A/N: This is it, more or less. There will be a short epilogue posted later today. Thank you all so much, those of you who read, for sticking with this the whole time. I know that it was a slow process, although I sincerely hope that you took at least some enjoyment out of it.


We can't. The words ring. They're ringing. They're an assault on Sherlock's senses and his limbs freeze and he can't concentrate on anything but all of the hopes that were spinning around and around, and how they're all flying straight out the back of his head. He can feel them ripping him at the seams and his breathing may or may not stop.

Sherlock.

No, no, no, no. Sherlock hadn't thought of this. It's impossible. He still can't think of it for that simple reason, because it's impossible. He feels a new, desperate heat coil inside of his chest and all he wants to do is scream to let it out to tell them all that they're wrong he's waited so long and he's tried so hard and he doesn't care what they do so long as they do it it doesn't matter if it hurts because at least he'll be alive and anything but –

Sherlock.

And then suddenly he's exhausted. Of course. He's become dull. The heat turns to cold, cold like the hatred he now feels for himself for losing himself within himself and he's sinking now, how could he not have –? Of course. Of course, of course. How could he be so naïve? Indulging his idiotic pride and planning a way out of this, when maybe all that he should have been planning was how to say goodbye.

Sherlock. Come back.

But he's too far gone for that.


John Watson hasn't seen his best friend in over a year, having, of course, assumed he was dead the whole time. He saw the Fall, he saw everything, and he's been haunted by it ever since. So, needless to say, when he received a call from Molly Hooper down at Bart's that he needs to see something now because John, Sherlock, he's alive, well, he was surprised.

To say the least.

He was also angry.

"Well why the fuck am I the last to know?"

"John, I'm sorry, we just thought it was best that…"

"Save it. I'll be right there."

So here he is. The basement is cold and damp - he didn't even know it had a basement - and his footsteps echo ominously throughout the unfinished halls. It's too quiet. Sherlock would hate it. Molly and Mycroft have already tried and failed too many times to talk to him to think now that he would respond. He's suffered for what seems like a thousand years beneath weights of heavy guilt and misery, and they knew the whole time. He thinks petulantly, They should have said something. I don't care what state he's in. I know how to take care of him, and they don't.

Although he'll have to admit, whatever he was expecting beforehand, it sure as hell wasn't this.


John, John, John. John, please. John, help, John, Please Help I Want To Get Out Of Here Please I'm Begging You To Find A Way.

I'm So Sorry For My Arrogance And All The Times I Made You Feel Like Less Than You Were.

Sherlock can feel himself drowning again, maybe for the last time. John's hand is still caught in his gown and he's shaking and if Sherlock could, he knows he would be crying and there's nothing more to say about that because he can't and so nobody has to see him Fall all over again. Especially not John.

Come back, come the weak taps. Stay calm. There's another pause, and he can feel John's breathing as it goes through the stages of Sherlock's own succession of thoughts; first ragged, then calm, then frenzied and then…resigned?

He poses the question on Sherlock's chest a different way, and the detective lets the words seep into him completely:

What do you need?


"Okay. Explain."

Sherlock is lying prone on a hospital bed, nearly every inch of him covered in bandages. The monitor beside him is beeping at an ever increasing pace, and the doctor stops in his tracks and turns to Molly and Mycroft when he says it.

Explain.

He doesn't really know why he asked. The words all fly over him instantaneously; words like "comatose" and "nerve damaged" and "paralyzed" and well then what's the point?

"Then why have you brought me here?" The two opposite him pass a look between themselves like a secret just waiting to be let out. John balls his fists at his side and takes a deep breath. "Is there even any hope?"

The air really is sucked out of the room. He thinks, maybe Sherlock can feel that too. Maybe he knows what's coming. Mycroft is the one that says it, but the words become muffled as his worst fears are all at once confirmed.

"We want you to be the one to let him go, John."

"Let…him…"

"John, there is no hope. We thought you would like the chance to…to say goodbye."

Molly adds quietly, "For real this time."


What does he need. Well, isn't that a question for the ages. He needs a lot of things – he needs to get out of his head and to get back in the flat and to solve more cases and feel the cold London air cut into his lungs as he goes about doing just that. He needs to see again, to see John and Mrs. Hudson and maybe even Mycroft, too. He needs to thank Molly. He needs to be able to tell whether or not he's dreaming or just…

No.

What does he…need? He wants all those things to be sure, he wants them with all of his heart, but. Oh, John, always the clever one. In so many ways, he was always the truly clever one of the two, wasn't he? Too clever for Sherlock. The question went straight over his head, but now he understands.

What does he need? He needs to get away. If he can't have what he wants, he has to settle for necessity. Without the prospect of life, what else is there to turn to? The gears of his mind finally slow down to a steady amble as he begins to see it all at once. He never thought he would live forever, did he?

He needs to let go. He's scared and his heart is quivering and now John's forehead is a warm weight on his chest and he's gotten this far and he needs to let go.

He taps wearily, and waits for a reply.


"That's what you brought me here for?" There are tears in Molly's eyes, and she wipes them with the sleeve of her coat while Mycroft stands stoic beside her. He sighs deeply, and the slight shaking in his voice betrays his expression.

"I'm sorry. We just thought, since you didn't get a chance before, and since you were his best friend –"

"Am."

"I'm sorry?"

"I am his best friend." Mycroft stares at him a long while before sighing again.

"Yes. Apologies."

John still can't quite take in the sight of Sherlock on the bed. All that's left visible and not obstructed by gowns and bandages are his closed eyes and some unruly tufts of hair. There are some slivers of skin that he can see among the forest of white, but John isn't sure he'd recognize him if he weren't here being told that he has to watch him die all over again.

"We had to clean him up a bit before you got here," he can hear Molly say between soft sobs. "Because it would have…it would have been a lot."

John nods once, quickly, which seems to signify that he's on board with this whole terrible ordeal, even though he's not. He could never say goodbye to Sherlock; not really. He'll deal with the ghosts and the nightmares – and he's sure that he'll be seeing this particular nightmare a lot – but it would be worth it, if he could just hear his friend's voice.

Mycroft says, "We need you to make him come to his own conclusion. He'll never accept it if he thinks that it's being forced upon him." John can tell that he's trying his best to detach himself from the situation, although he's not doing a very good job. It makes him respect the elder Holmes a little bit more. The doctor nods again.

"How do you think I'll do that?" He sees Sherlock's fingers begin to twitch and he jumps and looks towards his counterparts. Molly sees what he sees, but only shakes her head. He understands; don't get your hopes up. It doesn't mean anything. What little he had left keeping him upright deflates.

"We figure you'll think of something."

Sherlock taps rapidly, SOS, SOS, SOS. Yeah, John knows the feeling. He walks over and swallows thickly, and his hand shakes as he extends it, places it on the detective's chest. His mind bends.

Sherlock?


He figures to himself, this is it. There's silence, and then he can almost see John's face crumple all over again as the tears begin to spill. He's scared. They're both scared, but Sherlock can't even show it; cannot give his friend the last moment that he really deserves. Again.

Okay, John taps. Sherlock wants to burn down this barrier between the two of them, but it's his own body, so he can't. He wants to burn it all. He wants to burn all the things he's never said and all the actions that he's regretted and John, oh John, he supposes this will be his last chance to say it, so he does, and –

John, I love you. John, I always have, somewhere, John, you're the only one who's put up with me and who's laughed with and not at and thank you for everything and I'm sorry and goodbye and I love you.

It seems to take the last wind out of him, these words. And with that, he lets the darkness swallow him for one final time.

Goodbye.


"Has he answered?"

Let me go, Sherlock says.

"Yes."

"Has he said it?"

Let me go.

"Yes." Mycroft exhales, and the breath rattles out of him like something profane. Molly breaks down into more hysterics, and has to press her forehead to the wall. Mycroft steps forward as John lays his own head on Sherlock's chest and starts to whisper something he cannot remember; unintelligible. Maybe apologies, maybe confessions, maybe some of both. He'll never know.

Mycroft hesitates before doing it, and he shares more last words that John can't hear over the beating of his own heart.

He takes the syringe, and pumps it into one of Sherlock's many winding tubes, and that's when John feels it.

John, I love you. Oh, Sherlock, he knows. He lets out a single choked cry as the flat line rings, and then is silent. Sherlock is gone.

I know, he taps, I love you too, but it's too late. Sherlock Holmes has left the building.