Sherlock watched John walk away from his 'grave'. He watched as John began to limp and Mrs Hudson rushed over to take his arm. Psychosomatic indeed.
A pricking began in the back of his eyes, "Goodbye John" rang out in his mind. It was for the best, of course, but that wasn't to say it made him happy. It wasn't to say it was the right thing to do. If he thought for one second that there was another way, he would... He would what? Rush over to John to say he was here for him? Go back to normal? John had grieved, nothing would ever be the same again.
He looked over at his best friend, his only friend, remembering how lonely he was before. No, Sherlock Holmes didn't get lonely. Sherlock Holmes needed no-one. He could return to how he was, he could be the old Holmes again. Solving cases, talking to skulls, dinners for one. Well, when he remembered to eat. But John was right, before, he'd been a machine. It wasn't Sherlock that helped John from his loneliness, from his boredom. It was John that saved him. Saved him from a lifetime of solitude, saved him from becoming as unfeeling as he could have become. John made him human, John made him the man he was, John made him better. He laughed to himself at this thought, Sherlock Holmes had a friend. Sherlock Holmes needed someone. Never before had he felt this way, especially not as a child, being bullied in school, and especially not within his family, with his comandeering brother.
"I need you." He whispered to Johns back, "How have I only realised now?" John turned, as if he had somehow heard Sherlocks voice. Holmes watched as John choked back a sob and wiped his eyes, climbing into the taxi.
"Come Sherlock."
Sherlock turned to the only person he had left, the only person he could now trust in. Mollys shining eyes, filled with tears, stared up at him. "We've got to go."
He nodded and held out his arm, needing some kind of closeness. Just this once.
