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Sherlock sat in his wide chair, curled up in a ball on his side. Stubble lined his defined jaw and his unruly curls were springing out in every direction. He was currently trapped in his mind palace, pondering about when John will forgive him for the Mary thing. Yes, John was grieving and angry at him for some reason. John needed someone to blame, and chose his best friend to outcast. Sherlock had tried, had texted, called and even went to his quaint flat but all he got in response was Molly sending him away with a note from John and words that stabbed in his chest. "Anyone but you."
Anyone.
An absent tear rolled down Sherlock's prickly face. Anyone. People told him John just needs time, but it's been a month and Sherlock was done waiting. He picked up his phone and texted John, ignoring the long chain of messages that were read but not responded to.
John, SH
John, please answer, SH
John, I'm sorry, please, SH
If you're interested I found a rather interesting murder case that left no evidence whatsoever and there is a high risk of danger, SH
Sorry, SH
John, please answer, I need you, talk to me, please, SH
I love you. The thought ran through his mind, he even typed it out but then backspaced it all. This unrequited love has existed since the week he met John, and if he said it now there was no chance John would want to be his friend. Although the letter he received was quite clear that he was unwanted, Sherlock was persistent. This man was the only one who really penetrated Sherlock's sentimental shield. Sherlock was falling apart without him.
He plucked the letter from the side table where it had remained since it was first opened. Sherlock couldn't push himself to read it again, but anything that was a part of John was important and Sherlock needed it to ground himself. He admired the long handwriting of a doctor, feather-light touch running over the words.
Don't come near me. Don't talk to me. You made a vow.
How can twelve words hurt so much? Sherlock felt guilty enough as it was but to have the last thing from John pierce him like this was agonizing. He shot over one last text before throwing his phone across the room where it hit a wall and fell to the floor, unharmed.
Come talk, it will help. 221B. SH
The door was, of course, open as it always was, so Mrs. Hudson could come and go as she pleased. That was one reason, the other being Sherlock couldn't be bothered to get up and close it. He spent his days sulking on the couch, buried in his mind palace, blocking out the cruel world he lived in.
As of the moment though, his mind was unfathomably clear, devoid of all oppression and emotion. He was present physically but his mind was elsewhere, roaming freely, oblivious to anything happening around him, hence him not hearing the footsteps dragging up the steps or the slight creak of the door being pushed open more.
Only when the painfully familiar sound of a man clearing his throat brought Sherlock back to reality. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise at the presence of John.
"You want to talk, well, here I am." John looked down at his feet, something was off though. The psychosomatic limp had returned, but that was obvious from the cane, John looked healthy enough, muscular and broad-shouldered. His eyes were sunken, but that was expected, having a baby to take care of and all. No, it was something else, something sunken under his skin that even he was unaware of. Only Sherlock Holmes, the all-observer, would notice such a thing. A slight increase in pulse, sweating for no reason. Sherlock just took it as nerves, and warily stood up to stare at John, real and whole, in their flat, in their home.
"John," Sherlock stated, taking a step towards John. I missed you, I love you, come back. You belong here, can't you see? "I'm sorry Sherlock, I was unreasonable and grieving and I just needed time. Can you forgive me?" Well, this was unexpected, John, a proud soldier asking for forgiveness. Puzzled and relieved, Sherlock responded with a genuinely sad grin. "Of course." Then closed the distance between them in a tight embrace. Sherlock bunched his hands in John's jumper and pulled him impossibly close. John responded enthusiastically, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock stood in John's embrace for what seemed like forever, revelling in John's warmth.
Then John's breathing hitched. Sherlock thought it was just a side effect of sobbing, but when John went limp in his arms Sherlock began to worry. "John?" John coughed, blood splattered out of his mouth. "Sherlock-" The coughing continued and John slumped to the floor. "John!" John went cold and weak, his eyes went glassy and his skin became pale. "John! John, stay with me, look at me, keep your eyes on me." Sherlock determinedly took Johns face and forced his lolling head to look at him. It didn't work, John's eyes closed and his entire body stopped responding. "No!" Sherlock whispered, then started CPR. He silently pleaded for John to be okay, that he'd wake up and say it was all a joke, and that's how he felt when Sherlock jumped. Sherlock desperately kept pumping, and somehow managed to yell at Mrs Hudson to call an ambulance. She was so used to it that the landlady didn't question the request. After the call was made she walked upstairs to inquire, and found a horrific sight.
John was laying near the window, sprawled out like a ragdoll, and Sherlock was kneeling over him, trying to get his heart to start. Tears were streaming down the man's face as his cries were shouted. It was agonizing, horrifying, Sherlock's worst nightmare. No life was worth living if John wasn't in it. He continued desperately pounding and breathing into John's mouth. In ordinary circumstances, Sherlock would've never done mouth to mouth, but this was John, and he was dying.
The paramedics came rushing up with a stretcher and picked up John. They had to literally pry Sherlock's arms off of his body in order to get him into the ambulance. Sherlock jumped in with him and no one questioned. Immediately John was hooked on life support, but even that could only hold so long. Sherlock clutched John's limp hand, rubbing his honey blonde hair through his fingers, whispering pleads and prayers. Anything that might have a chance at waking John up he was willing to try. The ride to the hospital was frantic and fast-paced. The nurses took John to a room and some tests were done. He was being kept alive by a machine. Sherlock couldn't stand the idea of John not waking up, so while the tests were being done he fantasized about John waking up, just a fluke, them living out their lives together, raising Rosie who was with Molly at the moment.
Mycroft had arrived while Sherlock was indulged in his thoughts and placed a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. Sherlock turned and buried his face in Mycroft's suit. "He'll be okay, Mycroft, won't he?" Sherlock pleaded. "I don't know Sherlock," Mycroft responded quite softly. Sherlock and Mycroft were taken into the room where John was a machine. Lestrade arrived but was not permitted in the room. He banged on the door, shouting for them to let him in but a doctor came and swept him away.
One of the nurses- a brunette female looked down at her notebook. "Why don't you take a seat," She suggested. That was never good. Sherlock didn't respond so Mycroft pushed him down into a chair, clamping his own hand on Sherlock's shoulder once again, grounding him. "Dr Watson has had a heart attack, a rather extreme unexpected one. An immediate heart transplant could possibly revive him but there's no way we could legally get one in time, I-"Sherlock cut her off. "I'll do it." Mycroft looked down at him, lost for words. The doctor sputtered, "uh, I'd have to check –" But she was cut off again. "John and I have the same blood type. We are both healthy middle age men and we are compatible. Take it." Sherlock stood up wobbly.
"I'm sorry sir, only an authorized transplant could -" But she was cut off by Mycroft. "By order of the British Government, I authorize the situation. Mycroft understood that Sherlock couldn- wouldn't live without the doctor. One of them deserved to live and he loved his brother too much to see him deteriorate from his loss.
"I suppose your files do match up." So she'd read their files beforehand. "Are you sure?" She asked. "Positive," Sherlock responded bravely. The nurse clicked a button and instructed him to lie down on the neighbouring hospital bed. "Can… Can I write a note?" He asked as more doctors streamed in, bumping into Mycroft who was still stunned. "No time," She responded, filling a syringe with a clear liquid. Sherlock gulped down a lump in his throat. "Mycroft?" His voice was scratchy, but it had the desired effect and Mycroft's gaze wandered over to his brother. "Tell him I love him." Despite his icy nature, Mycroft understood why Sherlock needed to do it. He nodded ever so slightly and whispered "Goodbye, brother mine," as the syringe was plunged into Sherlock's neck and all went dark.
5 days later, John woke up bleary-eyed and feeling rather refreshed, oddly. He sat up and noticed Mycroft and Lestrade sitting in the uncomfortable chairs at the side of the room. They looked up at him with glistening eyes, weak smiles that didn't reach their eyes overtook their faces. "Welcome back." Greg offered. "What happened?" John asked, rubbing his eyes and propping up on an elbow. Lestrade let out a deep breath and glanced at Mycroft, who stared blankly at his lap. "I'm sorry John, er, you had a heart attack, a bad one, needed a heart transplant immediately." John looked perplexed, "why are you sad then, what's wrong, Mycroft?" The elder Holmes continued to ignore him.
"John, you needed a heart, immediately, he…"
"He, who?"
"John, I'm sorry, it all happened so quickly, John."
Realization hit John like a brick. His racing heart dropped in his chest. "Sher…" John started. "Yes, John bu-" "No," John said. "No, no I can't lose him again, no." John refused, he would go back to 221B and Sherlock would be sitting in his chair like normal. John would make them tea and walk up behind Sherlock, wrap his arms around him and kiss the side of his face. Sherlock would close his laptop and turn to fully capture John's mouth, breathing a warm "Good morning." They would raise Rosie together, teach her to walk and read. Rosie would sit in Sherlock's lap and playfully tug his curls while John watched from the kitchen beaming. They would stand hand in hand, waving goodbye to her on her first day of school, John would turn to Sherlock ask him if she'll be okay and Sherlock would reassure him that she would be fine if she was anything like her father. They would grow old together, make photo albums and memories. When old and wrinkled they would sit on a park bench staring at the stars and recount the memories of intriguing cases, their good old days.
Tears rolled down John's cheeks. The thought of his best friend, a corpse, maggot-food, (Sherlock would be disgusted at that, saying his flesh was too worthy of their useless lives), lying 6 feet under. That brilliant mind laid to rest, the only remainder was his heart, beating healthy and alive inside John. John had Sherlock's heart like he always wanted. Greg was speaking softly but John couldn't hear him, the only time he stopped thinking was when Mycroft opened his mouth. "His last words were 'tell him I love him'" and Mycroft stood up and left, leaving Lestrade with a distressed John.
He loved me. Why did he wait until the literal last moment to say it? Why. Lestrade was still talking about Molly taking care of Rosie and that he could have time to recover and all that.
"I love you too," John spoke, lower than a whisper. Lestrade shut up and looked at him with eyes so solemn and pitiful. "Aw John, why you gotta do this to me." Greg fell to his knees and wept. John didn't speak again for another week.
1 ½ years later
John sat in his chair at 221B. He'd moved back shortly after. Rosie was sleeping in her crib. The flat was quiet and dark. John stared absently at Sherlock's empty chair, he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it. Other than that, the flat was tidied up for Rosie's sake. Anderson and his team cleaned up Sherlock's experiments and case files and microscopes that were strewn about the flat. John moved into Sherlock's room and converted the one upstairs to Rosie's. John kept everything the same, from the periodic table poster to the robes in the closet. It smelled like Sherlock, the faint smell of smoke, the sweet faded scent of tea and something else, indescribable, like if sad music had a scent. Sherlock's violin sat in the corner, gathering dust. Half composed song sheets littered the same corner, some resting on a music stand, others on the floor.
John had kept the cow's skull with the headphones, the skull, the knife embedded in the mantle, everything he could, he kept exactly as it was. After all, a part of Sherlock lived inside John, so it was only fair if the flat was accustomed to his taste as well. John sat blankly until morning, thinking of the sacrifice Sherlock made for him. It wasn't fair, life was too short. Early morning, the sun started to rise. Rosie started to cry. John sighed and fetched her from her room and brought her down, cradling her against his chest. John sat back down in his chair, now with Rosie in his arms. His past thoughts resurfaced and a tear escaped his eyelids. Rosie stood up on his lap and touched her dad's face, a puzzled expression taking form on her chubby face. "Why are you crying, daddy?" She asked.
"I miss him," John put his finger in the grasp of Rosie's little fingers. "Who daddy?"
"The most brilliant person in the world, Sherlock Holmes." "Sherwock?"
"Yes Rosie," He took her hand and placed it over his heart. "My love, Sherlock."