A/N As I finished writing this, I realized that there are some ideas and themes that could be perceived as being somewhat religious. If you want to look at it from that perspective, that is absolutely fine, but please don't feel like you have to see it that way. No matter your religious outlook, this story is about things that are eternal...things like great fiction and even greater friendships.
I hope you enjoy.
"What will you name him?"
John blinked in surprise. He knew that Mycroft knew, quite possibly before he did, that Mary was pregnant, but he had not expected the Elder Holmes to care enough to bring it up during tea. "We were thinking James," he said finally.
"James," Mycroft repeated slowly, "Mary's Father's name." The unspoken question hung between them: Why not Sherlock?
John raised an eyebrow, "I always thought it was weird to name children after people who are still alive."
"Ah," Mycroft said matter-of-factly, but John could practically see the approval radiating off him, "I quite agree."
His full name was James Charles Watson. They made room for the crib in Sherlock's room, next to his bed, but changed nothing else about it. If, when Sherlock came home, he minded sharing a room, he could sleep on the couch. It was what he did most of the time anyway.
Then John blinked, and James was starting school, proudly wearing a backpack that was nearly as big as he was. He blinked again, and his son was a gangly preteen playing football with his mates.
Another blink and James was heading off to University, determined to be a doctor like his parents.
And then and James was bringing over a young woman who introduced herself as Lizzie, and she was so pleased to finally meet them, and she thought that August would be a lovely time for a wedding, didn't they agree?
The next moment James was placing a pink bundle in John's arms, and John laid his eyes on the most beautiful thing in the world. Her name was Meredith…his granddaughter.
Now John is sitting in his familiar armchair, and Lizzie is taking seventeen-year-old Meredith shopping, and James is checking his pulse, because John has been out of the hospital for barely a week and the only reason he is not there now is because it really does not matter where he is anymore, so he wants to be home.
"It went so fast," he murmurs.
James withdraws his hand and leans back in the armchair…not Sherlock's…no one sits in Sherlock's…the other one…the one he and Mary had bought just after they were married.
Mary…
She left him three months ago…the last in a series of goodbyes that had punctuated those terrible, wonderful years. First Mrs. Hudson, then Mike, then Lestrade, then Molly, then even Mycroft.
It happened nearly a year ago, now. John had made his way slowly up to the apartment. He needed a cane again, and this limp was certainly not psychosomatic. He was just trying to decide whether he and Mycroft should talk about the smiley face on the wall or recount stories of body parts in the fridge when he noticed that, for the first time in nearly forty years, Mycroft was not sitting in his usual seat, pouring tea for both of them.
Anthea was.
John stopped, "What are you doing here?"
She looked up, and it occurred to John that she was still indecently beautiful for someone her age: "Mr. Holmes cannot make it today," she said simply, "Please sit down."
John frowned. Mycroft had never missed their teatime, even in the midst of international conflicts, "And why not?"
Anthea sighed, and, for the first time, John saw her disinterested mask fall, revealing the real Anthea, or whatever her name was, and the real Anthea was ready to fall apart with grief.
John sat down. Anthea poured tea with barely trembling hands.
"When did it happen?" John asked quietly as he accepted his cup.
"Last night, in his home. It was… peaceful."
"Was he…" John began. His voice trailed off, so he tried again, "He wasn't…alone?"
Anthea shook her head, "His wife and daughter were with him."
"His wh…" John looked up. A gold ring was hanging on a chain from Anthea's neck.
Strangely enough, the only thing John could think to do was laugh, "I hit on you the first time we met!"
Anthea smiled, "Yes, we both found that rather amusing."
"Does Sherlock know?"
"Naturally," Anthea said, "He was the only other one who ever did. Everyone knew Mycroft had one weakness, but if they realized he actually had two…" her voice trailed off, "But everyone can know now."
"I'm sorry." John said quietly.
Anthea nodded. "He wanted me to give you something," she said, pulling a small envelope out of her purse, "It was the last thing he wrote…before…"
John accepted the envelope and carefully slid it open. Inside was a single sheet of stationary with three words written in a precise, albeit shaking, hand.
Keep waiting John.
-MH
They spoke of two Holmes' that day.
It was harder to wait after that, but John did not, could not, give up. After Mycroft died, he knew there was not much time left, but that was all right, because Sherlock would come.
He always did.
Finally, after falling asleep at his side for four decades, one morning Mary did not wake up with him.
Three days later John was staring at his wife's grave.
"Just the two of us now," John said to the man he was sure was watching him from behind a tree, as he had done all those years ago, "And you'd better come home fast, Sherlock, because now she's gone…I won't be able to last too much longer."
Don't be silly, John, Mary's voice chided in his ear, You'll always wait- however long it takes- we all knew that.
John smiled. Mary was always right.
"Fine, you git," he said, "I'll be waiting, you know that," he sighed, "Just hurry up, alright?"
That was two months ago.
"Yes, it does," James says.
His words snap John out of his reverie, "What does what?" he asks.
"Time, it moves very fast."
"Oh," he had said that, hadn't he? "But it's good too," John smiles, "The years, the time, it was all very good."
James smiles and lays his hand on John's own, "Do you want me to help you to bed?"
"No. I'm more comfortable here." The bed is too big now, and besides, Sherlock is going to be home any day, any hour, and John is going to see him right the moment he walks through the door.
"Alright," James says quietly. He gently squeezes John's hand, "I love you, Dad."
John smiles, "Love you too, son."
He does not remember falling asleep. Blasted old age, he thinks, it makes you take all sorts of unwanted naps. Annoyed, John opens his eyes, ready to chide James for letting him fall asleep.
Only James is not there.
"The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," a baritone voice drawls, "What kind of title is that?"
John looks across at the man in the overstuffed armchair who is now flipping idly through the pages of the book. Strangely enough, John feels no shock, or rage, or even glee at seeing his best friend for the first time in forty years. Perhaps it is not that strange; he had always known it was only a manner of time.
"It's the title the publishers thought would sell the best," he says, as if this was not their first conversation in forty years, "And you have to admit, it did."
"Yes," Sherlock murmurs, "Tenth edition. But that obviously has more to do with my genius and your writing ability, and not because of some idiot in the marketing department. Adventures!" he snaps, "It makes me sound like some sort of James Bond!"
"You know, most people would see that as a good thing."
Sherlock merely sniffs and continues flipping through the book, "Although I rather like the dedication page."
John rolls his eyes, "I told Mary we shouldn't inflate your ego even more."
Sherlock's lips jaunt up in a smile, and he finally sets the book down. He looks around the flat; John knows he is cataloguing every minute change: "Mary Morstan Watson," the detective murmurs.
"Yes," John whispers, feeling as though he has been stabbed in the chest. All the pain, all the months and years and years of waiting is catching up to him now. Sherlock is here. He came, just as John always knew he would, but Mary cannot meet him. "You were gone a long time," he says finally.
Sherlock's penetrating grey-blue eyes swiftly meet his own, and John sees the sorrow, the regret imbedded deep with them, a remorse even stronger than when he had returned the first time, if that was possible, "I know," he sighs, "And I am sorry."
"They're all gone, you know. Lestrade, Molly, Mary, even Mycroft. I'm the only one left."
To John's astonishment, Sherlock shoots him his I know so much more than you smile and shakes his head, "No, they're not."
"Yes, they are, Sherlock," John sighs, "I went to the funerals."
Sherlock-John can hardly believe it-rolls his eyes, "You forget how good I am at faking peoples' deaths."
"What do you mean?" John demands as a strange and ferocious mixture of wild fury and desperate hope suddenly engulf him.
Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin—how did that man still have such smooth skin? John wonders, and the same black hair…not even his scarf seems a day older: "You know exactly what I mean," Sherlock says, "I needed their assistance."
"And they came…just like that?"
"Of course."
"Even Mary," John blurts, "She hadn't even met you!"
"She was the hardest to convince," Sherlock admits, "She refused to leave you, but she finally realized that I…needed her…if I was to succeed."
"Then what about me?" John demands. The fury was finally there, bright and quiet and so very, very hot. They may be old men now, but John is certain he can still throw a decent punch.
Sherlock frowns, "What?"
"What about me!" John shouts, his voice quivering with rage, "You could have asked me! You could have asked me forty years ago, and you know I would have been by your side in a heartbeat!"
That same pained, regretful look shines in Sherlock's eyes again, "I know."
"Then why didn't you! Instead you tell everyone else: Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mary, everyone, but you didn't so much as write me, and I was the only one who still believed in you!"
"But don't you see," Sherlock says urgently, leaning forward in the armchair, "That's exactly it! You were the only one who still believed in me, so you were the only one I could trust to…"
"Trust to what?" John demands.
"Trust to wait for me this long," Sherlock finishes quietly.
Silence falls between them. John looks carefully at his best friend, the best friend whom he has waited forty years for, the one who still manages to infuriate him in less than five minutes, and feels his anger drain away. Sherlock's eyes are so open, so unguarded. They are the eyes of a child, the eyes of the lost little boy that Sherlock truly is, and always has been…and he is here…
Finally, John nods.
Sherlock smiles, that broad, excited grin that he only wears when he is caught up in the middle of a case. He bounds up—How could an eighty-year-old man move like that? John wonders—"Well let's go then!" Sherlock says impatiently, "What are you sitting around for?"
"Go where?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes, "It's not done yet, obviously."
"What isn't?"
"The case!" Sherlock shouts in exasperation and glee, "Forty years and the puzzle keeps going! It is marvelous! Best case I have ever had, even better than Moriarty! And now that you're here," Sherlock's eyes gleam with excitement; "Now that you're here they will be the very best times we ever had! Now come on, we have got to get to Buckingham Palace in…" he checks his watch, "Fifteen minutes!"
"Sherlock, I can't," John sighs, "I don't know how you managed it, but nobody else can live forty years without aging. I've got a cane again, and even you can't get rid of this limp by making me run around London with you!"
Sherlock raises a conceited eyebrow, "Oh can't I?" Then, before John can react, he grabs the cane in question and dashes towards the door.
"SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock pauses, his eyes dancing with excitement, "Mary's waiting outside." Then, with a gleeful laugh, he dashes down the stairs.
He sits there for half a second, listening to the excited echoes of his best friend's footsteps. Then John grins, jumps to his feet, and races after him.
"But there can be no grave for Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson...Shall they not always live in Baker Street? Are they not there this moment, as one writes? Outside, the hansoms rattle through the rain, and Moriarty plans his latest devilry. Within, the sea-coal flames upon the hearth and Holmes and Watson take their well-won case...So they still live for all that love them well; in a romantic chamber of the heart, in a nostalgic country of the mind, where it is always 1895."
-Vincent Starrett –The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
A/N As always, thank you so much for your support and for reading. Your thoughts are always appreciated.