ATONEMENT

FINAL CHAPTER:

FORGIVENESS

Sherlock asks himself if he has fixed all the things he had once destroyed. He wonders if he had atoned, if all the demons he has inside will, in some moment, go away. Sherlock asks himself if he has paid for his crimes. He can't even conceive of why he has outlived so many good people when he had killed John Watson.

A young, blond haired, blue-eyed, short man opens the door and walks slowly over until he's standing next to the man he is looking for. Until he is next to Sherlock. He kneels and caresses Sherlock's wet cheek and wipes his tears away. He caresses every wrinkle, his cheekbones, his forehead. He lets a thumb travel over Sherlock's warm lips and smiles.

Sherlock does not look surprised, not at all. He knew this was going to happen. Sherlock knew this was meant to happen.

"Have you come for me?" he says, and all the fear disappears.

John nods. "Yes Sherlock, I've come for you."

This time he won't faint. This time his mind won't be imagining the conversation. This time, tonight, Sherlock will face his victim, his crime, his sins.

Tonight Sherlock is going to die.

Tick-tock,

Tick-tock,

Tick-tock,

Tick-tock,

Tick-tock...

For more than forty years, Sherlock's clock has been striking the hours. Tonight the clock will stop.

Sherlock smiles and lets out a relieved sigh. "You don't know how much I wanted you to come for me, John. Every night I closed my eyes thinking I would never wake up, that I'd be somewhere else with you. It took you forty years."

John chuckles. There's something in Sherlock's words which is slightly wrong. "Long time, isn't it?"

"It felt like a lifetime."

"You old man! Now you're exaggerating!," says John, jokingly. "But look at you, you look as handsome as I remember. Who would have thought Sherlock Holmes would look this sexy at the age of eighty two?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and laughs. His laughter becomes contagious and John laughs as well.

"Don't lie to me, John Watson. I'm not sexy, I'm old. I have white hair, wrinkles and two aching knees."

"Ha-ha. Well, a little birdie told me the old ladies at the church don't think the same! They find you quite attractive, you know."

The old man frowns. "That's the problem when you move to the country side, you see. Lots of widows hoping to get married for a second or a third time, looking for a husband who will help them with their knitting, who will listen to their monologues about their rheumatics and their hip problems for twenty-four-seven."

"Miss Woolf was nice. She would have been a very sweet wifey."

"I once delivered two jars of honey to her house and she practically jumped on me, John."

John explodes, laughing loudly. Sherlock joins him. A few years ago, the very small village that he had moved to organized a special contest in which all the locals could exhibit their products. The old ladies showed their roses and different kind of flowers. Some men and old couples exhibited the vegetables and fruits, product of their own orchard. Sherlock was the only one who presented his own jars of honey and he even took a hive with him, and explained how his bees worked, and the jury, all old ladies from sixty to eighty, decided he was the winner. That was the moment when Sherlock Holmes caught the attention of the local old widows and spinsters. He soon became quite famous in the village, not only because he was the amazing detective who came from London, but because of his honey and his bee hives.

One of the interested ladies was Miss Woolf, who used to be Mrs Smith, an old lady of approximately sixty years old who almost drove Sherlock crazy. She would buy one or two jars of honey every week, she would casually run into Sherlock at the shops and sometimes she would invite him for tea at her cottage. Sherlock didn't dislike her completely, she was nice, amenable. Sherlock deduced she used to be a very caring and sweet wife, but she was very lonely after her husband's death. Even if he knew she had a very good heart, Sherlock only liked her as a neighbour and nothing else.

"Why don't you tell me about these last forty years, huh? You said it was a lifetime, so you'd better tell me everything," says John as he sits next to Sherlock on his bed. Even when he already knows everything about Sherlock, he wants him to tell him. John wants to hear it from his own lips. John has missed Sherlock for so long that tonight, he wants to hear his voice. Only his voice.

The detective nods and looks into his blue eyes before talking. "Mrs Hudson died a year and a half after you. She left 221 Baker Street to me. Her nieces were quite nice, I've never expected them to be like that since I was "the insufferable tenant who had always put her life in danger", as they once called me many years ago after Moriarty and my fake suicide."

"I remember them saying it, yes."

"Molly married Bertie, you knew him, the owner of "The King's Arms". They had a daughter, Olivia, who's the new manager of the pub. She has managed to start a new chain of pubs all around London and Dublin. That girl has brains for business. Molly and Bertie were so proud of their daughter." Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "They died a few years ago. Bertie was very ill, and a few months after his death Molly died. I suppose she couldn't stand a life without her husband."

John nods. He knows they died. And Sherlock is right, Molly couldn't endure the pain, she couldn't live a life without Bertie, who was the love of her life. Molly couldn't just continue, even when she had a daughter who needed her. But as everything else, it was part of a plan.

Like his life, like Sherlock's.

"I am very sorry for Molly. But I'm happy she got to be with Bertie. He adored her."

"Lestrade died as well. Too much coffee, said the doctors," explains Sherlock and John takes his hand. "I can't believe I have outlived some many people."

John smiles. Of course Sherlock was meant to outlive so many people. It was written, and even when it's sad, Sherlock was bound to bury his friends. He was bound to bury them, to visit their graves and to be the last one in this world.

After a long silence, John asks after Mary.

"And what happened with Mary?"

"She is my friend, and my ex-wife" says Sherlock, but he looks at John and twists his mouth, confused. "You don't look surprised."

"Why would I be surprised?"

The old detective frowns. "We did marry."

"I'm not quite following you, Sherlock," says John, confused.

"What's going on in your brain? God did something to your brain, didn't he?"

John laughs. "For God's sake, Sherlock."

"I thought you'd be upset."

"Why would I be upset? Did Mrs Hudson give you my letter?"

"Yes," Sherlock nods.

"Well, I wrote that you needed to find love again, have a family and be happy. And you did all of that, didn't you? So, why would I be upset?"

"I was married to you."

"I died, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods and looks down at the ring on his left hand. There's an awkward and long silence in which both men don't say a word. John closes his eyes and listens to Sherlock's soft, calm breathing. Even the beat of his old heart can be heard, and the old detective takes his hands. It surprises him to feel John's hand warm, not cold as on that day on which he found his dead body.

"I asked her three years after her husband's death. I waited the proper time until she got over her loss," explains Sherlock, breaking the silence between them.

John smiles, to Sherlock surprise. "And what happened?"

"It was John's six year old birthday. We went out to have dinner, the three of us. When we got back to the flat we put John on bed and then we were alone in the sitting room, drinking tea and talking about the boiler, whether we needed to have it repaired when I asked her if she would marry me."

"What did she tell you?" asks John, curious.

"She said we couldn't because we were friends."

"And what did you say?"

"I told her you were also my friend and we got married."

"But we loved each other."

"Mary said she loved me."

"Maybe she meant as a friend?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Mycroft said we were confused because we lived together. She used to make breakfast and dinner and I would wash the dishes. We were raising John, we went to see his plays, we went to the parent's evenings together. Mycroft said we were like a couple, but without the kissing and the intimacy a proper couple would have."

"And then what happened?"

"We both knew we would only be replacing our dead husbands. But on the other hand, she wanted me to adopt John. She didn't have anyone to take care of him in case something happened to her. And I was his godfather, but legally speaking, if something happened to her, I wouldn't have any rights to her son."

"You adopted John?"

The old detective nods. "We got married and then I adopted John."

John smiles. "I'm very happy for you, Sherlock."

"Don't be. We divorced soon afterwards," says Sherlock and smiles. "I wasn't a good husband."

"What happened there?"

"We were friends. And even when we tried, we couldn't love each other as much as we wanted to," Sherlock smiles, and suddenly he remembers something. "Mary was nice. But I knew she would be happier with someone else. John... I thought you cheated on me with her. I even asked Mycroft if you had ever engaged in any kind of relationship with her."

"Why did you think that?"

"Because I saw her and it was written all over her face. She loved you."

"Yes, she did."

"Did you know?"

"Yes," replies John and looks down at his hand and his own fingers, entwined with Sherlock's. "I knew. But I... she was very nice, sweet and she was there when I needed her. But I couldn't love her. I could have never loved her as she wanted me to, I only loved her a friend. I regret not having told her that, and not telling her how grateful I was for having her as a friend. The same with Molly and Greg. They were amazing people."

Sherlock nods, and suddenly he glances at the book on his bedside table. "Mary is writing."

"Really?"

"She used to help me with a few cases -."

"When you say a few, I know you mean a lot."

Sherlock chuckles. "It amazes me to see how much you know me, John."

"Of course I know you. And I also know you dragged her to every crime scene in which you needed a medical point of view or simply to annoy Lestrade."

"Yes, I did. But she enjoyed it. She worked with me for years until she got married and then until John was born. She wrote everything about our cases together, and now there are a lot of books about them, casebooks, comics. The BBC is filming a TV series. And there's a good actor who's going to portray you."

"God, are you supervising that?"

"Mary's in charge of that. The writers and the actors were keen to meet me and ask me whether I agree with their work. The leading actor dyed his hair so he would look like me. And the actor who's going to portray you asked about you, about what I remembered about you. I gave him your walking stick. He's going to use it while filming the first episode; I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. But I don't know if I'd like to see someone trying to be me, so to speak."

"Neither do I, but I'm dying tonight, am I not?"

"Yes you are."

They fall into a long silence again, only interrupted by Sherlock's quiet sobs. There are endless tears falling from his gray, tired eyes.

"Why are you crying? You haven't cried for years."

"I'm crying because I've missed you. It has been very long years, John."

"I've missed you too," admits John with a nod.

"John, do you think I've... atoned myself? Have I paid for all the things I did to you?"

John smiles and looks at the photographs on the walls. Some of them are old pictures, those old pictures he left in one last attempt to think, to believe, Sherlock still loved him when he was about to die. And next to Sherlock, on his bedside table, is a framed picture of him and Sherlock. They are both smiling, and Sherlock has an arm around John's waist. Both look happy in that picture.

Atonement.

Do you think I've atoned myself? Such words John always imagined would never be pronounced by Sherlock. John always believed Sherlock never knew and would never say, would never apply them to himself. And yet, look at him now, crying, sobbing like a baby, asking John as if he were a jury if he had accomplished his conviction, if what he had done was the right thing, if the life he had after his death was good enough after having the privilege to outlive the man he killed.

"You haven't atoned yourself, Sherlock. And you haven't paid for anything," says John and for a moment, Sherlock fears what he will tell him, but when he looks at his smile, that strange sensation of fear inside his chest disappears. "What you have been doing all these past years was having the life you were always supposed to have. You have got a wonderful family, Sherlock. I'm very proud of you."

Sherlock's long and calloused fingers are entwined with John's short and soft ones. Something inside Sherlock makes him feel very happy. Seeing John, so young, so healthy, so happy, so full of life even when he's dead now, even when he's only something he cannot even explain, but he's John and he has come for him. This is the John he remembers, the John he has built inside his mind palace thanks to Mrs Hudson's help and thanks to John's last letter and those photographs he left, those photographs he looked for and didn't find until John's last gift was given to him.

John's hands are warm, soft. They are the exact opposite to the hands Sherlock had touched that morning forty years ago on the saddest day of his life. The detective had touched his face, his hands, and they were cold, lifeless. He had tasted John's still lips and they were bitter, cold. Sherlock had buried his face into John's chest, he had pressed his ear and his hands to his chest to feel John's heart beating and his lungs working, but they weren't. John's chest had been like a wall, there was nothing to listen, not a heartbeat, not a breath.

"You said we would grow old together, John. You promised it. You promised it and you left me alone," says Sherlock, not reproaching.

When Sherlock realised John was dead, he had shaken his shoulders, he had screamed promises and asked for forgiveness. He had cried on his chest, asking him why he had left him alone, what he would do without him and Sherlock had even reproached him for breaking his promise. John had promised they would be together, that they would grow old together, that he would never leave him alone.

John caresses Sherlock's knuckles with his thumb. "You also promised me the same. And you also left me alone, remember?"

There isn't a reproach. There isn't anger. There isn't even resentment. John isn't even asking for explanations, he's not a jury, he's not a judge. John is only making Sherlock see things. He needs Sherlock to accept his faults and understand he had never left him. John had only accomplished and done what had always been written in their destinies.

"I am sorry, John. You don't know how many nights I spent thinking how much I hurt you, why I even felt pleasure while hearing you crying. Why I ignored you and why I told you I wished you were dead," Sherlock cries and John is about to say something, but the old man continues. "I've deleted our memories together, and I couldn't bring them back. I want to delete that day I had you against the bookshelves, when I wanted to hit you until you asked for mercy, until you beg -."

"Sherlock, sometimes you have to experience the pain to understand how it much it hurts."

"I'm sorry, John. I am so sorry. I was crazy, I wanted to kick your body and break every bone. I had hatred in my chest, but not because of you - but because of me. I hated myself for it. I still hate myself for it."

John shakes his head. "Sherlock, I know many people have told you this, but some things are just meant to happen. That was just as meant to happen as Moriarty taking you away from me for three years. He had to take you away from me all that time so I could understand how much I loved you... Sometimes you have to kill the one you love to understand what you have lost. You couldn't have stopped yourself, no one could have. And if I could, I wouldn't have either."

"What do you mean?"

"You told me, Sherlock. You told me about your family and about the things you have to go through these last forty years. If I hadn't died, you wouldn't have been John's godfather, you wouldn't have married Mary, you wouldn't have had those lovely grandchildren you have. You wouldn't even have those bees you keep now."

"You knew."

"I knew it wasn't written in your destiny to grow old with me. I knew our love wasn't going to give us a child, but your friendship with Mary would give you one. I knew I wasn't going to be there with you when you found your first white hair, your first wrinkle on you face, when someone would call you dad and years later grandpa for the first time in your life. I knew I wasn't going to be with you when you suffered from your aching knees, but I'm here with you now - now when you're about to go to sleep to never wake up again."

"But John, all those things, the life I had - that should have been your life, not mine! I didn't deserve that life. You deserved to have a family, to have friends and to have all the happiness of the world. I should have been the one dying forty years ago!"

"You did deserve what you had. Even when at the beginning you suffered, you wanted to die and you felt the pain was too much to endure, you did deserve what you had because you fought for it. Every single day these last forty years you fought for your family and for yourself. You gave yourself a second chance - life gave you a second chance, Sherlock, and you took it. And it was written, please love, understand this: I wasn't meant to have a family, even when that was the only thing I wanted. And if I died, it was for something. And that something is your family."

"But in your letter, you asked me not to harm you again, not to do anything with your body because you knew I was going to hurt you. You knew I was capable of slicing up your body and feeding it to the dogs. You knew and you asked me, but I hit you with the bow of my violin until I had no more strength -."

"You did it because I couldn't defend myself. Have you never asked yourself why you didn't hit me that day, when you had me against the bookshelves? You had your fist ready, we were alone, it was the perfect moment to beat me to death, but you didn't do it. I was tired and the only thing I wanted was to die. I would have let you do it, to accelerate the process, but you stepped back and left. And all that hatred you said you had in your chest exploded when you realised I was not coming back. You wanted to be the only one to kill me, but I died before you could have the chance to do it by yourself."

Sherlock can't believe what John is saying. "Was I meant to kill you?"

John takes a deep breath. He has come to take Sherlock, not to let him know things that may kill him before his time. These things hurt John, of course they do. But neither of them are going to be free souls until they accept the facts.

Until they accept what was written.

Atonement.

"Yes."

"And you knew beforehand you were going to die because of me?"

John nods. "I've always known."

"You wrote that, if given the chance to change your life, you wouldn't do it. That you'd live everything all over again if that meant you'd be with me. Is that true?" asks Sherlock. It is a question he has wanted to ask John for many, many years.

"Of course. Even now if God gave me a chance to go back in time and bend my path to live another life, I wouldn't do it. I would only go back in time to meet you again in that lab at Bart's."

"Why, John? Why would you choose me again? No one can love me."

John smiles and shakes his head. "You have a family who love you to bits. Mary, your godson John, your grandchildren, Mycroft. Everyone loves you, even the girl who helps you with the house here, Sherlock. You can't say no one can love you. And I'd choose you again because I love you with all my heart, I can't choose anyone else but you. We were together, and we are always destined to be together."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all those lovers, for the things you had to see," says Sherlock, talking about the lovebites, his shirts impregnated with his lovers' perfume.

"It's OK, Sherlock. It's -."

"It's not OK, John!" Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I am sorry. I've never wanted to hurt you. They were nothing to me, I... I don't know why I did it, John. Believe me, I don't know."

John only nods.

"I haven't found love. I could have never found anyone else. I couldn't replace you."

"You have found love, my dear. You have," John caresses Sherlock's hand while talking, "you have a wonderful godson, two amazing grandchildren who love you more than anything in this world and the best friend you can ask for: Mary. She loves you, and you love her as well, I know you do. And do you understand that you did all of that because you felt it? Because you let your heart rule your life? You haven't done anything just to please my wishes. You have lived a life because you wanted it. You never lived just to accomplish my wishes, you lived your life for you."

"Is that bad?"

"Of course not. That's all I wanted you to have. You can't imagine how happy I was for you when you forgave Mary, when you let her be your friend. Then when John was born and when you became his godfather. I've always been very happy and proud of all the decisions you've made all these past years. Even when you stopped thinking about me and started thinking of other people."

"How can you be happy with me forgetting you, John?"

"Because I knew you were giving yourself a second chance. If I had still been first in your mind, you wouldn't have let Mary become your friend, confidante, wife and biographer. You would have never loved John as you love him, as if he were your real son. And you would have never loved those kids as you love them. You love them so much you're willing to give your whole life for them, right?" Sherlock nods and John smiles. "See?"

"I am so sorry John. These last forty years have felt like a lifetime, I wanted to see you - I needed to say how sorry I am. You were my life, John. You were the man of my life, you were my soul, my heart. When I lost you, I died. You can't possibly imagine how much it hurt me, how much your absence hurt me -."

"I know what it's like, Sherlock."

"Please, John, forgive me. Please forgive me. I swear if I could go back in time I'd change everything. You can't know how much I want to go back to the days when we first loved each other. I need to be young again, I need to take your hand, to kiss your lips, to feel you again. I need you, please John, I'm begging you. Please," says Sherlock, and he cries. John cries with him as well but he doesn't say a word.

"Hush, love. You don't need to go back in time. You don't need to be young again to kiss me and to hold my hand. You don't need my forgiveness."

John lies next to Sherlock and takes the teddy bear in his hands. "I see you've found it."

"I am sorry, John."

"It's late, Sherlock. You have to sleep now," says John, only a mere whisper.

"John."

Sherlock is not asking him, Sherlock is calling him. Sherlock looks into John's blue eyes, lets out a deep breath and waits.

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

Sherlock waits. He waits for an answer. There must be an answer.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sometimes you have to see before you understand and then you will believe.


When he opens his eyes, he finds himself lying on green grass, holding hands with the love of his life. Both are dressed as they were on the day they got married and he's smiling. Sherlock asks him why he smiles. And the other man stands up and offers his hand again and Sherlock can't deny his invitation. His aching knees are not bothering him anymore, nor the pain in his back, and Sherlock wonders what's happening.

John hushes him and kisses him. He even assures him nothing will part them. Nothing.

"Not even death?"

The younger man walks with him until they stop in front of a large lake. The water is so clear and blue that Sherlock agrees with him that it looks like a mirror. Both men sink down till their knees touch the green grass again and they look down into the water.

Their reflections are clear. And the water, as a mirror, shows them their youth and the hope in their faces.

There is nothing more. Just the two of them.

Everything is about them. Just the two of them.

And Sherlock Holmes is happy. He feels his heart beating inside his chest and his eyes sparkling. This is the place where he belongs, with the person he loves. And he only regrets that his presence here has taken him so long.

"Nothing will part us. Never. Because I love you."

The dark haired man smiles and nods. They share a long and deep kiss till he breaks it.

"I love you, John. I've always loved you."

John nods with him in agreement. This doesn't hurt. This isn't fake.

This is Heaven.


My Dearest Sherlock,

I find myself writing this last letter, and all my hopes rest on the simplest but also the most wanted wish that one day, hopefully one day, you will get to read it. It isn't a matter of whether this letter will be given to you or not, whether Mrs Hudson will remember about this or not. It's a matter whether you really want to read my last words, if you wish to read what my heart has to say; things that I cannot say out loud.

I bless the day we met, I bless Mike for introducing me to you. I remember that day as if it was yesterday, when you winked at me and revealed your absurd, strange but mysterious name. I have to admit that, during these rainy, dark days, I close my eyes and I remember us both at that moment. Me, dealing with a limp and those ghosts from the war haunting me to no end, looking for hope. And you, looking for a companion, for someone you could hold in your arms to never let go.

I wish I could have realised it before, immediately after we met, just after we started solving crimes together. We were and we still are like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Our hearts were broken, and when we put the remaining left inside our chests, together we became one. But we were and we are also as opposite as the day and the night are, as the light and the same darkness are, as the good and the bad and as the angels and the demons themselves are.

I've always loved you, since the first moment. When you left me for three years my life had no sense, my heart didn't have any reason left to keep on beating inside my chest and your empty chair, the silences you left and your absence hurt. I was ashamed because I realised the love I felt for you when you 'died'. I had to lose you, Sherlock. I had to lose you to realise how much I loved you.

When you came back, you brought me back to life. Our first kiss mixed with our tears, your hands glued to mine and our hearts beating inside our chests, in unison - that, Sherlock, is what I hold on every time I look at your empty chair, at your empty side of the bed, at your defiant but also empty eyes. That's what I remember when the only thing I hear from your lips is silence, when the only thing I feel from you is indifference.

That's what I remember every time I tell myself you still love me, every time when you silently convince me of the opposite.

I bless all these past years I had to be by your side. I bless you for letting me be in your arms, for letting me be the half of this whole, this whole that is us. Bless God for letting me be part of your life, for letting me be, for what seemed to be my turn, the owner of your lips, of your body, of your heart and of your love. All the things we lived together, all the crimes we solved, all the chasing during deadly hours of the night, our lazy Sunday mornings in bed doing nothing more than kissing and touching each other, making love all day long. Our cups of tea, our talks, our dinners out, those long walks holding hands, our everything. Bless all our moments together. And even though we stopped doing all of that, even though today the only things we share are silences, empty looks, broken hearts, memories, pain inside our chests and a dying love, believe me and don't ever forget this: I would never choose differently. If someone comes in here today and offers me the chance to go back in time and change you and all those things, all our life together so I don't suffer this dying love any more, I won't do it. Sherlock, I would never be able to choose anyone but you. Because I would choose it again; war, illness, and this pain again, all of it if only that means I'll meet you again.

Having said all of that, it is time for me to explain the reasons of this letter. I've considered and imagined the many scenarios that might follow my death. On one hand, you might just leave me on the bed, take your things and go away, forget you were ever married to me, an Army Doctor with a limp and a scar on the shoulder, a boring and mundane man. You might leave and let my body rot on what a long time ago was our bed, the place where we loved each other and where we had plans together. On the other hand, you might realise what exactly I was to you, what I was in your life, how important I was and how much you loved me. It's a fifty-fifty chance.

I have confessed it. When you 'died' I realised how much I loved you. If you are reading this, it means you also realised how much you love me. I love you, Sherlock. God wanted you to come back to me, and you did, but I won't. I won't be able to come back as you did. It doesn't matter how much I want to, I won't. Things are bound to happen. But your life will get better, and I'm sure, I'm completely sure, you will have a long, prosperous and a very happy life ahead. I know you will, because I have to die so you live that life.

Please, Sherlock, my love, don't feel ashamed. Don't feel ashamed for finding love hidden in the deepest of your heart. You don't talk to me, you don't touch me, you don't kiss me, you don't even stop for a moment to look at me. But at the end of the day, when it's dark and when the moon is high on the sky, you keep coming back to me. You keep coming back to our bed, you keep gluing your back to mine, you keep resting your feet next to mine. I know you love me, I know you love me as much as I love you. I've realised and accepted I have to die to let you live. Because it's written in our destinies, in our lives. I have to die to make you understand how much love you have inside your heart, how much love you can give.

Sherlock, don't ever feel ashamed of yourself. Don't ever let people tell you that you're a freak, someone who doesn't deserve anything, because you're a genius, a very clever man who deserves everything the world can give to you. Don't ever try to change your destiny, don't ever try to bend your path. Don't ever try to look for me. Don't ever try to kill yourself. Don't even think of it. You have to understand things are bound to happen only to make us stronger. It sounds unfair, and I know you'll be looking for me to come for you, but you'll have to wait. Please, love, wait for me.

My dearest Sherlock, give yourself another chance. Breathe, laugh, smile, keep on working and please, love. Don't ever give up, don't mourn me, don't ask for my ashes, don't look back. Don't remember me, please, Sherlock, forget me. Find love again, Sherlock. Find someone who will respect you, who will love you and want you as much and even more than you deserve. Don't let that someone hurt you. Kiss, touch, love and have fun. You don't know it, and I hope you realise it when you read this, but you have lots of love inside you. Give it to someone and don't let it rot inside you. Have a family, have children, and give them all the love you once confessed you've always craved as a kid. Turn your dreams into plans, keep those bees you love so much.

Have a long life, Sherlock. Promise me you'll have a long life and I promise you with all my heart that it doesn't matter what it takes, I'll come back for you. Please, love, wait for me.

We will be together. Because death will never tear us apart.

I love you and I always will,

John Watson.


Author's note: There's a prologue coming soon. Thanks for reading and please, review!