Chapter 4: The Web

Okay, never mind. Two posts in one day, why not? I loved writing this story, and I hoped you loved reading it! Drop me a review, please! This was really hard for me to write. Character deaths, so you've been warned.

Spiders weave webs. Everyone knows this. The webs are their homes; they live on the webs, kill and eat on the webs, they settle down on the webs . . . and Sherlock's web is quite large.

Sherlock was now ninety-three years old. He and John had moved out into the country seven years ago and now they kept bees. Sherlock had studied bees when he was younger, but never like this. He found it . . . relaxing, soothing. It kept the boredom away, and the only darkness he knew now is that of sleep.

He settled back in his chair on the porch. He steepled his fingers like he so often had when he was younger and stared at the chessboard between himself and John. After years of practice, John had gotten fairly decent at chess. Sherlock moved his pawn forward silently, each old man lost in their own thoughts.

When Sherlock had fallen all those years ago, he came back three years later and John welcomed him back—after breaking his nose and blackening his eye. But Sherlock had expected that. Really, he had. John was married, and when Sherlock moved back into 221b Baker Street, John didn't move with him. John's wife (Mary, what a dull, common name) had realized John missed Sherlock. She was his wife; but sometimes friendship runs deeper than marriage. She hadn't divorced him; she didn't have the time. She had wound up with a bullet through her brain when Sherlock dragged John into yet another adventure. Their marriage had lasted three and a half years.

John had been devastated, of course. He had loved her. But he moved back in with Sherlock and it was like old times, albeit with new, fresh scars. They solved crimes, John blogged about it, and Sherlock did his best to forget his pants whenever his brother came calling.

But time marched on, and soon threads of Sherlock's web faded into dust.

First to go was Mrs. Hudson. She was quite old already and when Sherlock turned fifty one, she passed away naturally (not how she expected to go, she had joked with Sherlock the night before they found her cold, a smile on her face. She expected to go along with one of his mad adventures, perhaps through gunfire or poisoning.) Sherlock mourned, of course. She was like a particularly beloved aunt. John mourned, too. They visited Mrs. Hudson's grave, which was located in the same cemetery as Sherlock's had been.

Next was Gregory Lestrade. He was older than John (who was, in turn, one and a half years older than Sherlock), and so his heart attacks was not unexpected. There were three, and on the second he seemed resigned and told Sherlock and John it had been, no matter the uneven edges, a pleasure working with him. That had been the last they saw of him until the funeral. Sherlock and John both spoke words about him, Sherlock trying to keep his insults down to a minimum.

Molly was next; the little girl who tried so hard to help and saved Sherlock from a real fall. Sherlock had been confronting a killer outside of St. Bart's (he was now sixty three, but still acted like a four year old at times) and he had left John (again) and expected to get chewed out for it. He hadn't noticed the killer's accomplice sneaking up behind him, too caught up in his deductions. Molly had been leaving, and rushed over and jumped on the man, and he stabbed her. John arrived seconds late and dispatched both of the killers while Sherlock looked over Molly's failing body to see if she could be saved. She couldn't. She clutched his hand and he indulged her; he owed her, after all. But he did not expect her, with her last remaining strength, to lean up a kiss him on the lips. It was brief and light—just a fluttering thing around the lips.

"Thank you," She whispered as she lay down again. "Thank you for walking into my life. It's been a pleasure knowing and working with you, Sherlock." Sherlock, realizing how much this meant to Molly, who always did her best to hide her affections, stared at her with his impossible eyes. He softened them; Molly was dying to save him. He owed her yet again. She smiled and her eyes became deserted of life. John didn't say anything as Molly Hooper fled the world, though he did cry a few tears at her grave.

Throughout the years Sherlock heard of Angelo succumbing to AIDS, and Raz being gunned down in a street fight. He even knew Irene Adler (The Woman) died when she texted him (yet again) for the last time. Good bye, Sherlock she wrote and later Sherlock heard she was stabbed. There was no way she could have survived, for the video he managed to get ahold of clearly showed her (her measurements) and her falling with a glint of steel in her chest.

And then Mycroft died.

Sherlock was seventy six when Mycroft texted him for the last time. Sherlock pulled his phone out in annoyance and glanced at it.

GOODBYE, SHERLOCK. MH

He froze for a fraction of a second before yelling at John and grabbing his coat and scarf. He ran down the stairs as fast as his body would let him before sliding into the black car that was (of course) waiting for him.

Even dying, Mycroft looked smug. He sat stiffly in his bed. He was bald now, and still slightly over-weight. He told them he had cancer; they caught it too late and it was one where they had yet to discover a cure. He thanked John for looking after Sherlock, and it was for the first time Sherlock saw his brother use any semblance of real emotion. He looked completely and utterly sincere when he thanked John. John nodded, gave Mycroft a smile and his goodbyes, and left the two brothers alone.

"Brother," Mycroft said softly, and Sherlock felt his gaze rise to meet his brothers.

"Are you about to get sentimental on me?" He asked.

"Yes." Mycroft replied. "I might as well; after all, I might never see you again."

"Or you'll haunt me in the afterlife." Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft chuckled a bit. "I shall not disappoint you, then, if there is such a thing as the afterlife. Sherlock, I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. I hope you can forgive me." Both brothers knew what he referred to; Sherlock would not have had to fall and alter his life had Mycroft not sold him out to Moriarty. Mycroft had not apologized then; so he was doing so now.

"You are forgiven, Mycroft." Sherlock said. Mycroft nodded, satisfied and his ridged face relaxed. He breathed out once, his eyes closed, and the man who was the British Nation left the world.

There are now four graves Sherlock and John visit.

First is Mrs. Hudson's. Her gravestone was made of Balmoral Red Granite. Her name, birthdate, and death date were placed on it. Sherlock had written on it 'I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper' because both John and Sherlock loved teasing her about it. It was not officially part of the grave; they refreshed the paint every time they visited the site.

Lestrade's gravestone was made of Larvikite. His name and birth and death dates also were engraved on the stones. His family had the family crest engraved on the stone as well as the family motto. Sherlock and John (well, John had) told the gravestone when Anderson and Donovan passed away, Donovan from a series of strokes and Anderson from one of his mistresses getting tired of him cheating on him and bashing his brains out. Sherlock insulted all of them and laughed.

Molly's was made of sandstone, with little angels carved on it. Her family had all died off, so John had taken care of the gravestone. Below it he had put; "A loyal friend is hard to see; she died for her friends and is finally free." Sherlock thought, if he were feeling particularly sentimental, that the saying fitted Molly perfectly. He had not, nor would he ever have thought little Molly Hooper would die for him. Perhaps he was getting soft, in his old age, he mused.

Mycroft's gravestone was made of the same stone as Sherlock's. It just had his name. Sherlock had designed it, and he and John thought that as the man was invisible to the world in his life, only his name would be known in death.

So Sherlock and John, at the age of eighty six and eighty seven respectively, moved out into the country coming up to London three or four times a year to visit the four graves. Time passed and the two friends lived quite comfortably. People had long since given up saying that they were a couple, and they stayed flatmates (or housemates now) in the country. The little house was stuffed with Sherlock's experiments and there were five bee hives that Sherlock occupied himself with. John yelled at Sherlock for putting body parts in random places and shooting guns when he got too bored (but he never argued against the violin, as Sherlock kept making more and more compositions that described both of their lives perfectly.) All in all, they were happy.

Sherlock and John continued playing their game of chess into the night until Sherlock won, smirking. John grabbed his walking stick (which he needed for real this time) and Sherlock stood shakily up. They both hobbled down the steps for their customary evening stroll. Their walks had to be shortened as the years flew by, and by now the most they could do was walk to the grove of trees a hundred yards away and back.

They wandered through the fields until John got about to talking.

"I feel our time is near." He said matter of factly, his voice cracked with age. "Can you feel it?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied. His voice was still deep, thought it, too, betrayed his age. His hair was pure silver (which John grumbled about because his hair was more of a dark greyish) and wrinkles lined his once smooth face. His eyes were still piercingly sharp, though. John was not much better off; he had wrinkles, too and he had to hunch over as he stood which irritated the old solider.

"Mm," John limped sagely along. "Bet I'll outlive you."

"You will not!" Sherlock snapped. "I'm younger; I'll out live you."

He and John took one look at each other and burst out laughing.

"Sh, Sherlock, we can't laugh about our deaths!"

"You're the one who brought it up!" This reminded them of their first case; where they were laughing about the death of Jeff Hope, the cabbie. They burst into another fit of laughter and turned to head home.

The government had a lady check up on them once a week (Mycroft had left instructions in his will, of course), and two days later she found Sherlock Holmes and John Watson dead.

They had obviously seen it coming; they were sitting in their old chairs, John's plump red one and Sherlock's stiff dark green one. Their beds were un-slept in. John had a cup of tea near him. Sherlock was clutching his violin, bow in hand, and seemed to have just finished playing a simple, sweet melody. They looked to be sleeping, their faces were peaceful.

The old skull on the mantle place leered at the bodies.

Forensics officers determined they had died of natural causes, but as for who died first; the time was too close together to tell. They had simply . . . died together.

Sherlock and John were buried side-by-side with the other four graves. Sherlock's gravestone from all those years ago was brought forth again and John's was made of Carrara Marble. Their names were added, one made of the blackest stone and the other from white, and people would pass by without a glance. The six gravestones were silent as the days trudged by, and one spring an orb weaver spider set itself to making a web between the black stone and the white one.

Spiders make webs. Everyone knows this. Sherlock's had grown and expanded his entire life. It started taking a true pattern when he met John Watson, but John was simply several threads in the immense structure. He just helped Sherlock make sense of the rest.

XoX

Sherlock and John stood in a white mist. They looked around and saw each other. They looked younger; both were now the ages when they had first met. Sherlock's hair was now black again; his piercing eyes still darted around. John had his stress lines and his warm smile. Sherlock and John looked silently at each other for a couple of seconds.

"Ready for the next adventure, John?" Sherlock asked his usual excited glint in his eyes. He looked John up a down and John felt the usual sense of being deduced.

"Oh God yes." John replied. He stood straight, back like a rod. From being bent over all those years it felt nice to stand again.

"Could be dangerous." Sherlock continued in his impossibly deep voice. In the distance, both were thrilled to hear police sirens.

John grins. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

And the two best friends, one the world's only consulting detective, the other his one and only friend, laughed ran forward into the mist for their next great adventure.

The End