"...an affair with his wife's best friend..." Amelia had been working here for three years, and hearing the ex-detective and his best friend's conversations still made her smile. It had taken a bit of time to get used to the man shouting random observations when she came to check on them, but now she didn't mind. Sherlock Holmes was not about to let his old age get in the way of his work, though things were slipping through the cracks. Most of the time the man was spot on, others he would begin, speaking so fast you had to strain to understand, and abruptly he would stop, losing track of what he had been saying. He would immediately look towards his companion, Dr. John Watson, with an expression that could break your heart, an expression that begged "Help me".
John would just smile and remind his friend of where he had left off, and then Sherlock would be going again as if nothing had happened.
It truly was touching to watch the two men together. If you didn't know better, you would believe the pair were brothers. They depended on and trusted each other like they did no one else, an impenetrable bond that had suffered the test of time and trial and had come out even stronger than before. The other man was both men's top priority. If one wasn't happy, the other was certainly not happy.
The two thought about their glory days quite a bit. They could talkabout the old days for hours, their eyes lighting up as they told stories to each other, quoting them back as if they were reliving the moments. Some had them reeling with laughter, others were more solemn. Amelia eventually figured out after hearing random chunks of memories that Sherlock had left John for a time. They never talked about how or why in front of other people, which, unfortunately frustrated Amelia to no end.
"I did it for you, you know."
"I know you did. Just don't do it again." John's eyes would fill with sadness and a kind of desperation, seizing his friend's arm. "Promise me you won't leave me again."
"Never again," Sherlock promised, determination coloring his features. "I will always stay with you. Until the end."
"Good." John would relax visibly, the grip on Sherlock's arm loosening, but not releasing completely. They had this same conversation several times, and each time Amelia's heart would break.
One day during mealtime, John collapsed, his tray and food crashing to the floor, his limp body slumped against Sherlock. The man seemed at a loss of what to do besides shout John's name. Amelia and a few other nurses carried John away from the distraught man, who was just now collecting his senses and shouting instructions after them. The remaining nurses in the room were left to try to calm him down.
#
John Watson was deathly ill. Amelia didn't see Sherlock Holmes in the commons anymore with the other residents. He spent his time by the bedside of his best friend, who was slipping away fast. He told John stories and thoughts about the old days.
...all I said was 'good shot', but I was very impressed that night, I really was. I had never been impressed by somebody else before. It was amazing. Just like you would say..."
John would often be too weak to respond, but it was obvious he was happy his friend was there helping him through his pain. As the days wore on, he spent most of his time unconscious, but Sherlock never left, never stopped talking. John would wake at random times, not seeming to know what was going on. He would sit up suddenly, crying out, often yelling for Sherlock, looking around wildly until he found him, made sure he was safe.
"It's alright, John, I'm here," Sherlock would say, gripping his friend's hand. "I will always stay with you." These words would always comfort the older man, who would lay back in his bed, mumbling "Good" as he fell back into unconsciousness, his hand still tightly squeezing Sherlock's.
One day, John was able to stay awake, but this wasn't entirely a good sign. The doctors and nurses knew that this would be the ex-doctor's final burst of strength. Sherlock and John seemed to know it too, talking rapidly without stopping, taking this last opportunity at a real conversation together.
As night arrived, the nurses began preparation, this would be John Watson's last night. They meant to tell Sherlock, but Amelia could tell the detective already knew.
"Thank you. Thank you." Sherlock said to John. Tears filled his eyes and he was unable to speak. It didn't matter, the men had ways of speaking that didn't always involve words. Sherlock sometimes had trouble clearly expressing emotions, and from this John had learned to not only see, but observe.
"Heaven knows the man I would have become if I had never met you, John. Where would I be without you?"
John reached for Sherlock's hand then, their old, wrinkled fingers lacing together.
"You're welcome, Sherlock. Thank you for staying." He coughed and wheezed for a painful minute, and Sherlock knew.
"It hurts, Sherlock..."
"I know, John, I'm here." He said, gently squeezing.
A painful whimper escaped John's lips, squeezing Sherlock's hand with what little strength he had.
"I'll stay with you," Sherlock promised again.
A moment's silence, then Sherlock spoke again, tears streaming down his face. "I love you, John."
A smile spread across John's face. "I love you, Sherlock."
John stared intently at Sherlock for a moment, as if drinking in the sight of his friend, and Sherlock looked back, showing that he wasn't going to leave.
"Good night, Sherlock."
"Good night, John. Sleep well."
Moments later, John slipped away, his last memory Sherlock's face, and the echo of his friend's kept promise.
"I'll stay with you until the end."
"I love you."
#
Sherlock couldn't let go.
Amelia found him, holding on to John, sobbing into their interlaced fingers.
"He's gone, Mr. Holmes. You need to let go."
"I don't want to!" The man gasped. "I. Don't. Want. To!"
Amelia tried to coax him gently, but that seemed to make him more upset. He had his friend's hand locked in an iron grip, clearly with no intention of releasing it any time soon.
"Mr. Holmes."
"No." He replied stubbornly. If he let go, then John would truly be lost. He couldn't face it, he couldn't...
Amelia called for some other nurses. It was harder than it should have been, separating Sherlock from John. It seemed that even in death, John was holding on to Sherlock, and combined with Sherlock's stubbornness, it took more effort than it should have. Another nurse entered with a wheelchair, and together they forced the flailing, grieving man into it, pushing him away.
If there was one sound that Amelia never wanted to hear again, it was the sound of the sobs of Sherlock Holmes.
#
They held the funeral at the home. John and Sherlock had outlived most of their friends from the old days, but the funeral was very well attended. John Watson was still a bit of a legend, so many people came to pay their respects to the fallen hero.
Sherlock felt a swell of pride and at the same time annoyed by all these people.
Too much stupid in the room.
Behave, Sherlock. John's voice warned in his head.
Sherlock smiled.
The funeral went well, though Sherlock didn't remember what anyone had said. He was telling John everything.
Your friends from the army are here, John. You'll be happy to know they all look to be in good health. One is happily remarried, one just welcomed his first great grandchild...
Mike is here too. He looks healthy too. Good. I should go tell him thank you. For introducing us. That's the good thing to do, isn't it?
After the service, he was surprised to see Molly. He and John had not seen her for years.
"Hello, Sherlock."
"Hello, Molly."
He was pleased to see the years had been kind to Molly. She deserved it.
Molly insisted on riding with Sherlock to the cemetery, and though he would have rather gone alone, he agreed. He had not seen her for many years, after all, and she had traveled a long way for the funeral. They did not speak during the ride, which didn't bother either of them. Molly was used to Sherlock's silence, and she knew nothing she could say would help alleviate his pain. Instead, she held on to his hand.
Sherlock didn't mind it though. He shook his head. When had he become so sentimental?
You're welcome, John's voice laughed in his head.
They arrived at the cemetery, the same one where Sherlock's fake coffin had been buried. John had reserved the spot next to Sherlock's grave years ago. Now Molly was leading Sherlock to John's grave. They were the first ones to arrive, so they stood there together alone, waiting.
"He was a good man." Molly commented at last.
"The best," Sherlock replied.
Before they lowered the coffin into the ground, Sherlock pulled out an old blue scarf from his jacket, laying it over the coffin. John had worn it while Sherlock had been 'dead', as a way to keep Sherlock with him so many years ago. Sherlock was hoping the scarf would serve the same purpose now as it did then.
He saluted as his friend was lowered into the ground. He did not notice as the crowd behind him followed suit.
#
Sherlock's health, already wavering before John's death, took a nosedive about two weeks after the funeral. He was confined to his bed, weak and subdued. He no longer spouted his deductions at people, but it wasn't for the lack of trying. Amelia often spotted him staring fixedly at someone or something, trying to come up with anything, but nothing would come. She could tell this frustrated him beyond belief. This was a man who was used to having the answers. Once as she was leaving his room, he shouted "BORED!" at her, nearly scaring her to death.
With each day, his health was sinking lower, and Amelia spent most of her time tending to him. She was not going to let that man die alone.
#
"It hurts, John."
"I know it does."
Sherlock could see John standing in front of him, holding out his hand. "I'll help you. Take my hand, Sherlock."
And Sherlock reached, and he reached, but he couldn't take John's hand. After a few moments, John was beginning to fade from view.
"Take my hand," John said again. His image was falling away.
#
Sherlock awoke with a scream, once again scaring Amelia. Amelia rushed over to him. "What is it? What's wrong?
The only words the old man could gasp out were "I can't" and "John".
#
Amelia continued to keep Sherlock Holmes company. She couldn't tell if the man acknowledged or even wanted her presence, but she stayed anyways. She was scared by how rapidly his health was failing, as if he had lost all will to live.
"John!" The man cried again one day. Amelia rushed over, but he was seeing straight through her.
"You came."
#
"Of course I did. You didn't think I would leave you alone, did you?"
John was in front of him again, smiling, holding out his hand. Sherlock reached again, and this time he made it, slipping his hand into John's.
Sherlock was smiling broadly now, tears filling up his eyes, holding on to her hand. Amelia knew he was going, and he was not going alone.
#
John helped Sherlock to stand, the years melting away from his face, leaving a much younger John in his stead. Sherlock looked at their clasped hands, seeing the wrinkles and spots disappear. When he spoke again, his voice was different, but familiar.
"It's good to be with you." Sherlock said simply. He could feel tears in his eyes.
"You too."
Suddenly, Sherlock felt a ripping pain through his abdomen, and he staggered, crumpling to the ground.
"I don't know if I can, John."
"You can. We're going home, Sherlock. Together."
Home! Sherlock's heart leapt at the word. He was going home, he was going to John, where he belonged!
"Will Mrs. Hudson be there? Lestrade? Mycroft?"
John knelt beside him. "Of course. It wouldn't be home without them, now would it?"
#
Sherlock's grip on Amelia's hand became impossibly tighter, his eyes bright with happiness. For some reason, she couldn't help smiling through her own tears.
#
John helped Sherlock to his feet.
"Ready when you are," said John.
Sherlock nodded, and together they walked into the bright white.
#
"Thank you," she heard Sherlock whisper, and then his hand went limp in hers. Sherlock Holmes had finally gone home.