He doesn't cry on the balcony, staring into the churning white of the water, his mind a mess of denial and disbelief.

He doesn't cry on the train ride home, resting his head against the wall, staring into nothing as he listens to the click-clack of the rails.

He doesn't cry that night, curled in bed, his eyes never closing. Staring at the wall, seeing nothing but his partner's eyes: that one moment where their eyes had met for the very last time.

He doesn't cry at the funeral, staring out the window. He ignores the people – more than he was aware he knew – who come to him and apologize for his loss.

He doesn't cry writing the stories, his fingers dancing over the keys, typing out memory after memory.

But he cries now. He stares at the two words at the bottom of the page and feels the tears sting his eyes, clouding his vision. The page blurs and he can't read anymore, but he knows what it says.

THE END.

Because it was. Because the story really was over. And now it hits him, and burns him, and tears him apart. He looks at the words, and he knows it's over.

THE END.

And It's over. It's ended.

THE END.

It hurts so much -

THE END.

A tear runs down his cheek.

And then a finger. Catching the tear. A hand, wiping his cheek so tenderly. And then the voice. The voice he thought he'd never hear again, speaking from behind him.

"Don't cry."

And he's frozen. Staring straight ahead. Not believing. The silence hangs in the air for a very long time, and then he hears his voice, speaking. Somehow, through the shock, the anger, the confusion, the joy, he's talking. Voicing the only thing that makes sense.

"You bastard."

For a moment he's still staring ahead. And then he leaps to his feet, spinning around so suddenly that he knocks over the chair.

"You-"

He takes a step back, staring at the man before him without believing. The sudden rush of emotions sends more tears spilling down his cheeks, and before he can stop himself he's sobbing, the lament that never came leaving tracks down his face. Holmes reaches out toward him, all concern, intending to wipe the tears away.

The anger surges, and Watson slaps him across the face. The noise is like a gunshot. "I thought you were dead!" He screams, his face contorted with rage. "You let me think - "

He breaks off into a sob. Holmes just watches him. "You – How? - You – I -" the Doctor throws up his arms in anger. "Why would -"

He stops and looks at the other man, the tears running soundlessly down his face. And then he crosses the room in two strides and embraces Holmes like a brother.

They'd hugged each other before: when they were in danger, or injured, or at the end of a particularly difficult case. But he'd never hugged Holmes – never hugged anyone – for quite this long. Neither seemed willing to let go, so they stood for a great amount of time, swaying slightly, Watson gripping the back of the other man's jacket. After a few moments, Holmes' arms had come up to encircle him, and the Doctor buried his face in his neck, breathing him in: the smell of ash and dirt and smoke...

"I'm still angry." he said finally, resting his head on his shoulder. "Hm." replied Holmes vaguely. They held each other in silence for another few minutes.

"Your manuscript needs editing." said Holmes.

"No," said Watson. "Just the last two words."