Grab a blankie or teddy now; excessive feels ahead!
Sherlock was reluctant to come home and so was I. I didn't want to face the emptiness of the flat; somehow I felt that if Sherlock came back home, he would never again leave it.
I pulled it together after my episode in the park and manage to dry up my tears. Maybe it was because I knew that Sherlock needed me to be stronger, that he admitted it to me. As we walked back to the flat, Sherlock is evidently declining; he leans heavily on me, walking slowly and stumbling often. He is pale to the point of being grey and his eyes droop as if he can hardly stay awake.
I somehow managed to get him up the stairs and to his room. When he sits back on the bed it is obvious that he is already asleep. He laid back on the sheets, his hair falling around his head like a halo; for once I see that peace in sleep that I have been looking for since he became sick. Its then I fear he won't wake up again.
I got his pajamas out of the drawer and proceeded to change him out of his clothes into the pajamas. I pulled his shirt off, reviling his ivory skin that clearly shows his ribs. I ran my hand gently over them and considered the pain that Sherlock must have suffered this past two years. He had always been skinny but never like this; this was the body of a dying man. Torn between wanting to keep my hands on him and the desire to stop seeing the pain that was reflected in his body, I was froze for a minute. Finally I decided to pull myself away from seeing the pain and I pulled the pajama shirt over his head gently and down over his gaunt figure.
I paused at removing his pants; somehow it felt wrong, like a violation. I really wished he would wake up and lecture me about privacy or minding my own business. But he doesn't. I change his pants quickly, not lingering like I did with his shirt. All of this is wrong; I shouldn't be seeing him like this.
Once Sherlock was dressed, I moved his body so that his head was on the pillow. I pulled the covers up to his shoulders, tucking them in slightly so that he wouldn't be cold. I don't know how long I stood there, just staring at him. Watching the rise and fall of his chest, desperately afraid that every time it came down, it would not come back up. Suddenly, my heart gives me such a pain that I fall down to my knees on the floor; my chest stabs and burns. I could hardly breathe; I held my chest, waiting for the pain to surpass. When it doesn't go away for some time, I was thinking this might just be what I had been hoping for; maybe my heart would give out on me so I didn't have to suffer for a second in a world that didn't include Sherlock Holmes.
But after a few minutes the pain subsides and I realized that I was going to be okay. My stomach gave a lurch and I just made it to bathroom in time to thrown up violently. I clung to the toilet, alternating between vomiting and crying for I don't know how long. I stay there until my body and soul are completely raw and empty.
I picked myself up off the bathroom floor and drug myself to my bedroom, changing my clothes quickly. I fell face first onto my bed after changing into my pajamas. I didn't cry anymore, for I had left all my tears in the bathroom. But I lay on my bed for a long time, clutching my blanket in my hand until my knuckles turned white. I knew I needed to return to Sherlock, but I was afraid. I was afraid I would go to him and I would find that the gentle rise and fall of his chest had ceased; I really wanted to just stop existing.
I was laying there, hanging on desperately to my blanket and staring out the window at the snow that was falling when I heard a noise by the door. I turned around and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway. I could tell that he could hardly stand; he was shaking slightly as he stood there and his color was sickly.
"Sherlock, you are you okay?" I ask even though that's a supremely stupid question. "Do you need anything?"
Sherlock doesn't say anything; he walks slowly into the room, walking around my bed to the other side. I turned over so that I could see what he was doing; I watched as he half climbed, half stumbled into my bed. He lay on the other side of the bed, pulling the covers onto him. I was taken by surprise as he scooted over so that he was next to me. He laid his head on my shoulder, draping an arm over my chest. I closed my eyes for a second as that part of me that was Sherlock pulled further away from the part of me that was John. As persistent as I had been about trying to stay with Sherlock during the nights and how he'd been equally persistent about not allowing me, I knew that if he was willingly coming to my bed, openly looking for comfort, that it was almost over. He knew that it was close enough to the end that he could show his weakness. The realization is almost too hard for me; but I remain strong for him. There will be plenty of time to cry later. After.
I want to enjoy every second of these last moments that I have with him. I lay on my back with Sherlock's head on my shoulder and his arm over my chest. I put one arm around his back and the other around him, pulling him closer to me. He feels so warm and soft against me and I felt warmth spreading through my chest. I tilt my head down so that my face is lying in his silver and midnight curls. I take in his smell and feel the softness of the curls against my face. I try to resist the urge, but this is no time for pretenses; I nuzzle my face against his curls. I wait for Sherlock to stop me but he doesn't; I don't think I'm imagining it when I hear him sigh.
I could stay like that forever; and I do stay like that for a great amount of time. I only lift my head when Sherlock speaks. "John?" he says. His voice croaks out weakly; there is pain and sadness filling his tone.
"What Sherlock?" I asked.
"About what you said…..earlier" he said slowly and hesitantly. He pauses to see if I understand what he means.
"Yes" I said, letting him know I know exactly what he is referring to.
"You know it's always been you, right John?" Sherlock asked as if it was so obvious I should have known already. "Right from the beginning"
My voice cracked as my breath caught in my chest "Really?" I ask
"Til the end of my days" Sherlock said softly. That's when I know I'm losing him.
In the same moment I feel rising happiness and crushing sadness. To know he returned my feelings, to know that the man I've spent 20 years with, following him, taking care of him, loving him…to know he returned the things I felt for him was a gift I could have never expected to receive. That combined with the knowledge that he is leaving me is so crushing I don't know what to say. So I don't say anything.
Sherlock tilts his head so that he's looking at me. Maybe he wants me to say something, maybe he just wants to see me, I don't know. But I can't speak…..as much as I wanted to tell him how I felt earlier I can't manage to speak after he just told me. If I speak I might lose it again and I don't want to do that, I don't want to ruin this. So as he looks up at me, my a slight smile on his lips and an open look of adoration that he has never let me see, I lean down and put my lips to his. He doesn't initiate it, but he doesn't stop it either. His lips are soft and warm against mine and they fit more perfectly than I could have imagined. True, I never did imagine it before; no other circumstances could have brought us to this.
After some time ( I'm not sure how much because time has become meaningless to me) I pull back and look at his face. I'm afraid he will say something but he doesn't. He just looks into my eyes with his icy cool ones and smiles at me. It seems so strange to smile at a time like this, but with him smiling at me I can't help but return it. I smile even though my heart is breaking.
The second time, Sherlock is the one that initiates. He leans forward and puts his lips against mine; a little harder, a little more desperate. When I feel the tears on his cheek up against mine I pretend that I don't.
When he pulls back he lays his head back on the place on my chest that he was at before. After a few minutes I know that he is asleep because of his stillness and breathing. I don't sleep, not for a long time. I just watch him, taking in all of his features, memorizing him. I want to be able to remember everything about him; not like a photograph but the better form of him. The one I have known; no one else got to see him like I did and that's the version I want to remember.
I watch him for hours maybe, I don't know. When my eyelids begin to droop I fight it with a passion. I don't want to sleep; I want to stay with him. I don't want to leave. But eventually my body gives into sleep.