GOODBYE JOHN
He should've known it would end like this.
He suspected it, though, since that mad, first day with him, especially since that moment when Sherlock shouted that he would be taking the bedroom upstairs, and when he asked what told him this, Sherlock pointed to the man at his door holding his cane.
It was then that John realized that he had been running all around London, running without his cane. He then had looked at Sherlock in wonder, and realizing a second thing: that this man, this mad, brilliant man, had fixed him, had saved him. In more ways than one, he thought, because John knew that, hadn't he met the man when he did, he would've ended with his brains splattered on the floor of his own flat, so Sherlock had saved his life in a way. But not only that, in the days that followed, he discovered that he had given him a purpose too, a reason to live, along with a way to feel alive, because John craved the adrenaline like an addict craved a hit, and with Sherlock Holmes John got all the adrenaline he wanted and more.
Some days, he thought about this and couldn't help but wonder why him. Why did Sherlock chose to save a broken army doctor like himself, why did he chose concretely him, someone so normal and dull, to have around? Because it couldn't be because of his medical skills or his praise, John knew Sherlock enough to know that no matter how useful anyone could be, Sherlock wouldn't tolerate them unless they were interesting in some way. But him, interesting? How?
Some days John had the urge to ask him, to know, to understand why, but then Sherlock would usually look at him with those grey-blue-green eyes of his, deep with knowledge, and smile with slight amusement, as if he was saying 'really, John, isn't it obvious?' And even though it wasn't obvious for him, John wouldn't ask no more, because if Sherlock thought that he was worth having around, then John supposed something in him must be interesting, though he couldn't for the life of him know what.
Still, Sherlock was the genius, and if he'd seen something, well, John wouldn't be the one to tell him he was wrong. He usually wasn't anyway, that bastard, and he knew it. Even though he'd seen that intelligence shine again and again through the years he's been with him, John never ceased to be amazed by that incredible mind of his, by that impossibly intelligent man. Every time Sherlock made a deduction, he couldn't help but think how lucky he was to be around him and tell him how incredible it was, how incredible he was, feeling satisfaction when he saw the pleased and flattered expression on the genius's face, which only encouraged John to do it again and again, because really, the man needed the praise. People had only insulted him so far, calling him a psychopath or a freak, and it both pained and angered John, because how couldn't people see what he saw, how amazing he was, how big his heart was? People had to be utterly blind to not see what he saw, to not see the hidden concern he sometimes showed, especially around kids, or how he shut down his emotions because it was the only way he could deal with them; because even though people accused him of being unfeeling, the truth was that Sherlock Holmes felt too much, and he needed to distance himself from them to properly deal with them.
Sherlock was the man John owed everything, his life, his sanity, the fact that he could smile and laugh now, everything. It was a debt that John knew it was impossible to repay, so he tried to do it by helping him in any way he could.
Really, now that he put it like that, it was a wonder he hadn't realized this sooner, as it was glaringly obvious.
He had killed for him. It was only natural that he'd die for him too.
"John please, hold on, help is on its way, John don't you dare close your eyes, John!"
If only people could hear him now, John thought through the haze of pain and slow asphyxiation, struggling to keep his eyes open, they would take back all those 'machine' comments because they would realize that they were utter lies.
'High-functioning sociopath my ass'
"Sh'lock" He croaked.
"Don't talk, John, don't talk, you stupid idiot, just hang on, you'll be fine, just hang on!"
John managed to smile and calm, blue eyes met frantic grey-blue-green ones, and Sherlock froze, understanding what the doctor was telling him, understanding that he was confirming what he knew but refused to accept.
'Nononononothiscan'tbetruenoJohnyoucan'tnononono'
"Sh'lock" Joh croaked again, using all his energy, because before he left he needed to know, to understand "Why…me?"
Sherlock let out a broken laugh, his eyes starting to moisten and get wet with tears. He knew what John was asking, he had seen that question in his eyes many times, but he had tried to avoid answering it because he would reveal too much of himself, of what he felt, but now? Now it was the last opportunity he would have to make his dear friend see how much he meant to him, how much he needed him.
So, he started to talk.
"Isn't it obvious John? You're the only one that have ever appreciated my deductions and found them 'incredible' and 'amazing', you are the only one that have ever willingly called me their friend, the only who had accepted how I am without trying to change me, and the only one I couldn't fully understand. I normally understand people with a look, so they turn boring after a while, but you? You're like an unsolvable puzzle, every time I think I know you, you surprise me and show me something new about you, and that's just so fascinating" Sherlock paused because of a choked sob "And even though you didn't try to change me, I found myself changing because of you, becoming more human, because before I met you, John, I was pretty much a machine, I only cared for the thrill of the puzzle, nothing more, not emotions, because what was the point of them? But you've showed me how wrong I was to discard them, and showed me how to feel, because Moriarty was true, you are my heart, because it's only because of you that I can feel now, feel so many things…feel love." Even through the slow blood loss, John's eyes managed to widen in surprise at this "Yes John, I love you, so please, don't leave me, don't go" Sherlock begged, his tears now flowing freely and landing on John's face.
John's breathing was becoming slower, his skin colder, his eyes glossier, and Sherlock desperately pressed harder on the wound, trying to stop the bloodflow caused by the bullet that hurt John, a bulled meant for him but that the soldier had taken in his place, a bullet that was too close to the heart, that had pierced some important organs, a bullet that was killing John slowly, and no, please, John, don't leave, no, please, I love you, don't leave, please…
"Thank… you… Sh'lock" John whispered, his voice so low that Sherlock had to lower his head to hear him "Thank you…for everything…love…you…"
The 'too' was just a breath, and after that, his body became still, and his eyes unseeing. And with him, Sherlock's heart shattered into a thousand pieces while he heard the noise of an ambulance getting closer.
They were late. Too late.
"Goodbye John" Sherlock whispered brokenly. He placed a light kiss in the now unfeeling lips before burying his face on John's neck, not minding the blood, and sobbing loudly, not minding that everyone would see him like that. And as if the sky had felt his sorrow, raindrops began to fall.
As if the Heavens were crying with him, mourning the loss of John Hamish Watson.
Listen to your heart
When he's calling for you
Listen to your heart
There's nothing else you can do
I don't know where you're going
And I don't know why
But listen to your heart
Before… you tell him goodbye.