This is just a oneshot I was thinking of writing. It's about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, based on the BBC series (which I do not own. All rights go to the creators of Sherlock). John and Sherlock have grown old together and John is on his death bed.

I was sat in my chair when it happened. Staring at John's empty chair across from me, the fabric worn and faded, I wondered why human life always had to end. I had escaped death so many times, much like the God I made myself out to be. But John had always enchanted me with his simple humanity. So there was never any chance that he would out-smart death like I planned to.

John is now 72, living at his and Mary's house, bed-bound for about a month now. He has a brain tumor, and his days are numbered.

When I first heard the news, I spent an entire year trying to find a cure. The whole nation got their hopes up, knowing that nothing could out-smart Sherlock Holmes. I didn't solve any crimes - John wasn't there to prompt me out of my obsession. Mrs Hudson died about twenty years ago, leaving me in charge of Baker Street, alone, with no one to remind me of the passing time.

Until Mary came round and ordered me out of my state, that is. I was sat on the floor, surrounded by books by all the greatest scientists, explaining everything they knew about the deadly disease. I had been on the verge of tearing chunks out of my hair, I hadn't washed or dressed for about a week, and the house was a tip. You and I both know that I don't cope well with stress, and even the drugs weren't helping.

Without John, I truly am a hopeless human being.

Anyway, after a year of researching to no end, I admitted defeat. The whole world grew afraid that a cure would never be found - if Sherlock Holmes couldn't find a cure, who could?

Instead of driving myself out of my mind, I visited John every day, reminiscing about the times before our bones began to creak, our hair to grey, and our skin to wrinkle. I reread every post from his blog and we did actually have a laugh - despite his complaints that I should return Lestrade's calls.

So back to the chair.

Last night, John started having hallucinations, and I had to leave him with Mary. I think he was seeing the war again; he was shouting out commands, looking frantically for a medical kit that wasn't there. He fell over, too, and nearly broke his hip.

It was the saddest thing I'd ever seen. The brave Dr John Watson, completely out of control and out of reach.

I knew today would be the day. So when my phone rang, despite the dread that hung over me like a fog, I was ready for it.

"Sherlock," Mary's voice wavered, "This is it."

I slammed the door to the black cab shut, gripped my walking stick, and hobbled to his door. I was struck with the memory of the first time I'd met John. He'd had that psychosomatic limp that I'd cured him of. I remembered telling him how I knew all about him in the cab, his skin still tanned from Afghanistan's mark. The memory was so clear, so detailed, it felt like a vision.

And then I reached the door.

My breath shook as I inhaled. This would be my last visit to John's house. Keep it together, Sherlock.

I knocked the door, and Mary came in seconds.

Her face was puffy and her face pale, so I assumed John was asleep again - she never cried in front of him.

"Hurry." She whispered.

I walked through to what used to be the study, and was now John's downstairs bedroom. A nurse was checking his pulse with a weary face. Probably the last time she'd visit this house.

And John was lying there, asleep, exactly as he'd been for the last month. But this was different. His sleep felt deeper, his face more relaxed, his skin grey and his breaths shallow.

My God.

"John." I mouthed.

Mary's hand at my back pushed me forward, and as the nurse left we both sat either side of his bed.

"This is it, isn't it?" I looked up at Mary. I'd never felt unsure or afraid of my deductions before.

"Yes." She nodded, another tear breaking free from her glassy eyes.

I could feel the grief waiting for me, a tsunami tide of feelings and emotions like I'd never felt before. I pushed it back.

And then John's eyes fluttered as he woke up. He opened his mouth, which was our sign that he wanted water, so I brought the cup to his lips while Mary used the remote to lift his bed up a bit.

After he'd drank, I put the cup back on the bedside table.

"Good morning, John." I greeted him.

"Sherlock," He breathed. Then he coughed, and regained some of his voice, "Sherlock, I know this is it. I know I'm gonna go." He didn't sound any different to how he did all those years ago, and if I closed my eyes I could almost imagine that the last thirty years hadn't happened – that he was still living with me in Baker Street before my 'death'. But this was real, so I kept my eyes open and faced it like John would have if our roles were reversed. I tried to become a soldier for John.

I looked down, swallowing hard. I can't.

"So I just want you to know that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You gave me a life that I was destined to live, you annoyed the hell out of me in all the right ways over all these years, and I love you, mate."

Somehow, he wasn't crying; didn't seem at all fazed, as though the situation was unknown to him. But he looked me in the eyes, and I saw his soul in them, lit up like a bonfire. Burning through me.

"I don't know what to say." I smiled, remembering that time I had been about to get on the plane, before Moriarty had returned. And that made me remember.

"Where's Shirley?" I asked. John and Mary's only child, a daughter, who they'd named after me. When he first told me, I'd thought he was joking. But then I'd been the proudest Godfather ever.

"She's on her way. Should be here in about an hour." Mary answered. I looked to her, and we both realised she wasn't going to make it on time.

"Sherlock, I want to talk to Mary, if that's okay."

I left the room, my bloody bones creaking as usual.

Shutting the door behind me, I saw the nurse was just leaving. Before she left, she gave me a look of sympathy. It was that that set me off.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Me and John, we're invincible - it's not supposed to end like this.

It's not supposed to end.

"Sherlock!" Mary called me in.

John's eyelids were drooping, his skin somehow more pale. His breaths were getting slower and farther apart, and my bastard brain wouldn't stop analysing all the signs of death.

"Stop it stop it stop it!" I demanded myself.

Mary looked at me, worried, but a knowing smile spread across John's face, thought he kept his eyes shut. "Don't worry, Sherlock, it's just death. That's what people do. We die."

I gripped his wrinkled hand in my veiny, aged ones, and blinked back the tears that had finally come.

"John," I whispered.

"I'll say hi to Mrs Hudson for you. See you soon."

And then he slowly breathed out, and didn't breathe back in. The silence settled around us like a blanket, smothering me in the knowledge that it had happened.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were no longer together.

Sherlock Holmes was alone again for the first time in forty years.

"John!" Mary screamed, shaking his shoulders and trying to bring him back.

But I just smiled, remembering the life we'd had, and thought he'd had the peaceful death he deserved.

And then a single sob escaped my throat as I began to cry.

Rest in peace, Doctor Watson.

So I hope that wasn't too sad. I don't know if I should carry on with this, make it a bit longer? Let me know And thanks for reading!