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John opened his eyes again when the room was filled with sunlight. It was midday. John was crouched beside the laying figure on bed. He felt cold and tried to tug his robe closer but felt restrained.
Sherlock was still holding his hand.
"Good morning." The voice was back, even if a bit feeble.
John looked at him, didn't respond and slowly tried to remove his hand. The grip tightened.
"How are you John?"
Just the way you left me. Much much worse.
He tried again.
"I'm too weak to hold on to you." The baritone breathed.
One sentence. So much meaning. So much depth. If John didn't know this man he would have thought he was only speaking about the physical aspect. But he knew where this man's words ran. Deep through the veins of the heart.
"Let me go." John said tried to steady his heart.
"I always do."
"But you always come back."
The man let go of his hand with a pained expression. His lips were chapped and there was a darkness over his face.
It made John almost reach out to him and apologize. It was these random visits that had kept him alive he knew that so well, how could he deny? How could he pretend that he didn't want him to come back?
But John steeled himself. He got off the bed with some effort and taking the bowl from the floor made to leave.
"You could've just let me die." The man said from the bed, in a broken voice.
John snorted.
Don't do this Sherlock. We've been over this.
"You knew very well that was not going to happen." He said with some bitterness.
The man didn't look at him.
"That is exactly why you are here." John said sternly and took another step only to halt again.
"No."
John turned to look at the man whose eyes were fixed on the curtains of the window beside bed.
"I came so you could keep your promise." Sherlock said quietly. "The last favor I asked of you."
"Would you please bury me? Somewhere that you could visit me sometimes?"
The memory flashed making John lose his control over his body. The bowl fell from his hand and his legs gave away. He had to lean on the door frame to keep himself standing.
"I didn't think I stood a chance John." The man said licking his dried lips. "I walked for so long, in darkness and cold. To reach you."
John's mouth was agape. He was hyperventilating.
"I wanted to give myself up to you, or whatever was left of me. I won't deny that there was a faint hope that you'll save me. But even if I didn't make it you would be the only one who would have the rights of my body."
Doom loomed over their relationship. Always, every step of the way. Why? Why did it have to be so? Why did they always meet on the verge of losing each other? Why was Sherlock always on the verge of perishing? Why always in front of him the man lay in pain?
John resumed his seat beside Sherlock shakily. He put his hands on the sides of the man's face and met his eyes.
"No." He said shaking his head. "I'm not going to let that happen Sherlock. Not when I'm still alive, not when I'm still capable. I'll never do that favour to you because there would not be any need. I won't let you die Sherlock. Not here. Not like this. Not on my door step, not in front of me."
John spoke with conviction. The man smiled at him and pressed his hand to John's.
They sat there looking into each-others' eyes. Silence spoke lengths.