Disclaimer: I still own nothing. Nope.
Spoilers: The Reichenbach Fall
Rating: K
Warnings: Allusion to character death. (Yeah, that one.)
Wordcount: 235
A/N: For the ides of March.
(The ides of March have come—)
And we're still breathing, aren't we, despite Moriarty's assassins and lies and the newspapers rising up like sharks scenting blood, running side by side, your hand in mine (and it's not like that, but it's warm and comforting just the same). And I'm not even sure what we're running from anymore, but it doesn't matter, not tonight, because I trust you to tell me what's going on – you'll let me know when you figure it out (when, not if), when I need to know, when you need me. And you do need me, don't pretend that you don't, as much as I need you, and that's why we're a we. (So don't you dare go off alone and leave me behind.)
I see the flashes of fear on your face, when you're looking away in the distance and your profile is half-lit, half-shadowed in the faintest of light, and I wish I could tell you that this is going to be all right (I don't know how, but it hardly matters; it's always turned out before, hasn't it?), because you're Sherlock Holmes and I believe in you (and god how I believe in you – you're not a person, you're a religion, a cult, an intoxicating dream).
And there's the sun coming up – you see? It's all fine. Or it will be.
(Ay, Caesar; but not gone.)
"Good-bye, John."
"Sherlock!"