Having a sixth sense, John makes tea for two. He places two cups, milk, cookies and sugar for both and he occupies his usual place in his comfy and soft armchair and writes. He writes a lot. A lot. But he knows he needs to leave everything settled or he won't be feeling good knowing there are loose ends. Two letters for two men. One is full of requests. The other is full of sentiment.

And he wasn't wrong, because the other man arrives and undoing his blue scarf, he sits in front of him and takes a cup. His grey eyes follow John's left hand while he writes and they dance. Sherlock's grey eyes dance on him and John lets that happen. No matter how much hard he tries, John knows Sherlock won't be able to know what is about to happen.

Sherlock can't know. He won't know.

They don't talk. John closes his blue eyes as he folds the sheets of both letters and place them in envelopes. White envelopes. And while his husband watches him, the Doctor's lungs are starting to relax. His hearts beats slowly. A slightly pain invades his chest, but he's such a good actor.
John Watson won't let Sherlock Holmes know before hand about this.

And he wonders what his reaction will be like.

But there's only silence. Two pairs of eyes, grey and blue are meeting but no one says a word. The sun has disappeared and it's dark outside. John chuckles when he relates darkness with his husband. They don't know for how long they had been like that, just drinking tea in silence and looking into the their eyes. They are looking into their eyes looking for redemption.

Redemption just one of them will find.

And the other will have to look for it by himself. Alone.

The blondish man looks at the clock. And he knows it's better going to bed. And rest.

And finally have the rest he was craving for so long.

Maybe Morpheus isn't angry tonight.

"I love you Sherlock"

He closed his eyes and looked down at the pair of short hands hugging his torso. He sighed quietly, just for himself and moved his body in order to keep away his bare back from the other man's head.

And he found himself in the position he knew he was going to be someday. He couldn't reply John's words. Sherlock Holmes found himself in the position he knew he was going to be.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't love John Watson anymore.

.

"But-"

"This is important."

"This is also important, it's our anniversary"

"I have important things to do."

.

"You're not eating?"

"Why would I eat?"

"I care about you. You don't care about me?"

"Well, I don't"

.

He kissed him, he touched him. But he wasn't there. Sherlock's body was there, but his mind was somewhere else. And John could feel it.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answer?"

"I don't know what's happening with you!"

"You."

.

"Your brother came-"

"I don't care"

"I wish I could have my sister alive-"

"What for? To see her drink and ignore as she always did?"

.

"We need to talk"

"I don't want to talk"

"But we have something we need to discuss"

"No, John. There's nothing I want to discuss with you."

.

"You see but you don't observe"

"I'm not stupid you know"

"That's what every stupid thinks."

.

John was reading the reports of Sherlock's latest case while they were having another silent breakfast.

"I love you, Sherlock"

He never got an answer and finally, John talked to him for what it was, the last time.

"Are you still caring about us?"

The dark haired man made himself sure to let his intentions clear in his husband's mind. And with a cold stare, he answered John's question.

"No."

John Watson, places an envelope with a letter, his wedding ring he has been polishing early that afternoon and his medals inside. Another largest package is being placed over his bedside table, containing the flags perfectly folded. Everything has been calculated.

But before going to sleep, he takes a shower and erases every trace of stress, and he even manages to think he's getting himself clean for the important meeting he has tonight. John uses his husband's shampoo and closes his eyes when he feels that distinctive smell. Sherlock's smell and perfume. And he also uses his soap, and the bathtub changes. John feels himself warm and secure. That smell is transporting him to the place he knows he will be soon. And then he realizes it's time now.

While he dresses himself, he stops at every scar and he smiles because he can remember the reasons. The reasons of why he has scars in his body. Some of them caused by his own clumsiness back in childhood, some of them caused in countless nights when he tried to rescue his sister from the local pub, some others are the product of his loyalty, fighting for the Queen and for his country. And the latest ones caused by defending the love of his life. The doctor had been risking his own life for too long.

Tonight it's time to give him a rest.

His greyish hair is still damp when he let his head rest over his pillow and his body over his usual place in that big bed. John begs for Sherlock. He needs him to be in the same bed tonight. He can't leave without taking a last chance. If he gets what he wants, John Hamish Watson will be able to go completely happy.

And Destiny moved strings there, because magically or not, the detective appears and makes his way under the duvet and lays in his right arm, giving his back to his husband. Like any other night, John's eyes rolls from one place to another and those blue eyes meet dark curls. He won't count them all, he won't touch them, and he won't smell them as he's dying to do.
Instead of that, John speaks.

"Sherlock"

He's not asking, he's calling him. And the older man can see through the fabric of his husband's shirt his bony ribcage moving after a silent sigh. John's voice feels so sore, full of pain that he even wonders if the young man can deduce that too.

"Yes, John"

The mad man answers. A silent pair of tears are falling from his blue eyes and John smiles. He's got a chance tonight. And he's not going to waste it. He's going to clung to that chance to never let it go. His heart is at stakes and even when he knows he will leave soon, he wants to do it remembering this moment. Because he knows that very deep in Holmes heart, he knows he's going to die.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

John waits.

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

A deep ad baritone voice replies and even turns around a bit, just to let John see his grey left eye for the last time. Complicity in the extreme. Both men are accomplices of something that will set them free. At least, one of them.

"Goodnight, John."

And that's it. Now John Hamish Watson can rest in peace. Because he turns around to see those photographs over the drawers again and he closes his eyes. A deep and long sigh is being hear by the taller man in that bed and then John's heart stop beating. His lungs stop moving and ribcage stop rising. He feels the need of turning around, because he can sense something. Something is wrong.

But Sherlock Holmes doesn't turn around and closes his eyes. There's a new case lying in his own bed, just beside him and he won't take it. Not know. Because this case is simply domestic, not worth his time.

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself lying over a green grass, holding hands with the love of his life. Both are dressed like the day they got married and he's smiling. John asks him why he smiles. And the other man stands up and offer his hand again and John can't deny his invitation. His limp has gone, as the pain in his shoulder and he wonders why this is happening.

Sherlock hushes him and kisses him. He even assured him nothing will do them apart. 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 John agrees with him that it looks like a mirror. Both men go down till their knees meet 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 John Watson is happy. He feels his heart beating inside his chest and his eyes sparkling. This is the place he belonged to long time ago. And he even regrets that his presence here has taking him so long.

"Nothing will do us apart. Never. Because I have you."

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

"And because I love you, John. I'll always love you."

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

This is Heaven.

When he open his grey eyes, he hears his husband's clock alarm beeping. He counts to three, but he doesn't turn it off. And it's annoying.

Sherlock presses a long arm over John's right shoulder in order to reach the clock and turn the alarm off. He believes that's enough to wake him up and gets inside the bathroom to have a shower first. He can smell his own shampoo, and he discovers John had used it last night. And that isn't annoying him. John's actions can't cause him any emotion.

He expects tea when he approaches the kitchen, but the tea maker isn't up yet. And with an air of discontent, he prepares just one mug and one tea bag and at the time the kettle finally announces him the water is ready, the detective realizes today is not John's free day. He must go to work and for some reason he's up yet. That lollipops bag is there over the counter. His white coat is on the basket and his bag is over the sofa. And he knows John Watson enough to say he's never late for work.

And while there aren't any cases, he sighs and gets up from his place in his black armchair to their room. In his way, he feels a strange smell, strange in his flat, because he knows what that smell means.

When he gets inside the room, his feet stop their journey. John is lying over his left shoulder, with his back to the door.

Sherlock can see the back of his ribcage. And its not moving.

And curiosity kills the cat.

He walks until he's standing next to him. He kneels until their faces share the same level. His head moves from one side to another while he sees his pale face. His hands are so pale, so pale in a prayer position under his chin and a pale hand strokes his cheeks. They are cold. John's body is cold and he's not breathing. He's not moving and no matter how hard Sherlock shakes his shoulders, he won't wake up.

Two steps back and his grey eyes meet two envelopes over the bedside table. When he takes them, he already knows what is inside. Instinctively he opens the smallest envelope and prepares one hand to receive the contents inside. A letter addressed to him, medals and his wedding ring, perfectly polished with its engraving inside shinning.

"Mine says 'John Watson' and yours 'Sherlock Holmes'"

"Because we belong to each other"

"Till death do us apart."

His dark silhouette moves from the place he's standing to his usual black armchair with a violin in his hands that are perfectly used to this violin and with a quick, studied and a very neat movement he supports his face over the chin rest and let his fingers dance over the scroll and then to the fingerboard. The other hand moves in the air holding the bow and soft, hurtful and dark notes are produced by this man and his violin.

The only audible sound is developed by this dark haired man and his violin. The curtains are wide open and the glasses are dirty but the light fights and win, illuminating the only man alive in that room and his dark music. The little pieces of broken frames and ripped pictures are shinning too and then the notes change their rhythm and the violinist is losing control.

The bow his hurting the strings of his precious instrument and the fingers of the tall musician are bleeding. He stands up and walks until he's just inches away from him and continues playing heavily with erratic movements, frowning with the sun light that is also entering from the window in front of the bed. It shines over his pale and expressionless face. His grey irises are shinning.

Sherlock Holmes isn't crying. He's just playing the violin because he needs to think why the man lying in his bed is dead.

Tick tock goes the clock, even for him.

"This letter is addressed to you and it's bound to be read by you and only you in case of my death..."

The bow is moving slowly over the strings and the violinist is creating a new piece of music.

"I know what is taking me now. It is you. You are taking me and I know it. I know I am going to die soon after I finally close my eyes tonight."

He closes his eyes so tightly that his fingers are pressing the strings with more force than necessary. The creation, his creation, is changing its colours. Its not a sweet tune now.

"Pretend some sadness and fake some tears. It will be helpful for you, trust me..."

The tune in his violin is dark.

"Looking for Heaven, Sherlock, I found the devil in you..."

The tune in his violin becomes scary.

"Please, when you find my body, don't harm it... Let me rest in peace, Sherlock."

The violinist stops and moves the bow against the lifeless body lying on his bed. He can not stop. He can not stop hitting him because he left and nothing will bring him back. Not even hitting his dead body will bring him back.

Tears starts to flow from his grey eyes and he stops when he needs air, because he's convulsing. The detective can observe now what kind of bruises form on a dead body and that makes him remember that day. the day they met and the day they chose the other for ever.

For ever till death do them apart.

Till now.

Sherlock Holmes covers his face with his hands, looking for a reason. Looking for the reasons. This is a case in which he's the owner of all the clues but then again, he can't solve this.

Sherlock Holmes can't solve the case of the death of John Hamish Watson. And he lets the letter lay over the floor.

April 15th, 2012. LETTER ADDRESSED TO SHERLOCK HOLMES.

Sherlock Holmes,

This letter is addressed to you and it's bound to be read by you and only you in case of my death.

My life is a disaster, Sherlock, and I don't want you on it. Not any more. The causes of my departure, physically speaking, are natural. I'm not ill, all the opposite in fact, but my heart decided it can't beat. And I accepted that without the concern of anybody else. Because naturally, my heart belongs to you. It had always belonged to you, but you seemed to forget that. You, Sherlock Holmes, ripped my heart in countless numbers in front of my eyes every day with your silence, your coldness and every yell, and with your murderers eyes. So finally, I decided I'm done with my graceless heart.
I went to Afghanistan and I met the same Hell, all it's demons and I've seen so many lives being taken. I knew I could die at any moment, but I also knew I wasn't going to die there. I know what is taking me now.

It is you.

You are taking me and I know it. I know I am going to die soon after I finally close my eyes tonight.

I always wondered if people know when they are about to die. If there is a signal, or if an angel appears to tell you your time is done. And now I know it. I met my angel this morning before I could go and set you free from jail. And while I write this, I can not believe you needed me to be free. Please note this is not sarcasm. I know you weren't good with sarcasm but now you are an expert. So I trust you will not detect any of that feeling in this letter. I, John Watson, set you free early this day. God really planned this, hasn't he? Look at it as an exchange of favors. I set you free this morning, and now you're realizing you did the same in the night.

No matter how hard I try to think, I can not find the moment when everything started. I can not find the moment when both of us stopped talking, when we stopped holding hands. I can not find the moment when you stopped loving me, if you did. But I know you did. I could have ripped my heart out of me just to remember that moment when you stopped loving me, the last time you kissed me, the last time you touched me. The last time you told me you loved me and I can't remember, Sherlock. I look at old pictures of our wedding or the ones about or first cases together, and it hurts like Heaven not being able to remember those moments. And I treasured them in my heart and then again, I can't remember. Can you, Sherlock? Can you remember the moment I proposed to you, the moment when we first made love, the moment when we had plans together? I don't even know why I'm asking if you are not going to answer me. Maybe after tonight I'd be able to know the answers of all those questions, but it hurts me to know I won't be able to hear them from your own mouth.

It's hard to love a demon, not impossible, but it is hard. A fine romance, isn't it. But its leaving me so impaired. A half heart can't beat when the other half had left. And I can see no way in this life without you. I need you to continue breathing and my heart needs you to continue beating. And you're not here for us, so is better if I shot this pain your absence is causing us.

Also, I wanted to tell you so many things, face to face obviously. But it's so hard to do it when your own eyes are burning my skin. My throat feels sore. I can not speak for myself and this is why I'm leaving this letter. When we came back for the Yard early today, I stood up in the middle of our sitting room hearing my conviction from your lips. I've heard every accusation and you signed my sentence. I couldn't hear you and I'm still can't. I'm deaf and I'm speechless. I swear to God I couldn't hear your yells. My knees were weak and my eyes were blind. I prefer to leave this world remembering those happy moments between us that you yelling at me things I don't deserve.

Because I don't deserve the hatred feeling you have been reaping against me.

And I don't understand what I did to deserve this from you. I can not remember the last time I felt any joy. The last time I felt my heart warm.

You may care about this or not, but I'm leaving this world relieved. I've lived a life full of good and bad moments, more good than bad, believe me. I'm grateful to you, because without you, maybe I could have killed myself a long time ago. You gave me all the love I wanted and despite the fact that love died before me, I'm leaving all the life as I knew it, happily. The only thing I regret with all my heart is not being able to tell you face to face what I already have written here, and what I already know and what you seemed to forget.

While I'm writing this you're furiously observing me through those grey eyes. I'm observing you, and you haven't changed in the past ten years, Sherlock. I admire that. Believe me. Not a single wrinkle in that porcelain face of yours nor a single white hair in that dark and curly head. You resemble youth and life. Have a long life, Sherlock.

My apologies for leaving my will to your brother (I don't know how do you would feel to know this, maybe relief, I don't know), but I seriously don't want you to be bothered with a dead body and nonetheless, my things. I'm truly sorry for my boxes upstairs. I cataloged everything and you can do whatever pleases you with them but, as a suggestion, think in your homeless network. I'm sure they will need jumpers and jackets this winter. Before you ask your brother, I don't want to be buried. I don't want and I don't need anyone feeling the need of going to the cemetery to leave me flowers. Not even you. But that is something Mycroft will be taking care of. My flags, my medals and my wedding ring are bound to be burnt with my body. Please, do give them to your brother.

Do not worry about the police. The causes of my death, as I wrote at the very beginning of this letter, are purely natural so they won't be charging you with murder. And yes, I have been searching for information. And I also know the police likes to pop their noses where they don't suppose to. You'll call them soon after you found my dead body. Pretend some sadness and fake some tears. It will be helpful for you, trust me. But then again, that's something your brother will be handing as well and I'm truly sorry for bothering you with Mycroft. I know how much you dislike him (I'm sorry, but I can not use the word 'hate' like you do) but he's the only one left and I do not have any family to ask for all these things. I think that after years being your keeper, this is the last thing I can ask for.

No one will be charged with my death. I'll leave that to the God I do believe.

Please, when you find my body, don't harm it. I can't care the less, really. But don't get off your fury with me. The only thing I'm asking you is to respect so far is my dead body. Let me rest in peace, Sherlock.

If I could go back in time, believe me when I say I won't change anything. Not a single moment. Not Afghanistan and not even meeting you in that lab at Bart's. I would chose all of that again. Even this pain, Sherlock. Even this pain, if it means I'd be able to share all those years with you, all over again. I'm trying to convince my mind the good moments beside you improve these last months. I love you. I love you with all my heart, with all my being. I'd give you all my blood if you ask me to. I would give you my heart if you need it. But I don't blame you. Sherlock Holmes must have got bored with me long time ago, and it's my moment now. I can't help but being the bored John Watson. I'm sorry if you expected more of me. And no, I'm not pitying me in order to make you feel bad and guilty. Don't feel guilty, Sherlock. I'm only saying (or writing) the truth you, Mr. Punchline, couldn't tell me. I see and I do observe.

Continue with your work. The world needs you cleverness. London needs you.

Captain John Watson, M.D.

A close person to me, years ago, took his car and without saying a word, went to the house he owned in front of a beautiful beach one weekend. He never gave a reason, why he was going there alone, and even without clothes and money. We finally discovered soon after his arrival at his house he went to his bed to sleep and died. Natural causes.
I believe some people know when they are going to die.

And you've got questions. First one?