London had collapsed. Very few human settlements were left untouched. It was London, however, that took the greatest hit. Perhaps it was because of the royal family? Or, maybe because it was because of the large human population? Many of the survivors still wondered about this long after the attack. No one knew the real reason.
In the midst of the totaled streets of London, there was a box. A 1960's police box, painted a dark blue that had faded over time. It stood, vacant, dead–its lights had dimmed, the lamp perched atop the box's crown did not blink. Survivors who dared step foot in London often passed it without much notice; it hadn't been the weirdest thing they had ever seen. A police box, so what? What could be so grand about a rickety, old, blue box? It had no purpose.
Didn't it?
It was heartbreaking that no one remembered the police box. How it stood there, forgotten and abandoned. Did no one remember the great man who once piloted this great box? Did no one remember the Doctor?
No. It had been years since anyone had even spoken his name.
For inside the TARDIS, there was a man. A host of a man, a husk of what once was. His body did not decompose as one would when exposed to the elements, for the TARDIS had one last purpose. She was to preserve her beloved Doctor, just as she had done for the past thousands of years.
He wore a tweed suit, now dusty and stiff. He lay starfished on the ground, his clothes fading as time went by. His green eyes, usually so bright and brimming with energy, stared lifelessly up at the ceiling of his TARDIS. His little red bow tie was left askew but drooping, one of his red suspenders snapped. His shoes were not polished, his skin sallow and ghoulishly pale. The only thing that remained of Earth's beloved Doctor was his impish smile.
His smile of relief.
The Doctor wasn't the only one to fall to this fate. Many others had died in the explosion, the poison that wiped out nearly all of Earth. Hell's wrath ascended unto Earth like Heaven's; only slower, more painful. Life did not just end with a blinding flash of light.
Life suffered, first.
Somewhere in London, in a crumbling brick building with brass numbers on the door, two bodies lay in a flat. Upstairs, in the sitting room, arms entwined as they lay on the sofa. They were cringing away from the blown-in window as the explosion and its poison seeped inward, slowly killing them. The larger body was on top, a mop of brown-black hair covering oceanic eyes that were open, staring into the eyes of the man beneath him.
A word was left on his lips, almost formed but not quite spoken. Always.
Sherlock Holmes protected his John Watson until the very end, their love not quite spoken and yet always there. And John said it, right as the explosion hit, right when everything went to shit. John mouthed it, kissed Sherlock for the final time with it still on his lips. I love you.
Crash. I love you, too. Always.
Sherlock and John made sure their loved ones survived. Even now, Mrs. Hudson was chiding Greg Lestrade gently, telling him to dry his eyes. "They wouldn't want us to linger, dear," she'd say in a choked voice. She couldn't blame Greg. She, too, sobbed in the middle of the night, just wanting to hear her boys' voices again. She longed to feel John's strong hug, hear Sherlock's sharp but affectionate voice, feel the occasional (but not unpleasant) kiss on her forehead. Secretly, she loved caring for the boys, even if she did tell them more than once that she was their landlady, not their housekeeper.
Molly was one of the worst affected, the way she leaned on Greg and sobbed with him. When the sun went down in the distance behind their grimy settlement, she'd tell him, ask him, "Did you say goodbye, Greg? I didn't. I didn't even get to say goodbye."
Mycroft Holmes continued to work for the scattered and broken government, but he was not distant anymore. He stayed with Mrs. Hudson and told her stories of his and Sherlock's childhood, recalling the beautiful moments and sparing her the ugly details. He'd tell her with a smile that he knew Sherlock and John were meant for each other. Because, "who else but a brave and damaged little soldier could love such a raving lunatic?"
They all lived in a small settlement in America, now. They had finally decided to stay in a state called South Dakota, living underground near a city called Sioux Falls. Humans were usually trafficked if they weren't killed, and the few that were lucky enough to still be free had found hiding places all over the world. America was the place where they could hide, since London was the central target.
They had no idea they were staying in a continuation of a panic room built by none other than the man Bobby Singer, a hunter who gave his life to save two of the most important men in the world; the men who even the Doctor would meet with a grim face and a respectful tone, the men who even Sherlock Holmes would nod at admiringly.
The Winchesters met their fate that doomsday, as well. Lost their lives in battle against Crowley and his demons, protecting each other until the very end.
Sam Winchester was buried in a mass grave at the edge of a small town called Lawrence in Kansas. He had died valiantly, saving a small girl from a demon. He had sliced the demon's head clean off, startling the little girl but saving her. He shouted at her to run and she did, running fast and far until she collapsed, heaving for breath inside a run-down motel.
Sam Winchester's neck was snapped just after that, a demon who was once called Yellow-Eyes sneaking up behind him and twisting it. The last words he heard was "Nice to see you again, Sam."
Sammy never got that apple-pie life he and Dean had argued over. He never saw Amelia again, and didn't have another lover.
After that day, the little girl woke up with something heavy in her heart. She told stories of the man who saved her, the one with the long hair and the grip like iron, the man with eyes as green as emerald and the voice of a thousand lions roaring. The man who had saved her.
Even as she died protecting the group she had found, three years after Sam's death, she remembered him. She thought of him as she was stabbed through the heart.
Dean Winchester, Sam's older brother, mowed down demons with an angel by his side. He used his first-ever sawed-off shotgun, the one he had made when he was in sixth grade. His angel, Castiel, sliced through demons with his shining seraph blade, fighting only to protect the human he had been charged with. Humanity was in danger, yes, but Castiel's mind was only on one person during this fight. The man he loved, the man he wanted to spend eternity with; the man he Fell for, in all ways possible. Dean didn't know this until the very end, when both of them lay in the street, their last view of the mortal world each other's eyes.
When emerald met sapphire, the view was the most spectacular. Slowly, carefully, their mangled hands found each other, intertwining with their last strength.
It'll all be okay, Cas. I swear, we'll get through this.
I know, Dean. I've always known.
Cas...
Hush, now. Remember, Dean... Angels will always be watching over you... I will see you soon.
Heroes and kings alike will never be forgotten. The little girl told stories about her Winchester, and witnesses watched the death of an angel and his beloved and told of the love they saw there. Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes will never forget Sherlock Holmes and his soldier, John Watson, who were strong 'til the very end. Even the Doctor, a mere fable, was told to little children to help them sleep at night. No one would ever harm them while the Doctor was there, oh no.
But as time went by, their absence was prominent. Death was in high numbers, destruction was everywhere. Life suffered.
Because, truly... who could ever live without their heroes?
The lives of kings are ever short,
their flames burning low against the brilliance of a setting sun.
The lives of kings are ever great,
but those who mourn truly are ever so small.
The lives of kings are ever legendary,
and yet no one tells their tales.