Chapter Four

John changed me, in some ways. My silences grew shorter and the days grew longer, because now I had someone to talk to, the throw ideas and deductions at. I had someone to eat dinner with (when I ate) and to watch crap telly and the occasional football match with, someone to abuse Anderson with. Someone to run from danger with, knowing we'd be safe if we made it through together. I had someone who would willingly die for me. That was the strangest thing of all. John's loyalty.

That evening in the pool, when John stood before me, speaking Moriarty's words, ready to give up his own life in exchange for my own, my heart (a creature which rarely, if at all, reared its head) leapt and plummeted, diving and twisting as it fell through the air without anyone to catch it. I couldn't let him die for me. Not for me.

As soon as I had ripped the overcoat and poorly-fashioned IEDs from his body, my breath came ragged and my voice hoarse. My friend, my best friend John Watson had nearly been killed because of me, because of knowing me. I was disgusted with myself, that I had led him here and that he would not question following. It plagued and paralyzed me: if he were to die for me, I would be alone again, without him, his subtle cleverness, his stupid habits, his fondness for Doctor Who, his steady eyes that knew me just as I knew him. I introduced him as my flatmate, but he called me friend. My friend, John Watson.

I pretended that I didn't care about him, but I did. That's what terrified me: sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side. I had begun to lose, to lose against John Watson.

I didn't care, not normally. I didn't care about victims, killers, and thieves, nor did I care about the idiots I was forced to go through to get to them. I hadn't cared about Mycroft in a long time. The Adler woman was a fleeting diversion. But John – he was my best mate, a phrase I had never accorded to anyone before. For him to die would be – what? Merely a puzzle again, with nothing to make its pieces fit together anymore.

Another day, we sat side by side on a bench in Hyde Park, watching people pass. It was a dreary sort of day, like many during a London autumn. John was sipping coffee and tossing breadcrumbs from a paper bag to a flock of wayward pigeons; I was watching the passers-by, deducing from afar their lives.

Him. Balding, fat, moderately intelligent. Forty-two and half years old; married with one child who has a congenital heart defect. Works for BT and cheated with the nanny. Unhappy. Distinctly unhappy.

Her. Twenty-seven and three quarters of a year old. Born in Cornwall, raised in Kent. Educated? In America, most likely at Brown. Mother died of cancer when she was eight. Boyfriend is uninterested in her and probably gay. Unhappy. Distinctly unhappy.

Him. Five years and two months old. Wants to be an aeroplane or a purple crayon when he grows up. Parents are settling a nasty divorce. Father is an alcoholic. Likes cows. Happy as he is.

"Do you think of death much, John?" I asked, rather abruptly. He threw a handful of breadcrumbs a bit too hard into the sea of pigeons, which took to the air as though affronted.

He drew in a long breath. "Only when I've got to." He was remembering Afghanistan and lying through his teeth.

"Do you think they do?" I replied, indicating the passers-by with a shake of my head in their direction. John looked surprised at me.

"No –"

Here John paused for a moment, unsure of what to say next. He looked towards the sky, and milky clouds were reflected in his eyes. "– not really, Sherlock. I mean, it's a thought that kind of comes over you in the middle of the night, wondering what's it's like, if you'll die alone, what comes after. That sort of thing."

"Do you?" I tried to make my voice gentler, more human, but it came out sounding forced and flinty. John's face clouded. He was thinking.

"Almost always," he whispered. My heart reeled and writhed again; we were the same.

He took another shuddering breath. "Almost always, Sherlock. My dad died when I eleven. Great man, he was. Killed in action. I'm – I'm always thinking about it, since Afghanistan. Dreaming about it. I can't help but think that someday, somehow –" John cut himself short, and I longed to know what he would have said.

"You'll die?" I asked.

"No, no. It's – it doesn't matter." I left it at that.

After a long, pregnant silence, John lifted his head, turned, and looked at me so piercingly that I felt some kind of momentary shockwave pass though me.

"Do you think of it?" he asked me, eyes still trained on mine.

"Yes," I murmured. "I do. Nearly constantly."

John choked.

"I just – I just want you to know," said John, an troubled look on his face. "That if you die, I'm coming with you. I don't care where it is we go, after. I'm coming with you."

Something between us burst in the air, floated downwards and settled on us as I held John's eyes with my own.

"Thank you," I managed to whisper, after a time. "Thank you, John. You're my best friend."

"I thought I was your only one," said John with a shaky smile.

"The only and best. Always."