By: Liz
AN: Inspiration for this story came from the song "Halo" by Beyonce.
It was too late.
The damage had been done.
Now all that was left to do was watch him die.
Sherlock knew this, but still he tore off his shirt and ripped it to pieces to create rudimentary bandages for the cuts on John's wrists.
"Sherlock, are you taking me to Heaven with you?"
John thought Death was generous and kind; it was giving him an angel to guide him to the next life:
It gave him Sherlock.
But John wasn't dead yet. Sherlock was really there, but he was too late.
He was too late…
Sherlock had been torturing himself for two years, keeping his distance from John until he was sure Moriarty's entire web of destruction had been disbanded. But little John know, he was never alone.
Sherlock was gone, but he'd never left.
All those times John had to do double takes on a crowded street because he thought he saw a familiar figure, all those times the phone would ring and he would answer only to find no one on the other line…every time he swore he was going made for seeing Sherlock's face staring back at him in a reflective building window…it was all really him.
Sherlock thought that if he was just on the same street as John, or could just hear John's voice saying "hello" to him over the phone, or could stare into John's eyes when he knew John couldn't really see him, he would be fine.
This was a horrible lie.
Every time Sherlock saw John walking down the street, he wanted to be the one walking beside him. When Sherlock felt extremely lonely, to the point where he would start doubting his own control, he would call John. Just to hear him say "hello"…Sherlock's heart would jump for a sweet moment, pretending that John was greeting him, and not some seemingly random stranger. Sherlock didn't know how he started that habit, it always left him feeling worse; maybe it was for that sweet, savory "hello", the greeting he'd waited so long to hear.
Two years…
The hardest time had been exactly thirteen months and twenty-six days after Sherlock "died"…Just when he thought his lonely, maddening existence was horrible enough, John did the second most selfish thing he'd ever done: he got married.
The pain Sherlock felt on that day was unlike anything he'd ever felt. For years he'd put up with loneliness, depression, self-loathing, and morbid anger, but the one thing he could hold on to was John's unwavering faith and loyalty.
And then John married someone else.
Sherlock thought he could handle anything the world threw at him. From his parents' deaths as a child, to the inhumane crimes he solved, to the self-hatred he carried like a plague, but there was something that could undo him. Something that could make him question his existence and whether or not Death offered the sweet relief he'd heard of:
John gave up on him.
John's mother wasn't the only one crying in the crowded church on that forsaken day.
"Sherlock, I'm cold," John whispered, still lying in the same position Sherlock had found him in the bathtub of their flat.
His flat, Sherlock corrected himself as he tried to think.
He was a genius, one of the most intelligent men in the history of the human race, and he didn't know what to do. Nothing was right. Nothing made sense.
Mary was gone; after months of trying to force John to move on went to no avail, she left. Moriarty's influence was gone, Sherlock had personally seen to that. He took all his anger and pain and turned it into fierce determination, weeding out even the smallest rat still delusional with Moriarty's ideas.
But all of it was for nothing.
John was going to die.
Sherlock couldn't stop it.
Sherlock was afraid.
He bent over John and pressed the strips of cloth into his wrists, all the while silently cursing himself for wasting those few seconds to recall the past when soon the subject of his happier times was to be no more.
"You've got a halo, Sherlock…you're an angel…I always knew you were," John mumbled, smiling up at the mortal he had mistaken for Death's sweet face.
Facts.
Facts were certain. Facts kept people grounded.
Facts kept people sane.
Sherlock could've told John that the way Sherlock bent added with the angle of the light made it only seem like Sherlock had a halo. He could've restated to John that he wasn't an angel, nor would he ever be. He could've reminded John that Heaven had no place for men like Sherlock. He could have listed a million facts to try and rationalize John's words, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't break John's fantasy and cause him to mourn in his last moments on Earth.
Sherlock wanted John to be happy…
He owed him that much.
So, very carefully, Sherlock sat John up and sat down in the tub behind him, then pulled John into his lap.
"Sherlock…I'm cold…" John repeated weakly.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, not minding the blood. He rested his head on Johns and fought the tears that threatened to fall.
"It's okay, John, I'll keep you safe." Sherlock's voice cracked as he spoke into John's hair.
"Soon we'll be in Heaven together…" His voice was growing fainter.
It broke whatever was left of Sherlock's heart to lie, but he had to do it…for his John…
"Yes, John, you're right."
"Sherlock…I'm tired…"
Sherlock's arms instinctively tightened around John's. From the moment he'd walked into the bathroom, he'd known this part was coming:
The time to let John go.
"It's ok, John, go to sleep," Sherlock whispered, his voice betraying the tears that he couldn't help anymore.
With an amazing amount of strength, John turned his head and looked into Sherlock's eyes.
"Why are you crying?"
Sherlock gave the most convincing smile he would and said, "I've missed you."
John smiled.
One last smile before his eyes fell shut and, with one last sigh, his chest stopped moving.
Sherlock stared at the empty body in his arms, the beautiful soul now departed. The tears were flowing in earnest, and the words he'd been screaming inside finally found their way out of his mouth:
"Why didn't you wait for me?"
He hated John.
John had given up on him, again, and was selfish and cruel.
John took the one thing that made Sherlock truly happy; the one thing that he actually thought was stable in his hellish life. John only thought for himself. He didn't care about Sherlock. If he had, he would've waited.
"Why?! Why didn't you wait for me?! I came to you today! I had everything planned out! I was going to knock on the door, you were probably going to punch me, and I would've let you because the pain wouldn't compare to the pain I felt when I had to leave. And you were going to apologize after an hour of silence and I was going to explain everything to you. But you ruined everything! Why?!"
Sherlock was screaming at the top of his lungs, shaking John's shoulders while he himself was shaking with sobs.
"I would have waited, John! I would have waited for you! But you couldn't wait on me! You gave up on me!"
Someone was banging on the door, calling for John, but Sherlock was in his own world; one where John could actually hear him.
"I hate you, John Watson! I hate you!"
The door burst open and Mrs. Hudson stood there with wide eyes before she started screaming.
Sherlock didn't remember the events that followed; he walked around in a numbed haze, answering questions mechanically and not meeting anyone's eyes. He didn't remember exactly when John's body was taken from him or when he was put on the couch in Mrs. Hudson's apartment, who had apparently promised to keep an eye on him.
The only event of importance was the day he said good bye.
He didn't attend the funeral. He didn't leave step outside of Mrs. Hudson's apartment until weeks afterwards.
He traveled to the graveyard and found the headstone he was looking for.
"John Hamish Watson," he murmured.
He didn't know how long he stood there, hours seemed to pass in minutes before he finally spoke again:
"You left me alone. At first, I didn't want to forgive you. I wanted to hate you because I felt like you'd given up on me. I've gone through my whole life with people slighting me and mocking my ways, but you were different. You treated me like an actual person, even when I didn't feel like I was. I don't hate you; I don't think I ever could. You're too powerful of an influence for me to ever hate you, alive and dead." His voice faltered on the word 'dead', but he moved on. "I don't know where I'm going to go from here. I'll most likely pick up the trade again, but I don't think it'll ever feel the same without you. John, I'm not usually an emotion person, you more than anyone knew that, but you have changed me. I'll never meet anyone like you for as long as I live, and that I can happily promise; I don't ever want anyone to affect me like you do." Tears started pooling in his eyes as he finished. "I don't want to do this, John, I've never been good at saying goodbye, but you're worth it. You deserve everything, and if that means a farewell from me, than here it is: goodbye, my dear Watson."
Sherlock turned and walked away, and as memories of thrilling chases, soft smiles, and unforgettable conversions played through his mind, the sun cast rays onto his back, giving him a halo.