"Life is a gift we give to Death

Piece by piece and day by day

But Death has never been grateful

Death owns this gift from the begining."

Kittiphol Saragganonda

Translated by Suphavadee Saragganonda

In a fraction of a second, Sherlock suddenly finds himself in Molly's room. Turns out that just by putting all his thoughts on a person, he would reach her in an instant. It's such a blessing, since Sherlock doesn't even know where Molly's parents' cottage is, he's never been there before. Being a soul isn't so bad, is it? It only takes him a little while to get used to his new ability in this invisible form. He feels triumphant.

Sherlock looks around, he sees Molly and Rosie sleeping soundly on the floor; he walks over, gently runs his hand through Molly's hair, then Rosie's cheek. Thank goodness you two are still unharmed, I'm so relieved. Molly, I'm so sorry... Rosie, my good girl, sorry that papa couldn't be with you any longer, to see you grow up, papa really regrets it. You have to listen to daddy and eat more, okay? If you don't eat much, daddy will be sad, you don't want him to be sad, do you? Papa knows, because papa also often makes daddy sad like that. Be a good girl, okay, Rosie? Sherlock feels tears streaming down his face. He never thought he could still cry in this spiritual form. It's surprising that when he was still alive he had always been expressionless, but when he died he suddenly became so emotional.

Sherlock stays with Molly and Rosie for a little while, when he hears someone breaking in. Mycroft's team has just arrived. Sherlock stands there silently, watching they quickly checking their breathing, grabbing Molly's wrist to take her pulse, and then a group of them lifts her onto a stretcher and gently carries Rosie up off the cold floor. Sherlock listens to someone calling Mycroft, his brother's calming voice sounds on the other line. He sighs lightly, so finally there is someone to take care of Molly and Rosie, someone who is actually there in material form, he can set his mind at rest now.

Sherlock turns away, he walks out of the small house in the suburbs. The house seems cozy, but he misses his Baker street much more. Looking up into the pitch-black night, Sherlock wonders how much longer he can stay like this. John, how are you now? Mycroft, you too. And Lestrade, mom and dad. And Mrs. Hudson, and also Eurus. That's a lot of people. Sherlock never thought that one day there could be so many people around him, all of whom he has cared about so much, and who also cares much about him. Sherlock closes his eyes, he silently thanks God for bringing him into this life, for teaching him about love, care, about responsibility and sacrifice. Before, when he first found out about his diagnosis, he always blamed his fate, why life had been so unfair to him. But now, at this very moment, he is completely at peace. Maybe everyone will be fine, when he's gone. Thinking of John, Sherlock feels his heart suddenly tighten, he still remembers the pained expression of John when he knelt down on the floor of the operating room and cried when he died. Oh, John.

Snapping up from a dreamy state, Sherlock is amazed to find himself already in their small apartment of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock smiles at the familiar scene, he has thought he would return to the hospital to find John, but did not expect his mind to bring him home. Sherlock walks over to the red armchair and runs his hand over the plaid scarf that draps over the backrest. John! Sherlock leans down and gently touches Rosie's book, which John still lays on the chair cushion. He smiles lightly. A soothing, serene feeling pervades Sherlock. Sherlock remembers all the warm moments their small family of three ever had. John would hold little Rosie in his lap, reading to her. Sherlock would sit in the chair opposite, smiling at John and drinking a cup of tea he made for him. Maybe, that was enough. Moments don't last forever, but since they had once happened, once were that beautiful, maybe it's enough.

Sherlock sits down on his single sofa, leaning back. He looks up at the ceiling, silently listening to the sound of time passing by. Perhaps, he is ready now.

Sherlock sees everything gradually fade into darkness. Like the lights around him one by one being slowly turned off, Sherlock finds himself being pulled into a thick patch of darkness. He closes his eyes, silently accepting his fate.

Goodbye, John!

Rosie, my little girl, bye bye.

I love you two very much.

John, don't blame yourself.

You didn't do anything wrong. No matter what, I will always love you.

John!

Mycroft, Lestrade, dad, mom. Mrs. Hudson. Goodbye. Everyone, please take care, and maybe one day we'll see each other again.

If I still have even a glimmer of consciousness, I will never forget everyone.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Suddenly Sherlock finds himself being pulled back into reality. Flick, a lighter is being lit. Around him, all the lights gradually returned. He is still sitting in his armchair, but opposite from him is now Mycroft. He is lighting a cigarette. Taking a deep breath, he exhales the smoke slowly, his eyes still not leaving his younger brother. Mycroft looks at him so intently, in his gaze there seems to be a ray of warmth, of sadness, and also, relief. Mycroft unexpectedly smiles, he smiles so brightly at him.

"Sherlock, I finally found you."

Sherlock is shocked.

"Mycroft, why are you here?"

Still smiling, he does not rush to answer but take another breath. The smoke around him seems to be invisible, like an unreal illusion, making Mycroft's image seem so distant.

Are you really here with me, Mycroft?

Mycroft's voice sounds like it is from far away.

"Sherlock, you have to go back. The time has come."

Sherlock wonders.

"What time? I'm already dead, Mycroft, where else can I go back to?"

Mycroft's smile falters, then slowly returns, but a sad one. Sherlock feels an uneasiness creeping into his heart.

"No, Sherlock, you're not dead. You must not die. Don't die, Sherlock. Go back to John, he is still waiting for you at the hospital. Think of John and be stronger. Come on, you can do it, Sherlock."

Sherlock is startled.

"Mycroft, what have you done? Mycroft!"

But Mycroft doesn't answer. He stands up, grabs his hand and pulls him up with him. He leads him to the apartment door, but instead of seeing the steps that lead down the stairs of No. 221B, Sherlock finds himself back in the operating room in just a moment. On the operating bed he is still lying there, the breathing tube is still attached, on the machine display his stats are still running. The doctor's voice rings out, worried.

.

"Bernet, how does he look?"

"Terrible. He's been on bypass too long."

.

Not John. Which doctor is that?

.

"Get a DLP vent ready."

"Let's prep the new organ."

.

New organ?

.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry."

.

Startled, Sherlock turns to look at Mycroft, who is standing next to him, still holding his hand tightly, with that sad smile still on his face. Then he turns again and sees him also lying there, on the second operating bed, next to his own. His white shirt is stained with blood. Too much blood. They quickly cut off his shirt, revealing a deep wound in his lower abdomen, which has already darkened, the blood has stopped flowing, only oozing a little when they touch him, causing the wound to leak. No one seems intent on saving Mycroft. His face is deadly pale, his lips slightly open, his eyes closed, blood stains all over his chin and neck, further contrasting his pale features. Sherlock turns to look at Mycroft again, he is still there, still holding his hand. So how… What about the…? His other body moves slightly with each movement of the doctors and nurses, his hands, totally covered in blood, are loosely grasped, hanging on the side of the bed. An aching red color. They seems to be in a race against time, they quickly throw away the blood-stained shirt, smear the antiseptic alcohol all over Mycroft's chest, and they don't even wait until his chest is covered with a drape, they quickly send the tip of the scalpel a long, deep path across his chest. The cut barely bleeds. Sherlock is horrified, looking at Mycroft's body, still lying there, not reacting in the slightest.

They don't even put on an oxygen mask for him!

Sherlock finds himself in a state of shock. What is happening in front of his eyes? Why do they do that to Mycroft? Why don't they save him? Why do they cut open his chest while he is hurting in his stomach?

Mycroft? Why? Turning to look at him in bewilderment, he tries to avoid drawing attention to the scene where they are violently sawing off Mycroft's sternum, with no one caring how his brother might be feeling. Does it hurt, Mycroft? Blood oozes from the wound, Sherlock cannot bring himself to look anymore, he feels his tears pouring out freely, blurring everything. Mycroft, on the other hand, is still staring at what they're doing to his own body with concentration, Sherlock can't see the expression on his face.

Sherlock jerks his hand away from Mycroft's tight grasp. Startled, Mycroft turns to look at him.

"Mycroft! What is this? What's going on, Mycroft? What did you do?"

Still smiling, he talks with a low and proud voice.

"Sherlock, I am already dead."