bloody pill from the cab driver, and in the same instant, a lone bullet lodged itself into that driver's shoulder. The good Dr. Watson he'd met only 2 days before, risked his own life and took another, in order to save his new-found friend's life. It was from that moment on, Sherlock had decided that whenever John didn't say where he was going, he would take it upon himself to follow and make sure his good doctor was safe.
Sherlock also thought of a time he'd been harassed, because he hadn't known the planets in the solar system. He chuckled, remembering how he'd picked up an encyclopedia, and memorized those planets as if his life had depended on it. He'd slammed the book shut, and waltzed over to John, a smug look plastered on his face.
"Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto."
John looked up into the proud face of the consulting detective. His consulting detective.
"Very good. Fantastic, Sherlock. Who's the Prime Minister?"
Sherlock's mouth gaped, and then his face twisted with frustration. He turned to go sulk on the sofa. Then he'd felt a solid hand wrap around his wrist.
"Oi…good work mate." John said, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze before going back to typing. A self-satisfactory grin spread over Sherlock's face.
"Sherlock, hello?" Molly asked, looking a little concerned. His mind returned to 2053, his eyes scanning the room around him. "Are you feeling ok?"
He only nodded, making his way round her, into John's bedroom. The door creaked open, and Sherlock peeked his head in. There lay the good doctor, fast asleep in a single bed.
"Molly, would you mind leaving me alone with him?" he looked back at her.
"Of course, Sherlock. Take whatever time you need."
He flashed her a grateful smile, limped into the room, and shut the door behind him. The buzz of an oxygen tank, and the beep of a heart monitor filled the room. Sherlock inched his way to the chair Molly had left next to John's bed. For 15 minutes, he just sat looking into the face of the man who had saved him in more ways than one. Then, he pulled out the newspaper he'd tucked under his arm. Hat-Man and Robin: The Web Detectives the headline yelled from the paper.
Sherlock looked down at the picture that immortalized their young faces forever. He kissed the paper once, rolled it up, and slid it under John's pillow. Then without second thought, he took John's frail hand into his own, and leaned in to whisper into his best friend's ear.
"David Cameron was the Prime Minister."
He pulled back to look into John's weathered face. The doctor let out a sigh, and slowly his eyes opened. The corners of his mouth turned up into a good-natured smile. He turned his hand to weave the consulting detective's fingers with his.
"Good work mate," his small voice said. Sherlock grinned, a small lump forming in his throat. "I was wondering when you were going to turn up," John continued, feeling more awake now.
"When I was confident I had the words to say." Sherlock answered. John looked surprised.
"Oh really. And do you have the words to say now?" he asked, slightly amused.
"It would appear so. But bear with me, John, if you remember sentiment isn't exactly my cuppa."
John pursed his lips in the same bewildered fashion he'd been doing all his life, and nodded.
"Very well, Sherlock. Let's have it."
Sherlock took a deep breath and began.
"There are so many things that went unsaid in the 43 years, 264 days, 24 minutes, and 36 seconds I've known you John, and I've felt like a fool that entire time. A fool… and a coward because I didn't have the guts to tell you how I really felt."
A silent tear slipped down Sherlock's cheek, but he didn't bother wiping it away. John listened intently, his sapphire gaze locked onto Sherlock's icy blue. Their hands were still linked together. Sherlock began again.
"Throughout my life, I've considered myself married to my work. The game had to constantly be on, or my mind tore itself apart. But after Mary died, and you married Molly, all of that changed. I realized how I should have been the one picking up the pieces, not Molly. I buried myself into a case, and she was there to help you to bury your sorrow. Never in my life I would think to say this but…I envy her, John. That she has your heart."
Sherlock's tears were flowing steadily now, his voice had begun to waver. John's eyes fluttered shut while trying to compose himself.
"I…I love you, John. Please forgive me, for being the annoying dick that I was all the time."
He bent his head, awaiting the doctor's response. John raised his shaking hand from Sherlock's, and used his thumb to wipe away Sherlock's tears.
"Sherlock. Yes indeed, you were an annoying dick." He chuckled. "And Molly may have my heart. But you, Sherlock Holmes, are my soul. Many times over, you are the reason that I am alive, and I will never forget that. God bless that Mike Stanford. All I expected was a flatmate, not my soulmate." John trailed off, his eyes closing again.
"You really think I have a soul?" Sherlock asked.
John nodded.
"That, and the biggest heart this side of the Atlantic…except you keep it encased in lead."
Sherlock smiled through his tears. John grasped his hand again.
"I love you too, Sherlock. Always have, always will."
The consulting detective layed his head on the doctor's chest, listening to the fragile heartbeat. The beeping of the heart monitor began to slow.
"John. Don't go where I can't follow." Sherlock whispered.
"Always have…always will." The words slipped out of Dr. Watson, along with his last breath.