Part 2: His Last Word
John sat alone in his study. He knew his time was ending, and he concluded that he wanted to leave with no regrets. He had come to terms with every decision he made. John dedicated the last few days to think about his life.
He thought about his childhood, growing up with his sister, Harry, and getting into tiny quarrels over nicked Smurfs and broken Action Man's. He thought about his time at the University of London; he reminisced over his pride when he first received his medical degree.
John's thoughts wandered back to his time in the British Army; he started to think about all the lives he saved then and wondered what had become of them, what they went on to do after the war. He thought about the Battle of Maiwand, and the memory of screams and sounds of shots and fire came back. His old wound tingled as he recalled the pain of the bullet etching itself into his shoulder.
He started to think about times after the war, when he was discharged from service because of his wound. He thought about his meeting with Stamford and how that impacted his life... His mind started to think for itself, going back to the times of 221B Baker Street... No, he told himself, I can't think about him. Not now.
So he moved on. He recollected his memories about his late wife, Mary Morstan. His blonde beauty. He loved Mary, everything about her. From her pale skin, to her way with kids. John hated to think about her, though. It brought back memories that he would rather have buried deep down, under lock and key. But he forced himself to think back to those last moments he had with Mary, repeatedly telling himself that he wanted to leave with no regrets.
He brought himself to think about her last day. She tried to stay strong for John. She laughed at silly jokes, and made small talk with anyone who came to say their last farewells. He remembered those last minutes when Mary and John just sat together, the silence conveying an entire conversation. Those final words that needed to be said, the last tears that needed to be shed. They had only minutes together, yet they made it last a lifetime.
He knew his time was almost up now, that it was close to the end for him, that the lights were dimming. He also knew that it was time to settle one last choice. He knew he had to make amends with one last person.
John grabbed his overcoat and an old deerstalker. He softly shut the door after himself, and stepped into the cold, brisk air of the autumn weather. He took small steps, his weak legs barely able to hold up the rest of his body. John put his hands in the pockets of the worn-out coat, and, with his head down, made the short walk to the old cemetery down the street.
When he reached the cemetery, he pushed open the creaky door, pushing gathered leaves away by doing so. John walked across the field, looking over the sea of graves. He could've walked blindly, he knew the path that well. He spotted the solid black headstone, standing out amongst the others, as always.
John forced his feet to trudge along; I have to do this, he told himself, I have to if I want to leave with no regrets. Now, he stood in front of the final resting place of his beloved friend, and he took a deep, shaky breath. The last time he was here, he had asked for one more miracle, one last surprise from his friend, and this time, he was asking for forgiveness.
In his head, John went on an entire rant about how sorry he was, how much he regretted never coming back for his friend. He gave a speech to the bones six feet under about how John always thought he was spectacular, about how he deserved someone better than John, someone who would've visited every day, and mourned him by night. Someone... someone else.
He told his old friend how shamed he was by his decision to never look back. John told him how he thought if he looked back, he would be lost. He explained to his friend how, with him, he knew everything. He knew exactly where he was going, even if he didn't know the road that well because his friend would've led the way. But... looking back... he would've lost himself in the memories... he would've tried to live in those moments long gone while knowing his friend would've wanted him to move on. And the last thing John wanted to do was dissappoint his friend.
He only now noticed the tears streaming down his face. With the back of his hand, he wiped them off. No regrets, he reminded himself, I can't go like this. No more blaming. And with that, his mind traveled to the one place that had gathered cobwebs and dust, the one place that waited eagerly for his return. His mind went back to that tiny old flat at 221B Baker Street.
John smiled as he thought about his days in that flat. He remembered all of his flatmate's deductions, as if he had done them yesterday. He remembered killing a man for another man which he had only known for a day. He remembered pink suitcases and creepy brothers. He remembered stolen ashtrays and would-be-exploding pools. He remembered clever women and pricey phones. He remembered oh-so much, but he would never be able to catalog it.
Most of all, he remembered hospitals. He remembered feelings of agony and pain and loneliness and longing. He remembered crazy criminals and assassins. He remembered flashes of anger at his friend for not figuring Moriarty's game out quicker. He remembered being angry at himself for not helping his friend as much as he should have. He hated himself for that, but his friend wouldn't have wanted that, so he let those feelings go away.
Oh, his friend... The one friend he had at the time... Sure, there were other acquaintances, but this one stood out. He was clever, fascinating, charming, and strangely likeable, as well as arrogant, imperious, pompous, and rather mad. Me and the Madman, John speculated, like Batman and Robin. We solved crimes, I blogged about it, and he forgot his pants. A typical day with him. He let out a small chuckle.
He sucked in a final breath, taking in all that was wonderful about this world. John watched the birds fly from branch to branch, following, with his eyes, a leaf flutter to the ground. He took in the last warm rays of sunshine, then he breathed out, and along with that crowning breath, he said the one thing that had haunted him all his life. The one thing the he had finally come to peace with.
"Sherlock..."
And with that last word, Sherlock died for the second and last time, bringing John Watson along with him.