Sherlock

I lean back in my chair, reminiscing. Who's going to take my place when I'm gone? What's going to happen to the Scotland Yard? To London? I'm not the most important person, but I do make a difference. No one will be there to take my place, will they? Maybe it's time to turn John into something this world could use. Not in a sense of using him for gain, but use him to help make it a better place. I sigh, this is difficult. Acknowledging that you are not infallible. It hurts to think that I don't have anyone that will be there after me. What would the world be like with out me? What would John be doing if I wasn't here for him? Nothing good I think. Not that I want to die or anything, I'm just thinking. Thinking about how death can take something away. Something that might be important. Life is just a blip, it really is. And is this all we are? Here, this, now? Sheep that roam the world without thought or free thinking? Yes. What would happen if I were to die right now? What would happen? I guess these thoughts cross everyone's mind at some point. Why me? Why now? God. This is horrible. Mrs. Hudson would cry, surely. John probably couldn't care less, maybe he could though. I'm not sure. Mother would have a fit, Mycroft would probably shoot himself. He really does care about me, to some degree at least. Lestrade would be left on his own and slowly the Scotland Yard would get worse and worse at their jobs and this mysterious Moriarty would run the streets. I can't die. I've decided. I'm not going to die. I just have to live forever, hoping that I won't get too weary, too bored, too lonely. Hoping and praying, it might not be enough, but it might be to much too. Oh Hell. My head hurts. I've created paradoxes. Good work Sherlock. I'm not going to die.

"I'm not going to die." John jumps,

"What?"

"I'm not going to die. I'm too important." He smiles.

"Everyone dies Sherlock."

"I know, I'm not though."

"What makes you think you're so special?"

"All the bad things that would happen without me."

"Oh?"

"Indeed."

"So?"

"So I've decided that I'm just not going to die."

"And that will help will it?"

"Obviously. Prevent the bad, and viola."

"I see."

"Said the blind man."

"What?"

"You still don't understand. But no matter. I'm just not going to die."

"You do that. Come to my funeral then?" I look up, smiling,

"Obviously. How could I not."

"Thanks Sherlock." Wait,

"Only if you have those little cakes with the edible ball bearings on them. Those are brilliant."

He raises an eyebrow, "Right. Okay Sherlock."

"Thanks John."

"You know you're going to die right."

"Shut up."

"Why?"

"I'm trying to convince myself that I won't."

"Why?"

I pause, why? Why am I trying? Why am I convincing myself that I won't die? Why am I trying so hard. And then I think. Think of everything about death, and why it bothers me. Why am I trying? Simple. Easy. Obvious. "Because I'm scared of it."