Telling Mrs. Hudson was something I had wanted to skip but John insisted.
It couldn't be avoided since she stood outside the flat as the cab pulled up. John had phoned ahead and asked her to be available to help me up the stairs. She didn't question why I would need help and held back her questions until the three of us had made it to the second floor. It was then that John sat her down and told her the whole story.
She cried as I assumed she would. She walked over and held my hand and wept into my arm. It was excruciating.
John attempted to calm her back that only seemed to exacerbate her sorrow.
"Mrs. Hudson, please," I said as she whispered platitudes into the creases of my shirt.
"My dear boy," she said. "It's not fair."
I looked over at John and desperately hoped that the message was conveyed. Luckily, it was.
"Alright," John said as he walked to our landlady and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Let's go."
Her fingers draped across my hand as she was pulled away. As she walked away I had the strange feeling that I wanted her back.
John felt that I should say goodbye to the others much to my consternation. I had been relegated to my bed unable to get up and walk without much effort. It was exactly what I did not want. The hovering over the weakening body and kind words spoken out of ignorance and lies. But he felt that it was the right thing to do.
Anderson and Donovon came in quick succession and did little but nod and talk awkwardly until John allowed them to go. Anderson attempted to continue our antagonism as to make it seem as if he wasn't showering me in pity which was appreciated. However I could tell that it made him uncomfortable—even a man like Anderson doesn't want to feel like he'd insulted the dead.
Molly arrived soon after. She wore her uneasy smile and a dress that she hid under a thick jacket. She pulled the sides tight against her body and wrapped her arms around her chest.
There wasn't much to talk about. We'd never done more than work beside each other. I knew nothing about her except what she had volunteered as I worked. She looked over at John with tears in her eyes.
"We got back the soil sample," she said.
I took me a moment to remember what she was talking about. The Rart case. Soil under the fingernail. "And?"
She spoke in an overly self-conscious professional tone as she swallowed away her obvious sadness. "It was from a fertilizer that they only sell to farms that house a specific kind of pig—Lestrade has the name. There's only one of those farms in a hundred mile radius. They're sending someone out there, I believe."
A hunch. It paid off. It felt good to end on a win.
"Good work," I said.
She nodded, overly so, and blinked back tears. Molly looked over at John and he did nothing but gesture back towards me. Poor Molly stood there unclear on how to proceed. Our history would precipitate an embrace or kind works but Molly had always been the one to understand that I did not want to talk about myself and she respected that boundary.
"Sherlock…" she said quietly.
Her face had been with me since I moved to this flat. Five years ago I needed a lab and she was a medical student who had the key after hours. At first she had an attraction and I used that as leverage. There was the promise of coffee or after-work walks but I believe she had moved on. John feels otherwise.
"Molly, please," I said. Her eyes had filled with tears.
She did not hug. She did not say another word.
"I'll call you with the results of the blood sample. Should be in next week."
"Thank you."
Good girl.
Lestrade finalized the potential criminal investigation against John. He told John that he could not be in the room when I took the medication but could provide medical support after the consumption. Lestrade, as well, kept the discussion professional. I did not want to discuss anything but John's innocence with him at this point. He kept notes and promised that the case would be an nonissue. John would not be a suspect.
We ended the meeting with a handshake. Lestrade had been the one to give me the opportunity after I sent them my opinions on a case they had mentioned in the newspaper. It turned out that I had solved it simply by reading the witness' statements a different way. After that I was called in even during the period where I was constantly being brought in on drugs charges.
He was the reason that I had a profession.
And this handshake was the last time I would ever see him.
With a look I tried to convey my gratitude. If he was the man that I knew he was, it was enough.
In the quiet of the night, I felt oddly alone. Solitude had always been my companion. My entire life had been a series of moments in which I was the only member. But in this bed, in my last hours, I wanted to share the time. I wanted John.
"John?"
He was in the next room feigning doing work. He leapt to his feet and rushed into the room.
"What is it?"
I couldn't say it. Even with my defenses down it was hard to articulate words that I needed him here.
"Can you stay a moment?"
"Are you feeling alright?" John asked as he neared closer.
I nodded.
He didn't continue to speak. He pulled the chair over to the side of the bed and moved in closer to my head.
"You should have seen Anderson's face," John said with a smile. "He was…well…"
"I can imagine," I said. "Probably killed him to come up here."
"You should have hugged him," John said. "His brain might have burst."
We share a bit of a laugh. It felt nice to laugh.
The drugs he gave me began to kick it. I struggled to keep my eyes open.
"Go to sleep," John said as he rubbed my shoulder.
"Not yet," I said. This was my last night. This would be the last time I went to bed. I felt a tinge of sadness well up in my chest.
John continued the rub down my back to calm me like he would a small child. "You must. Tomorrow's a big day."
He struggles for a smile but it doesn't come.
Much to my annoyance sleep overpowers me.
Tomorrow.
It is done tomorrow.