Every story has a beginning, middle and an ending but not necessarily in that order. That was certainly the case for River Song. It was an accepted reality in the life of a time traveller that one should always be careful when meeting new people because one could never be sure of what significance they may hold in the future. Or the past for that matter.

That was why River kept a diary of her time with the Doctor, so as to never corrupt their timelines. The same could be said of Amy and Rory, though she had broken a few rules where they were concerned. Amy lamented over the fact that she had never gotten to raise her daughter, but in a way she had. Only it wasn't as a loving mother to Melody, but as a devoted friend to Mels. So for River, the beginning of that story came a lot sooner than it had for Amy and Rory and the "ending" came early as well.

The Doctor never liked endings, and if she was honest, neither did River. The beauty of life as a time traveller was that River never had to worry about the last time. Instead, she could just look forward to the next time. That was the case for the Doctor and for her parents. But there was another with whom River shared such a connection.

Sherlock Holmes was a dead man when River first met him. Or at least that was what the world was led to believe. She, of course, knew better. A man like Sherlock was destined to leave an impression on the world and his was legendary.

By the 52nd Century, Sherlock Holmes' legacy had reached mythical proportions. So great was the reputation of the detective and his skills that some people simply refused to believe that he actually ever existed. The conflicting accounts of his life had made it difficult to determine just what was fact and what was fiction.

Had he lived during the Victorian Age or was it the early 21st Century? Did he live out his entire life in England or did he, as rumoured, temporarily relocate to New York City? Was the elder Mycroft Holmes his only sibling or was there indeed a third Holmes brother after all? And what was the deal with Mr. Holmes and his constant companion Dr Watson? Was their relationship strictly platonic in nature or was there something else at play? Furthermore, was Dr Watson's name really John or was it in fact Joan Watson as believed in some smaller circles to great scandal.

For all the questions that Sherlock inspired, the biggest area of contention in the Holmesian mythos was the subject of his demise. Had he really tumbled over the edge of Reichenbach Falls locked in combat with his greatest adversary, Professor James Moriarty? Or perhaps it was something far more insidious like a drug overdose. When River first encountered Sherlock, the prevailing theory was that the disgraced detective had taken his own life by jumping from the roof of St. Barts Hospital after being labelled a fraud.

River, of course, knew all of these rumours to be false.

In truth, the great Sherlock Holmes did not go out in a blaze of glory at the prime of his life but rather he met his end quietly in a cottage in the Sussex Downs. At the time of his death, he was elderly and retired, having long since traded the life of a detective for one of an apiarist. It was quite the understated denouement to such a legendary story and an ending that River actively avoided for quite some time.

Alas, ever the clever man that she knew him to be, Sherlock had deduced his impending death and sought to spend his final moments contemplating the greatest mystery he had ever encountered, the infamous River Song.

Not one to deny a dying man his final wish, River dressed for the occasion. She wore a simple black dress paired with multiple strands of pearls and her best black heels. To complete the look, she donned the long coat she had liberated from its previous owner once upon a time and strapped her vortex manipulator to her wrist. With one last look at her reflection, she set off for her destination.

River arrived at a small cottage a few miles off Beachy Head in the sleepy village of East Dean. She was a frequent visitor to the household and, as such, let herself inside without invitation. The cottage itself was large enough to house the beekeeper in residence along with his many diversions and yet small enough as to remain manageable as time took its toll on him.

Sherlock sat amongst a stack of books and assorted charts. He was much older than the dashing young detective she had met so long ago. He was greyer and he appeared frailer. More tired than she'd ever seen him before.

His eyes were closed and his long, wrinkled fingers were steepled together in front of his face as he retreated inside himself. On the table next to him, there sat a teapot with two cups. River filled both teacups and then carried one over to the chair facing his. She nursed her tea while she awaited Sherlock's return from his latest sojourn into his mind palace.

The tea had long gone cold when Sherlock opened his eyes. River had finished her cup and abandoned her coat on her chair while she puttered around the cottage. "Come to return my coat at long last, have you?" he asked in a wheeze as his gaze landed on the woollen heap. "After all these years?"

"If I wanted you to have it, I never would have stolen it in the first place," River insisted. "Do you have any idea what a Milford coat from Belstaff in good condition would go for in the 52nd Century? Especially one worn by you."

"Stole? I let you have it."

River scoffed as she ran her hand along one of the bookshelves. "I do believe, Sherlock my dear, that you're remembering things quite different than they actually occurred."

"I assure you that my memory is perfectly adequate, River," he retorted. "It was after our trip to Victorian London."

"As I recall, Doyle was quite taken with you," she teased. "He only cared about his historical stories before then."

Sherlock took a sip of his cold tea and grimaced. "At least they were of good use. Who would want to read about a detective?"

"You tell me," River retorted, returning to his side with a copy of The Angel's Kiss: A Melody Malone Mystery.

"Is that a detective story?" Sherlock questioned. "I thought it was an account of your flirting."

"Is there a difference?" River countered with a wide grin while setting the book aside. "A good detective always flirts with their clients. I learned that from the best," she added as she relieved him of his tea.

"Is that what you thought I was doing?"

"Of course!" She disappeared into his kitchen long enough to reappear with an empty cup and a fresh pot of tea. "Showing off is the sincerest form of flirtation," she informed him as she poured.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "Only you would think that."

River smiled brightly as she offered him the tea. "Well I am one of a kind."

"Thankfully," he said, taking his tea with a severely put upon expression.

"Don't be cross, dear. You may say something you won't have a chance to take back."

"Then I suppose we should do away with the pleasantries and get to the matter at hand," he announced.

"Leave it to you to be abrupt even in death." River huffed softly and picked up the Belstaff so she could sit. "Go on then." She crossed her legs at the knee and draped the coat over her lap. "Say what you need to say."

Sherlock took a small sip of his tea then set it aside. His long fingers curled around the arms of his chair and he hoisted himself up gingerly. As he stood up straight, he launched into a fit of coughs. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed away the sputum. He had gotten weaker since the last time she'd seen him. It was as she feared. The end really was near.

While River contemplated her old friend's mortality, Sherlock slowly made his way over to the fireplace. He leaned against the lintel and reached for a nearby umbrella. From the handle, River immediately recognised it as belonging to Mycroft.

Even now he'd never admit to being the sentimental sort, but River knew that Sherlock had collected many other tokens over the years. The jumper he wore was a frumpy old thing that only John Watson, or one of the Doctor's younger selves, could have ever loved. And River knew first-hand that the tea set they were using had been Ms. Hudson's once upon a time. Scattered about the cottage were mementos of those who had come and gone from his life. For the sake of his ego, River pretended not to notice.

Sherlock used the umbrella to dislodge something from inside the chimney. River couldn't help imagining Mycroft's reaction to such misuse and the thought brought a tiny smile to her face. Sherlock employed the umbrella's handle to pick up the sooty wad of cloth. Once his prize was safely in hand, he abandoned the umbrella by the fireplace and returned to his chair.

The combination of exertion and ash sent him into another bout of coughing so he took a moment to collect himself before undoing the wrappings. As he began to unfurl the dusty fabric, small patches of blue became apparent and River recognised it as his favourite scarf. At the centre of the mysterious bundle was a carved wooden box. "I need you to deliver this to someone for me," he informed River, sounding more strained than he had before.

"To whom?"

"Me," Sherlock answered simply.

River frowned. "Foreknowledge," she began only to be dismissed by a wave of his hand.

"I'm not corrupting my timeline," he assured her. "If anything, I'm guaranteeing things play out as they should." He tapped the box impatiently. "The only reason I'm in possession of this now is because I returned to myself in the past."

"What is it?" River questioned, leaning forward in her seat and eying the box keenly.

"Spoilers," he replied triumphantly. Clearly, he had been sitting on that one for quite a while.

"Okay then…where did you get it?"

"Spoilers."

"When did you get it?"

"Spoilers," he practically sang.

River smiled ruefully. "And how, William my love, do you propose that I deliver this box to you if I don't know what it is, when it's from or to where I'm expected to return it?"

"Indirectly, of course."

"Meaning?" she snapped.

"By way of a middleman…naturally."

"Naturally," River repeated sarcastically. "And who might that middleman be?"

Sherlock continued to drum his fingertips idly against the box. "I need you to give this to the Doctor."

It didn't happen often, but River was rendered speechless. Of all the answers he might have given, that one was the only one for which she hadn't been prepared. River tore her gaze away from the box and stared at Sherlock in shock. "The Doctor?" She managed as last. "My Doctor?"

"One of them at least," he said casually. "He does have so many faces."

She locked onto Sherlock's eyes. They seemed bluer than they had in quite some time. More animated. Mischievous even. "Have you met the Doctor before?"

Sherlock smiled knowingly. "Spoilers."

River wasn't sure who she felt betrayed by more…the Doctor or the detective. Or well, the apiarist, as it were. Either way, they were both begging to be stung. The idea of her sweetie having companions wasn't anything new, but that didn't give him the right to try and pinch hers.

In spite of her discontent, River straightened her spine and flashed her signature smile in his direction. "Very well, but at the very least, can you tell me how I'm meant to give it to him?"

"You're nothing, if not resourceful," he replied, lifting the box for her to take with shaky hands.

River rose from her seat and covered his hands with her own. His skin was cold to the touch. She crouched down in front of him with their hands still jointed around the box. "Sherlock," she began in a tender voice.

"I'm tired," he announced suddenly with laboured breath.

Lestrade was right about the cigarettes being a killer. The inspector had fallen victim to their shared vice some twenty years prior and Sherlock was destined to follow any day now. The irony of his death being a result of his smoking habit as opposed to years of hard drug use wasn't lost on him.

"Then you should rest for a bit," River suggested. "I can take the box to the Doctor and be back before you wake."

"No…this time..." He closed his eyes. "I don't believe you will."

River took the box from him and set it on the ground. Then, she took both of Sherlock's hands into hers and brought them to her lips. "There's always time, my love," she told him in a whisper. "This isn't the end of you and me."

Sherlock exhaled slowly and with great effort. "You will see me again," he agreed. "Soon. I remember it well. It took a moment to find." He opened his eyes again. "It's so full now. My mind. So much…so many things. I really should have deleted more of it. John's moustache would have made for a brilliant start."

River let out a breathy chuckle. "You really have gotten sentimental in your old age," she teased sadly.

Sherlock huffed weakly. "Human error." He began coughing again and River reached for his handkerchief. She held it up to his mouth and cleaned his face once he settled down. He closed his eyes once more and leaned back into his chair. "I think it's time I sleep."

River nodded even though she knew he couldn't see it. "Rest," she reiterated. "I'll just…"

"Stay," Sherlock requested quietly. "Just a while longer."

River fought the urge to cry. "Anything you want, my love."

Sherlock hummed his appreciation. "A song." He aimed a limp finger at the long outdated docking station and media player on his desk. Vinyl had seen yet another resurgence in popularity in those days, but Sherlock never was a trend chaser.

River gave his hand a quick and gentle squeeze before moving over to the desk and pressing play. The sound of violin music filled the room as she returned to his side. "As Time Goes By?"

"You asked me to play it for you," Sherlock informed her with a hint of a smile. "You wore black with pearls and ridiculous heels. You wept. And I…I was…" He exhaled slowly. "When you left, I wasn't sure that you'd return. But you did. You always came back to me. My Melody."

River inhaled quietly and bit her trembling bottom lip into submission. She closed her eyes tightly in defiance of the tears that tried to escape. "And I always will," she promised as she sank to the ground completely, leaning against his leg while they listened to the music.

Once the song was over, River opened her eyes and looked up at Sherlock. He looked so peaceful. If she hadn't known any better, she may have been able to convince herself that he really was just sleeping.

River inhaled a cleansing breath and pushed herself up from the ground. She took a moment to smooth the wrinkles out of her dress. Picking up the coat from the other chair, she draped it over its rightful owner. After one final parting glance, she leaned forth and pressed a kiss to his temple. "Until the next time, William."

Taking a step back, she picked up the carved box and reached for her vortex manipulator. And in a bright flash of light, she was gone.