With eerily steady hands, John opened the letter. He noticed immediately that instead of Sherlock's usual perfectly-even handwriting, this script was very jagged. It looked as if he had been pressing down very hard on the page.

To my dearest friend John Watson, the letter began.

John gasped sharply. Tears sprang into his eyes. I can't do this, I can't. He looked up to the ceiling of their flat to keep the tears from spilling over. Breathing deeply, he endeavored to recover himself. I have to do this for him.

He snapped his head back down, military demeanor in place. He had to read his best friend's final words. He owed it to him. Giving one final sigh of release, John picked up the letter once more.

To my dearest friend John Watson,

I do not doubt that you will not see this for a good while after I am gone. I have observed that you never willingly touch your old military things because you are, and always have been, a sentimental idiot. I assume it will be much the same with the various things I have left lying around our flat. But John, today is the day that I get to be the one to express my feelings, as you have so often prodded me.

You are, without a doubt, the best friend that I have ever had. As a kid, I never really had friends because they called me a freak. There was a time when I cared about what they said, but eventually, I learned to block out the negative emotions their taunts gave me. In doing so, however, I became the sociopath that you befriended, against all odds. Over the years I have known you, you have somehow broken through my detachment and have forced me to realize that blocking out emotions is not a good way to live one's life. Friends are what beg one too keep living, even in one's darkest moments. You, John, have unwittingly done so many times. Though you were not always there when my dark thoughts emerged, your voice always whispered to me, telling me to live on.

And now I get to return the favor. I gave my life, as you have saved mine many times, to save yours. But do NOT feel guilty, John, because all my life, I have waited for a chance to do this. I have been waiting to have a friend for whom I would be willing to sacrifice my life. Somehow, you have been willing to sacrifice your life for strangers. I never understood this. Perhaps this is why, prior to our friendship, I did not believe in the existence of heroes. But I believe that your willingness to sacrifice your life for anyone else's must be makes a hero, because I have never met any other person quite like you. And you are, without a doubt, the most heroic person I have ever met. For that, I thank you.

I am ready for death, and I am unafraid. I have now experienced the greatest joy that any man can experience: loving a friend as a brother. How could I ask for more? Surely there can be no greater happiness than this. My dear John, thank you, thank you so much for being my best friend; my brother.

Farewell. And be sure that you take the various body parts out of our refrigerator out before they poison our food.

Your flatmate, friend, and brother,

-Sherlock

John read and reread this letter. Then, carefully folding it up, he placed it in his breast pocket. He vowed would carry this letter until the end of his days. Then, sinking down on Sherlock's chair, he wept.

To the world's only consulting detective, my best friend, flatmate, colleague, and brother,

Happy birthday, again. You're an old man now, like me, but lucky you! You never had to know what it's like to become like your grandfather. I do not feel old. Yet, here I am.

You would laugh if you saw me now, a wrinkled, dull old man spending his last days in a nursing home. My blasted leg has finally given out on me, and I can no longer stand. I have forgotten many things, old friend, but I have not forgotten you. I have not forgotten all the cases we solved, all the mad things we did, all the good times we had. They say that I live in the past. They think I have lost my sanity. But I do not care. I miss you more than you could ever know, and I have ever since you left. But don't worry, Sherlock, because I'm going to see you again in a bit. Then we can go on mad adventures together again.

I don't think I have much time left here in this ridiculously humid nursing home, and thank God for that. I can't wait to see you again. When I do, I will punch you in the face for what you did, but I'll be happy all the same.

Goodbye, Sherlock. Until we meet again.

-John

Thus, my story ends. Thank you all for reading! And thank you for the fabulous reviews, it is not often that I receive compliments for my writing. I feel like I should explain part of my purpose for writing this.

About a month and a half ago, a friend of mine from my church committed suicide. I did not know her very well, but I know her best friends. It was heartbreaking enough for me to deal with her death, but even more so to watch her best friends grieve. Even more heartbreaking was that her birthday was a mere 28 days after her death. I suppose this story was a bit of a coping mechanism. The descriptions of John's feelings came from my own as well as from my friends'. I just felt like you all should know that.

Thank you so much for reading. It means the world to me.