The long afternoon wore on. Outside, a cold winter sun sat in a clear blue sky, shining on the clean white snow that had fallen the previous night. The icy blanket was untouched hold a set of footprints leading from a carriage waiting in the street, up to the small cottage, surrounded by a field of sleeping beehives.
Inside, a tall, thin, old man, by the name of Sherlock Holmes, reclined in a brown leather chair, in front of the fireplace that added much needed warmth to the room already illuminated from outside. The man's eyes were dull with worry as he stared at the fire as it burned hypnotically, dancing amidst the logs, but the man did not see it, lost in his thoughts. They were old, him and Watson both, but still, he could barely believe that his beloved friend had fallen so terribly ill after all these years.
They had long since retired to the country, left retirement to serve their country in the great war, and returned to live out the remainder of their already plentiful years together. Just that Sunday, Watson had joined him in one of their many outings to the beach. They had swum in the clear blue water and lunched on the sandy shore, with much chatter and laughter between them.
And then Watson had fallen ill. At first they had thought it to be nothing, just a cold, but by the time three days had passed, and Watson's condition had greatly deteriorated, Holmes declared it time to fetch a doctor. But a blizzard struck, and so they waited. In the end, it was a miracle he had managed to find a doctor willing to brave the snow to see to an old man whose days were already numbered.
"Mr. Holmes" the doctor's voice awoke the former consulting detective from his reverie.
"Yes?" Holmes replied, turning to face the young man, recently arrived in the country, formerly of a London practice.
"It's too late," he said apologetically, "I doubt he'll make it to evening, let alone through the night. I'm sorry."
That was it. The end. Holmes couldn't believe it. They had lived through so much, only to die now of sickness. It was ironic at best. Still, Watson was not dead yet. There was still a chance- a chance to say goodbye. He supposed he was lucky for the opportunity to share a few last words, but he didn't feel lucky.
With that, the old man forced himself from the chair, with waning strength, and strode into the master bedroom, closing the door behind him – a habit born of necessity. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the little light that crept past the heavy curtains that covered the windows and shone from a small lantern on the nightstand. The room was over-warm and stuffy, but Holmes paid it no heed.
All he saw was the familiar figure laying in their bed. They had spent countless nights there, but still, Sussex was not home. In many ways it was home, but never like Baker street had been, and they had never actually owned their flat there. For a moment they remained still, as if frozen in place by some unknown force. Sharp grey eyes latched on to warm blue ones.
Finally, Holmes broke the heavy silence, "Good afternoon, my dear friend." he said.
"Good afternoon." Watson replied with a slight smile and a voice hoarse from sickness, "Do have a seat." he motioned to a spot on the bed.
Holmes sat where he was bid. Watson tried to sit up, but Holmes stopped him, "Don't strain yourself."
"Holmes, I'm almost gone, there's not much more damage that can be done." Watson replied with a weak chuckle, but listened all the same.
"I know, I know." Holmes let out a sigh.
For some time they sat in silence, merely enjoying what was left of the other's company. Then Watson propped himself up on an elbow. Holmes moved automatically to support him.
"Don't miss me too much." Watson looked straight into Holmes eyes, his expression serious, as he spoke.
Holmes stared back, "You know I cannot promise..."
"I know." there was another long pause, "I suppose one can only cheat death for so long... It's been an honor."
"The honor is all mine." Holmes replied, before leaning in for one last kiss.
It was warm and sweet, and kind of clumsy, but above all else, it was undeniably theirs. Arms wrapped around each other in tender embrace as they were one.
They did not break apart until Watson's heart shuttered in his chest and stopped. It was then that Holmes bent over his friend and cried.
Watson sat up, leaving a broken body behind, as Holmes laid it neatly on the bed. He felt younger, stronger than he had in a long, long time, but there were more important, more pressing matters at hand than his newfound strength. There was Holmes, his beloved Holmes, weeping, sobbing, at his side.
"No! Don't cry!" he internally exclaimed, "Please, do not mourn me. I am here, I am well."
But he knew Holmes would not be able to hear him, for as much as he did not feel it, he was dead. He stretched out an arm, in an attempt to comfort his friend, his partner, his love, but his hand went right through, sending a shiver down both their spines.
Suddenly, an impulse, of which he could not divine the source, struck him, and he looked up. Standing in the corner of the room was an indescribably beautiful androgynous figure, dressed in pure white robes, framed by snowy wings. It stood on but one leg - the strange things one notices under strange circumstances.
"Follow me." the angel said – in that instant Watson knew what it was.
"No!" he replied before he could stop himself, "I cannot leave him!"
"We cannot remain here. I will take you somewhere where we can wait for his time to come, so he can join you."
Watson nodded in consent, despite his unsureness under the circumstances.
The world began to fade around them until Watson found himself in a white pocket of space. On one end there was a window into what he knew to be Earth. He raced over to it and found that he could see Holmes.
The former detective still sat on the bed, holding Watson's lifeless hand. Tears flowed from his eyes, but he did not weep, as he had before. After a moment the door swung open and the young doctor entered, quietly. He exchanged a few words with Holmes, too quiet to be heard, and helped him from the stuffy room.
"Where is this?" Watson asked, not looking away from the world of the living.
"Between heaven and Earth." was the soft, melodious reply.
Watson nodded.
Holmes followed the simple casket, carried by men who worked at the funeral home. He and two other friends of Watson's were the only people who would mourn him. It was a shame. Watson was a great man, he deserved more in death. The ceremony was short and simple, but as Holmes watched his dearest friend being lowered into the ground, he could not help but cry, once more.
"You must be a great man," the angel remarked, "to be loved so."
"I am but his biographer and assistant, Holmes is the great one." Watson replied.
Holmes sat in the living room, scraping at the violin. A solemn tune, invented on the spot, echoed from the fragile instrument. He had often played there, Watson in the other chair writing or reading or just listening as Holmes poured his thoughts and emotions through music. They did not need talk to enjoy one another's presence, not like Holmes had quieted much over the long years. He smiled a small sad smile. He knew, that at least he did not have too much longer.
Holmes would join him soon, that Watson knew. It was a bittersweet sensation, the idea of seeing Holmes again, mixed with the thought that it would come with the great detective's death. But then what? Once they were together, they would go wherever they were destined. They, sinners under god... and the angel knew. It hit him with absurd suddenness.
He turned to face the angel for the first time since his arrival in the area between, "Please!" he begged, "Holmes is a great man! He has saved many lives! It is his only sin! Please! Take me in his stead! Allow me to fulfill both our punishments!"
The angel gave him a look of utter confusion, "You have killed, but paid your dues in life. Sherlock Holmes has done no wrong. He has done much good, we are much indebted to him."
It was Watson's turn to be confused, "Relations between men," he attempted to explain, "They- they're prohibited..."
"Love is no crime here."
"Thank you." Watson replied graciously, unable to keep a wide smile of relief from his face, as he turned back to the window.
It neared midnight one day early in spring. The room they had once shared was dark. Holmes slept peacefully, his chest rose and fell with every breath he took. His heart pounded steadily, propelling the red liquid of life through his body. Suddenly he took in a sharp breath, gasped for air, and fell still. He moved no more.
"It is time." the angel said.
The white faded back into the dark colors of Earth until he was there, standing beside Holmes's dead body in the home he had once been a part of. He remembered the first time Holmes had "died" fallen off a cliff, taking criminal mastermind, James Moriarty, with him, for all Watson knew. But Holmes hadn't died then. He had lived and they had been reunited three years later. And in a way, this was the same, wasn't it? It was just he who had died first, and it was on the other side that they met once more.
Holmes's spirit sat, detaching itself from the body it had long been tied to. For an instant, their eyes met. Then Holmes – young and fit as ever – threw himself from the bed and they warmly embraced.
"It is good to see you again, old friend." Watson said, holding tightly onto the former consulting detective.
"Yes, it is." Holmes replied.