Yep, sorry about this.
This whole fic was written in one day. Yep.
Thank you for reading, this is the last chapter.
Chapter
After about one month, though , Sherlock told John he was leaving the school.
"It's just so I can get ready for the transplant. After it, I'll be back." He said.
So John was constantly on the Holmes' mansion. The driver would get him at the school after classes and take him back by the morning. And it was extremely weird, because now they seemed even sadder than before. Shouldn't they be happy? Shouldn't they be acting normal? Well, maybe John didn't know that family so well.
But a lot of things were weird. First, Sherlock was weaker. And he understands that, without the transplant, he would get weaker until it was done. But he was gasping just to go up and downstairs. After 20 days, he asked John to wait until after the transplant for them to have sex again, since he wasn't being able to keep himself conscious during physical effort.
After 50 days, however, John had to help him taking shower.
That night, Sherlock apologized as they lay on the bed. He was ashamed of his dependence and thankful for having John. He didn't want his mother or father to help him with that.
"Don't be silly, Sherlock, I'll help you with anything." Said John, lying on his bed, turned to him.
Sherlock was thinner, paler. His collarbones were always a lot apparent, but now he could even count a few ribs on his chest. And the bruises were more frequent than ever.
"Thank you, John. You're unbelievable."
"Oh, come on, anybody would do that!"
Sherlock gave him a soft smile and caressed his face. His pupils were lot dilated in his green deep eyes. "No, John. Only you would ignore my past and everything people were talking about me to be my boyfriend, even being straight before that. Only you would know how to make me happy during this illness, and only you would be able to love a freak like me."
John's eyes watered. "You talk like if it was such a sacrifice." He kissed the hand caressing his face. "And you are not a freak. You're the best man… and the best human being that I've ever known. It's not a sacrifice to be by your side, it's… the best thing I ever did, and I'm happy that I'll be able to be with you forever. Until the day I die."
Sherlock closed his eyes as a tear rolled. "Yes. It's…uh…" he bit his lip, swallowed and opened his eyes again. They were red and bursting into tears. "John, would you… marry me?"
John felt his heart beating extremely fast and his soul getting warmer. "Of course, Sherlock. Of course I'll marry you. Someday we'll get married, we'll adopt a child, and we'll live together, till we get old and grumpy."
Sherlock clenched his fists and closed his eyes once more, breathing heavily. The tears didn't seem to care if his eyes were closed. They were streaming down his face to the pillow like a furious river. "Yes. But I wanna marry you. Now".
"Now? What do you mean, now?"
"This week." He answered, gasping. He hugged John strong as he could, his hands trembling, his whole body shaking. "We'll get married this week."
"Sherlock…" John's eyes were beginning to water as he began to comprehend the truth. His chest ached again and he hugged him back just as firmly. "Why… why don't we wait until after the transplant?"
Sherlock choked with his tears. "Because… I can't wait…"
"Why can't you wait, Sherlock? You'll be fine, you will-… we will grow old together, and live a long happy life… won't we?"
Sherlock sobbed. He gritted his teeth and tried to talk, but he took about three minutes before a comprehensible word would come out. "You will." He answered, and coughed as his voice failed. "John… I don't wanna be alone…", he gasped, in a desperate voice.
"You're not alone, Sherlock, I'm here!" he said, already drowning in his own tears.
"I'm gonna… die alone." He whispered, and hid his face on John's shoulder, damping his pyjama.
John's hands began to shake violently. "You won't die alone, Sherlock, you…"
"It's too late, John." He whined. "It's… too late…"
"It's not, within 10 days we'll to the transplant, we-"
"It's too late." He repeated. "It was too late for me. The transplant can't save me." He confessed, pressing John's hands on his one.
That moment, John's heart stopped for some seconds. The supernova that had formed in his chest when he knew they were compatible was consumed by a new dark hole.
His mouth opened, his throat seemed to be twisted and pressed until he was suffocating. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't talk, and his chest was a deep confusion of bitterness, sadness and agony.
John wished to be dead.
He wished that he had a sudden illness that would kill him right now, with a blink of an eye. Just so he could stop feeling anything.
"How… how long do we…"
"At any day now."
Any day.
Tomorrow? The day after?
Tonight?
"You are my one in one hundred thousand, John, you're my everything, and the best thing I ever had." Sherlock said. "Don't feel bad for me, because not many 80 years old men can say they were happy as me."
"No… no, no, no, Sherlock…" his voice died in his throat. "We were supposed to be together, we were supposed to have kids and…"
"You will. Just not with me." He said, with a soft and sad smile.
John couldn't answer anymore. Instead, he simply hugged him strong as he could, close as possible.
Sherlock Holmes was in an unstoppable trip away from this world, away from John, away from his mother, father and brother. He was afraid of dying alone, and he was leaving behind people afraid of living alone. He was leaving behind John Watson, the man who, in another life, maybe, would be his best friend, his lover, his husband, not for just a couple years, but for a lifetime. Because John Watson was his one in one hundred thousand. That one person who changes you, and makes you wanna change into a better human being. The one like no other, who seems to understand you better than anybody else, better than yourself. The only one person in the world that worth living and dying for, abandoning everything you thought you cared about. John Watson was that person for Sherlock, and Sherlock was that person to John. They were pieces of one single heart, and for some reason, the piece representing Sherlock was cracked and ill. And the piece representing John was breaking into a million pieces.
John Watson would never be complete again. He would live the rest of his life alone, but Sherlock was not dying alone.
No.
John Watson was there, inside of him, dying with him.
And after just one more week, after a brief ceremony of marriage, John Watson felt Sherlock's hand loosening from his grip as he whispered the last 'thank you'. And the eyes, the green eyes of the 17 years old boy, shining from the tears, those beautiful eyes where John found love, suddenly stopped shining, stopped seeing, stopped loving. Because Sherlock Holmes would love John Watson until the day he died, until his very last breath. But John Watson still loved Sherlock Holmes for another lifetime, and in the life after that, until he would find him again, his one in one hundred thousand, his soulmate.
His Sherlock.