A/N: Updates are getting a lot choppier now (obviously), but you can't say I didn't warn you. (Mycroft is getting pretty chubby again, guys, but don't tell him I said so...) Anyway, here's an update; I wrote this over the course of a school day (guilty as I am) and yeah.

Word Count: 940

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, brief mention of Mycroft/Lestrade but it's easily ignored.

Warning(s): Soft character death, lots of sad!fluff, violence (not detailed, but if you use your imagination), a bit of shameless fluff, and Mycroft being a bit of an odd bird. He means well, I'm assured.

The Dust is Fond of Us

Throughout the course of his life, John died five times.

Once, it had been before he had ever truly lived. He had, for all intents and purposes, been still-born. Mrs. Watson had sobbed only after they revived him; she called him her miracle, her angel baby, given back to her by His grace. And John had, for all intents and purposes, lived his life striving to be that perfect child, eagerly obeying her and his good army father and doting after his little sister and her various whims. After Mr. Watson passed away, Mrs. Watson stopped hiding the alcohol, and so did Harry. John, in turn, stopped doting.

Second, John had died the sway he always knew he would. At war, scrambling to save a soldier wounded in the battlefield. The soldier was barely nineteen and although John hadn't known him for more than a week his eyes shone with eager joy and his smile was honest and John had thrown himself into the fray without a second thought. It was a stupid move and it put him right into the line of fire, for a supposed lost cause no less, and John paid for it. He was dead for almost nine minutes – doctors shouting, technicians whispering, steel faced soldiers fighting tears because damn if John hadn't saved most of their lives by now, some more than once. And John left with an ugly scar, a psychosomatic limp, and a lifetime of nightmares. But the boy had lived and perhaps, for that, John met Sherlock.

Third, John had died in the non-literal sense. Perhaps, since John's heart never stopped beating, it shouldn't be counted. But it was the death, perhaps, that hurt the most, that tore his heart out and left him miserable, numb, and alone. Dead in every way that counted. He was dead when he took as many hours at the hospital as he could, dead as he spent more and more time with his sister, dead as he went to his therapist, dead as he went home with countless women who thought they could fix him, dead as he visited the cemetery with Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or alone every Sunday. Although few recognized it John Hamish Watson the blogger, the army doctor, the danger seeker, the man, had died when Sherlock took the fall. And he stayed dead until, years later, Sherlock brought them both back to life.

Fourth, John had died a lover. Just another case, just another kidnapping, just another gun in Sherlock's face, just another natural reaction, another shove, another dive, another round of bullets whizzing through the air, another criminal with a gunshot in his knee. Just another case, except this time one of the bullets had ended up in John's chest. John had seen it then, the feelings, seen Sherlock with clarity as the detective checked the wound, checked John's face, and done a double take. He saw the horror in Sherlock's eyes when, suddenly, it wasn't a game anymore. Before he died, John heard three things – a sob, an I Love You, and the dying cries of a kidnapper-turned-murderer as Sherlock kicked him to death. The other man was long dead before Lestrade arrived and pulled Sherlock away and, even when the paramedics had revived John, Sherlock had not been sorry. He was a sociopath, after all – he hardly cared about whether the people around him lived or died at his feet, and Sherlock had cried ruthlessly when John awoke from his comatose and they had kissed until Mycroft had declared it an illegal public display and sent them both home. After that, life was easier.

Fifth, John died permanently. It was not how John had imagined he would die, not in the slightest. With the kinds of choices he made, John saw himself dead by fifty, at best; if he died before Sherlock in battle or after Sherlock from heartbreak, Sherlock was and would never be good news for survival. Yet here he was, eighty-something and curled in bed with his best friend, his partner, his husband, both comfortable and alive. Sherlock was humming and rambling about honey bees and his irritating older brother and his irritating older brother's husband and how he still somehow looks younger than them both even though he's even older than Mycroft isn't he or maybe it was the hair, and cases. They still take cases, which makes John almost as happy as it makes Sherlock, and though they leave most of the legwork to eager young Yarders now a days they still have adventures; the faces of pedestrians as they see them dash down the street get only more and more priceless as the years age them. John didn't quite pay attention to the topic of discussion that night, far too enraptured by the lovely, familiar baritone of Sherlock's voice to bother with the words it's using. Eventually, John is lulled into a blissful sleep from which he would never wake, his last thought a small worry: when Sherlock tried to wake him and couldn't, who would remember to make morning tea?

It was a pointless worry to begin with, but more so if John had known it. Mycroft Holmes came over that afternoon to find that he had outlived them both. It's unorthodox – they're both younger than him, and in better health. But Mycroft doesn't feel sad because seeing his brother there with his doctor on his chest, smiling and gentle and dead, Mycroft sees proof that they'd truly been alive at all. And that makes Mycroft smile as he calls the police and tells them the news.

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