Guys, guys before you ask for one, I'm just gonna tell you straight up. Update's not happening. Sorry, some things are meant to just be left as they are.

For once, Sherlock doesn't suspect anything. After all this time, after all that we've been through, I guess you could say I learned one lesson of extreme importance from him: I learned how to lie to Sherlock Holmes.

I got the call yesterday night. The call from Sebastian Moran, to be more specific. The conversation went more or less like this:

Me: Hello?

Moran: Hello, John Watson.

Me: Yeah, who is this?

Moran: Always so blunt, John. I was hoping to chat a little.

Me: Who are you?

Moran: Sebastian Moran. You might've heard of me, I was Jim Moriarty's… best man, shall we say.

Me: Oh… and what is it that you want from me, Moran?

Moran: This is more of a… a courtesy, if you would like to call it that. I'm just calling to warn you of your death.

Me: Wh-

Moran: John, dear John, don't argue. Actually, don't say a word. Listen. Tomorrow, you're going to die. I took the liberty of arranging everything for you. No need to thank me. At 10 o'clock tomorrow night, you are going to leave your flat under the pretense that you are going on a date. Sherlock won't say anything, it's not like this is abnormal for you. When you leave the flat, you're going to go straight to the rooftop of St. Barts and stand at the very spot that you saw Sherlock standing the day he jumped. And at exactly 11 o'clock, a red dot is going to appear on your forehead. You will not scream, you will not make a sound. You will stay quiet and calm and you'll barely even notice that a bullet has entered your brain. You will walk to your own death, John Watson, and you will do it with dignity and purpose.

Me: And why… why would I, in any realm of imagination, decide to follow your instructions?

At that point, he sent me a photo. It was taken from across the street of our flat. Sherlock was reading, completely oblivious to the person across the street with the fancy camera and, from what I could see, the fancy gun. All I saw was the barrel, but I'm a military man. I know a real gun when I see one.

Moran: If you don't die, he will. Incentive enough?

Me: You really think that I would die to save Sherlock Holmes?

Moran: I was watching you when you thought he was dead. I think you'd gladly die before you ever allowed yourself to be in such pain again.

Me: -Silence-

Moran: You and I both know, John, that he'll be okay without you. He's always okay. You conduct his genius in a most spectacular manner, and sometimes I'd guess that he may even love you a little, but he'll go on when you're gone as he always does. He doesn't need you. But you… I'm not so sure about you. I think we're both very aware of how much you need him. You'll be alright without him, I'm sure. You'll eat, you'll sleep when it's totally necessary, you'll even go on dates and fuck women and all that, but you'll never be alright ever again. You've already acknowledge that he's more to you. More than someone to help pay the rent, more than a friend. He's changed you, John Watson, and I think – no, I know – that you'd much rather die than go back to the way it was before.

Me: Okay… okay. Alright. You've made your point. Just tell me one more thing, Moran. Why are you doing this?

Moran: Oh, I lost my best man, John. Sherlock stole him from me. I think it's about time that I stole something equally important from him.

Me: You evil, twisted-

Moran: Save the insults, Watson. I'll see you tomorrow night.

Me: -Silence-

Moran: One word to Sherlock and he's dead. We'll be watching. Remember that.

And then he hung up. Just like that. The conversation couldn't've been longer than ten minutes.

When it was over, I offered a sincere apology to Mike for leaving so early and went home immediately. Sherlock was already asleep, draped over the couch in that ratty blue robe of his and snoring ever so slightly. By my estimate, that was the first time he had slept in over 72 hours.

Without really thinking about it, I dragged a sheet over him before heading upstairs, lying down and staring at the ceiling until the sky started to brighten again.

Right now, it's 9:30 at night.

T-minus 30 minutes.

I need more time.

Sherlock's sitting quietly at his computer and for some strange reason I want to say all these things but they cling to my tongue and I eventually give up on last words. I can tell that he's completely unaware of any plans that I may have. His shoulders are, for once, sagging softly and relaxed and his fingers are tapping a quiet rhythm onto the desk. His eyes have lost that look of hungry determination and are quiet and content; an expression I have long likened to one of an addict coming down from a particularly satisfying high or a person basking in post-coital bliss. This was as close to at peace as Sherlock Holmes will ever be and I can't bring myself to disturb him with my stupid sentiment or whatever.

Dammit, Sherlock. What the hell have you done to me to make it so easy to die for you?

T-minus 22 minutes.

He looks up to find me staring at him. I'm not sure what he sees in my face but it catches his attention and he is automatically turning towards me.

No. Oh, please, Sherlock please don't question me I'm begging you please please please just go back and be at peace and don't let me ruin it for you.

"You look bothered."

"Wow, you're… you're actually noticing my emotional state. Proud of you, Sherlock."

Act normal, Watson.

You're never going to hear that voice again.

"Is there a problem?"

He speaks slowly, as if he's unsure of what to do. It almost makes me smile.

"No, no. Just nervous for my date, y'know?"

It's much too easy to lie to him. It's much too easy to be able to act like everything is so alright when it couldn't be more fucked up.

He smirks and turns his gaze back to the screen.

"Well you should be if you're planning on wearing that shirt."

And even when it doesn't really matter, a mixture of alarm and indignation rise in my belly. A reaction that's become habit around him, I guess.

"What?" I glance down at my shirt. It's a nice shirt. Don't insult the clothes I'm going to die in.

"You wore that shirt a couple nights ago and got a ketchup stain on the collar. I doubt you got around to washing it since then."

He's still smirking. Snarky bastard.

With a great sigh, I heave myself out of my armchair and trudge upstairs to find an acceptable shirt for the occasion. It's harder than it sounds, really.

T-minus 14 minutes.

When I come back downstairs he's put the computer away and has his eyes fixed on the telly. I sit down across from him and try to pay attention to the shitty game show he's watching.

I give up. Try to pick up a book. Give up on that too. Might as well stare absently out the window.

See, the thing is, I never doubted my willingness to die for him. It wasn't a question, wasn't a hypothesis that was carelessly tossed into the universe for the unlikely event that it would be proved or disproved. It was fact. I would throw away my entire life for this man because I don't know. I don't know if it's because I have no one except for him or because his existence is clearly more beneficial to the world. I know that, if I were to be given a choice between me and him for who gets to remain in this beautiful world, I would choose him in a heartbeat. And it's not that I don't love the world. I love it more than anyone will ever know but it's not half as beautiful without him to deduce the shit out of everything and everyone. It's not as beautiful without his godamn billowy Belstaff or his puzzles or his little leather portable chemistry set.

I can live without Sherlock Holmes. I just know that I don't want to.

T-minus 4 minutes.

I can feel him staring at the back of my head and I want to whip around and hold his gaze and say something… anything.

In Afghanistan, my supposed last words were absolute shit.

"Oh, God please don't kill me."

After that, I decided that my actual last words would be worth remembering. But the moment came and there's nothing left to say.

T-minus 1 minute.

I reach for my coat and my hands don't shake. My mind's clearer than it should be.

I need more time oh please god don't let me walk through that door. Oh please don't let me go I want to stay I want to stay I WANT TO STAY.

"I guess I'll be off then. Don't wait up."

"Do I ever?"

"I wouldn't define staying up all night measuring the rate of bacteria growth in an infected wound waiting up, but it'd be nice if you were asleep when I come home."

His lips twitch a little and it might've been a smile.

"I'll try."

I've got a hand on the doorknob and my throat is unnaturally tight.

I can't. I can't go.

"Sherlock…"

He looks up and cocks an eyebrow. It must have been something in my voice that makes his gaze radiate with some sort of intensity I only saw when he was on the case.

"What-" I falter for a second but pretenses don't matter anymore. He can't stop me. Not now. "What would you do if I were to die today?"

And it's as if something in his face collapses and all his sharp edges are gone. He's sad. He's slightly clouded over and he's tired.

"John, I'd die tomorrow."

And with that, I am out the door and he turns his eyes back to the telly.

I am walking fast and in a cab just when the tears hit in waves and tsunamis and avalanches and they pound at my chest until breathing is not an option anymore.

It's raining just a little, but still a warm June evening. The door to St. Barts is unlocked. The door to the roof is unlocked.

10:53pm.

I do not fear death. I just need more time.

10:55pm.

Would he go on solving crimes? Would he find another flatmate?

10:58pm.

Would he cry at my funeral? Would he even attend?

11:00pm.

The red dot appears. Close eyes. Wait.

Sherlock Holmes, I wish you a lifetime of happiness.