A one-shot that is currently being developed into a two-part series. This "final" scene, however, almost wrote itself.
That night, after the evening nurse made her final notes and went off shift, John climbed onto the gurney next to Sherlock. Back when things had been right, back when they had slept together in their bed at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was almost always the one to hold John. With the size difference, it was the most reasonable position.
Those moments lived and breathed in John's memory: nestled softly in the curve if Sherlock's neck, feeling his warm breath brush over the topmost crown of his hair, back and forth, back and forth. Sherlock's long arms gathering him up like a child, pulling him completely into the arch of his taller body just so that, when he held John against him, he held every bit of John.
This time, John held Sherlock. With the size difference, it was certainly difficult, but he made do. He tucked Sherlock's head beneath his chin, stroking a hand over and through the mess of ebony curls. He phased out the lurching sound of the respirator and life-support machine, instead placing his free hand on Sherlock's chest and watching its even rise and fall.
Sherlock's skin was still warm. His heart still beat against John's open palm. Nothing else mattered.
He was very aware of what people expected him to do. In a dramatic world, in an expected world, he'd be the angst-ridden lover who would never let Sherlock go. He'd stumble and punch and swear his way around for years, living out of the hospital, living from Sherlock's bedside. He'd carry on with it, no matter what anyone else said. He'd wait for the rest of his life if he had to. He would never give up. Not on Sherlock.
John wanted this so badly. He was that close to letting it happen. Holding Sherlock's frail body in the shelter of his soldier's arms, he almost came to the decision.
But then he heard Sherlock's ever-present ghost behind him, speaking as if he'd just popped out of the room for a few minutes and returned to find this scene.
"John look at me. Can't you tell when a man's through?"
"You can come back," John breathed into Sherlock's forehead, every word pressed against his skin in a fleeting kiss. "I can't just give up if you can still come back."
"I'm not coming back, John. And the last thing I want is to be some mindless lump, lying on my back for the rest of my life for the entire world to see. Promise me, John."
"Promise what?"
"Promise me you won't let that happen."
John clamped his eyes shut. He felt his lungs trembling.
"John, please."
With a small choke, John inched himself down the sheets and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's.
"I promise."
.
The day they did it, John was holding his hand. As the other doctors descended, he gently kneaded his fingers against the inside of Sherlock's palm, as if he could push his final words right through the porcelain skin and into his lover's heart.
I know you don't believe in any of "that stuff", Sher. So believe me. I might not be along after you for a while, but whatever happens, wherever you go…
I will find you.
The machines hummed and fell silent. Sherlock breathed. In, out. In, out. Then his lips parted, as if he were sighing. John thought he heard a whisper, like something muttered in the middle of a dream.
"John…"
Sherlock's last breath floated to the ceiling. His chest fell.
"Promise me you'll live."
John squeezed his hand. Tears gathered the gaps between their fingers.
"I promise, Sherlock."
A/N: I'm not sure whether I'll ever manage to write the full version of this story to my satisfaction. However, I adored the chapter on its own and didn't want my lack of motivation to told it back. Thank you for reading. Drop a review on your way out!