John Watson's smile hadn't changed in fifty years. And it still managed to make my heart stutter every time he aimed one in my direction.
"Are you sure?" I asked, knowing it was meaningless. He knew I was ready, and I knew he was ready. We didn't need to vocalise it anymore.
"Sherlock," he muttered, giving me a wry smile.
I took his hand and led him up the stairs into the bedroom, slowly, as the arthritis was playing up a little for both of us.
The pills were sitting in a glass container on his bedside cabinet, but we ignored them, choosing to sit on the bed, side by side. Always together, side by side. As it should be forever.
He grasped my hand tightly, wrinkles and liver spots being stretched over old, weary skin.
"You're not afraid, are you?" I whispered, leaning against his shoulder.
"No," he replied, and I didn't doubt him. "This is all part of the adventure, isn't it?"
I smiled, turning my face to place a soft kiss into his partially bald head. "If you think so."
We were silent for a long time, just sitting and listening to the other breathe. It was so peaceful, almost like the silence was trying to be funny. It had been so loud and exciting the last fifty years, and now it was utterly still, but I had never felt so alive.
"I suppose I ought to tell you something," John said abruptly, and for one scary moment I thought he had changed his mind.
"What is it?" I asked gently.
"I just suppose I ought to thank you f-"
I cut him off with a finger to his lips. "John..."
"It's true, though," he continued. "I'd have been nothing without you."
I sighed, and pulled him close, wrapping withered arms around my companion. "And I without you."
He snorted derisively, but didn't argue. I would have been long dead without John Watson.
Minutes stretched into hours, and we just sat, and held on.
"Do you remember Jim?" John asked quietly, after a long silence. "And Molly? And Anderson?"
I grinned and chuckled, hugging him tighter. "Always."
John laughed at the memories. "And Lestrade. What a man."
"What a man," I repeated solemnly. Hazy memories of a silver-haired detective form many decades ago bombarded me. What a brilliant life I had lived.
"Do you remember when Mycroft kidnapped me and offered me money in exchange for information?" John sighed happily.
"I do. Pestering Mycroft," I mumbled, feeling John's soft jumper under my fingers. He smelt like sand and chocolate and cotton.
"Our first case together?" John continued.
"You shot the cabbie," I recalled. "I'll never forget."
"So many cases, so much time we've had. So much," John said softly.
We were silent for a long time.
"It's time now," John whispered, and I clutched at him closer.
"Okay," I whispered back.
He reached over and grabbed the pills from the cabinet. We were thinking the same thing: How ironic that we started with a bottle of pills, and now we are going to end with a bottle of pills.
He handed one to me, his gnarled fingers fumbling with the screw top. I clasped his hand in mine, and together we swallowed the pills, eyes not leaving the other.
I inhaled and exhaled breathily. Just a few minutes.
I shuffled back on the bed, and indicated for John to lie next to me. He did so, without ever letting go of my hand.
"I love you John," I told him, and he smiled. My heart stuttered.
"I love you too, Sherlock," he replied.
That was all that needed to be said, really.
We waited. I could feel myself becoming drowsy, but forced my eyes open.
"You always had such lovely eyes," he muttered, his own eyelids falling shut, but his free hand reached out and stroked my white hair.
"Wait for me, John," I warned him, my voice a whisper.
"Of course," he said, and I pulled him closer.
My breathing was matching his: short and weak.
"Wait for me on the other side?" I pleaded. "Stay with me?"
John made some sort of noise of agreement. "Oh, god, yes."
My vision went blurry. I heard John take a last breath, so I closed my eyes and did the same, smiling as I imagined how we looked.
Always together, side by side. As it should be forever.
Oh Jesus. What is wrong with me today? What is this hideous angst-fest?
Hope you...uh, enjoyed? There are lots of gaps in this, which you can interpret as you like, such as their ages (I was going for around 85 and 90) and where they live (in my head, they returned to their old flat for the end, but lived in Sussex keeping bees against their will) and Lestrade (in my head, he's dead by now. So's Mycroft.) and also, I wanted to make it seem like everything we know about them now, ie the Moriarty debacle and stuff, was all a distant memory to them. I wanted it to look like they'd had a lifetime of adventure, and the adventure is still going on.
And also, they are platonic in this. But, if you're wearing slash-goggles, that's fine. If you want to imagine old men having sex, that's fine. Whatever shakes your boat. It's all fine.
Keep safe, my dears.