CHAPTER III:

TILL DEATH DO US PART

Sherlock knows he can't be there. He can't just act as if he has not done anything. He tried to hit him, he tried to hurt John in the way he thought he would never do. For him, words, some actions such as impregnating your own shirt with your lover's perfume and ignoring John would be the limit. It was supposed to be the limit, but he had been close to hitting him.

He wondered if that could accelerate the process.

It takes him three hours or so to walk round London and think about all those moments with him. Lauriston Gardens. The place looks different now, the house in which they found the pink lady is now occupied by new people, there are kids playing on the streets and it looks like everyone has forgotten the episode in which an evil cabbie gave a woman the choice between two pills.

Angelo's. Sherlock does not go inside; he just passes and sees a new couple having lunch in their usual table, the closest one to the window. He even sees Angelo carrying a candle and the menus. The couple are kissing. Sherlock walks away. Too many years, and he has already cleaned it off his hard drive. He can't remember anything about that night.

A tornado of events, places, some loose words and Sherlock remembers little about John and their early years together in which they were only friends who painfully shared a love hidden behind looks, shy touches, awkward words and moments until one of them made the first move. Who was it? Was it you, Sherlock? Was it John? Who was it, Sherlock, can you remember? He can't.

The following ten years of marriage - civil partnership - are something he has deleted recently from his hard-drive. But there are a few things he can remember such as words, moments, bad times and tears.

Sherlock's spoken words and John's broken heart.

"I love you Sherlock"

He closed his eyes and looked down at the pair of small hands hugging his torso. He sighed quietly, just to himself and moved his body in order to keep his bare back away from the other man's head. And he found himself in the position he knew he was going to be someday. He was not able to reply to John's words. Sherlock Holmes found himself in the position he knew he was going to be.

He can't reply back, because Sherlock Holmes does not love John Watson anymore.

.

"But-"

"This is important."

"This is also important, it's our anniversary,"

"I have important things to do."

.

"You're not eating?"

"Why would I eat?"

"I care about you. Do you care about me?"

"No, I do not."

.

He kissed him, he touched him. But he was not there. Sherlock's body was there, but his mind was somewhere else. And John could feel it.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answer?"

"I don't know what's happening to you."

"You."

.

"Your brother came-"

"I do not care."

"I wish I could have my sister alive-"

"What for? To see her drink herself to death and ignore you as she always did?"

.

"We need to talk"

"I do not want to talk"

"But we have something we need to discuss,"

"No, John. There is nothing I want to discuss with you."

.

"You see but you don't observe."

"I'm not stupid you know,"

"That is what every stupid person thinks."

.

John was reading the reports of Sherlock's latest case while they were having another silent breakfast.

"I love you, Sherlock"

He never got an answer and finally, John spoke to him for what would turn out to be the last time.

"Do you still care about us?"

The dark haired man made sure that his intentions were very clear in his husband's mind. And with a cold stare, he answered John's question.

"No."

That 'No' closed the door, and John did not find a way out of that hell, the hell Sherlock built. There was not possible way to escape. Since that day, John has been a puppet under Sherlock's painful and cruel strings.

Careless moments, unspoken words and the result is inevitable, two hearts are broken. One of them was ruled by the brain of the same man. The game is coming to an end, and there is not going to be a winner. His own game, Sherlock's game will beat him. Just because he is so clever, it never gave him the right to try to destroy John.

Because everything Sherlock touches has to die. Everything under his touch, under his eyes and within his heart has to rot and die. Nothing survives after Sherlock Holmes. No one lives long enough to tell how it is.

And John Hamish Watson is not the exception.

Nothing makes Sherlock happy. If cases were people, they would all be dead by now. A new case appears, and it instantly becomes better and more interesting than the previous one. And when one man appears and he survives for ten years, you have to agree and say John was a record. He stays; he is still there washing his clothes, making his dinner, sleeping beside him every night.

Sherlock gave John a new opportunity and he bought it. John bought that man, that young, clever and loving man and god, he made such a bad choice. He bought Heaven, blue skies and endless happiness, but Sherlock only offered him the same Hell and all its demons, cloudy and dark skies and endless suffering and pain.

Everything Sherlock touches dies. That is something John knew all along. And if he wanted to be the exception, he was so wrong.

As soon as he arrives and undoes his own scarf, he sees John sitting on his worn armchair with papers and a pen on his hands. Right in front of him, is his black leather armchair and in the middle, a small table with two cups of tea and cookies.

Sherlock accepts the invitation.

He sits in front of John and takes the cup left. The milk and sugar are perfect. Sherlock holds the cup with his left hand and the saucer with his right, and while he sips the hot tea, he observes John.

He realises John has changed a lot. His blonde and sandy hair is white, completely white and his wrinkles are profound, almost cutting his pale skin and there are also new wrinkles around his eyes and between his eyebrows. His thin lips are bruised and they are pale. John is very pale. And he had lost a lot of weight recently. A lot.

There is something Sherlock can't lay a finger on; there must be something inside that man who is writing something he can't see. Sherlock can't see two things: That letter and its contents and John. He can't reach out for John's arm and take his blood pressure. He can't reach out to John's body to feel how his heart is beating. He can't run a hand over John's cheek to feel his temperature.

There are a lot of things he must do to understand what is happening, but they are also things he will not allow himself to do. For the first time, Sherlock allows himself to be ignorant and let things be.

He is also aware of John. Sherlock knows John knows he is looking at him, trying to deduce him and he does not want John to know that he can't do it.

John folds two letters into two different envelops. One is closed while another remains open. However, when Sherlock takes the last drop of his tea, he glances at his left hand and he realises he is not wearing the ring. He remembers he had dropped it when he was fucking Victor, and he also remembers he had dropped it close to John's armchair. Sherlock puts the cup back to the saucer and looks at the floor. The ring is nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock looks back at John, and he is not wearing a ring either. John is not wearing his own ring.

In the process of looking for it, Sherlock never stops to ask himself why he cares so much about both rings. It was OK before, if he was the only one not using it. It was OK if it was just an accident to arrive home and find John polishing his own ring. It was OK if he used to hide it from people. Why does he care so much for it right now?

But Sherlock stops looking when he feels something different. The silence between him and John is different. John is different. His breathing pattern has changed, and it is calmer now. John's movements are steady.

It is late, and he has to go to bed. He wonders if there are more pills. He would take all of them tonight.

Sherlock finds his pajamas neatly folded on his side of the bed and he changes, and as soon as his greyish eyes scan his beside table, he finds the ring. John should have found it. It takes Sherlock mere seconds to observe it carefully. It looks so old, it is unpolished, but the inside is shining as if it were brand new. The engraving shines considerably, and it says 'John Watson'.

He can't find his pills, and he swears because he is sure he had them. And his plans are ruined.

When Sherlock comes back from the kitchen, John is already lying on his side of the bed. He turns off the lights and as soon as the mattress meets the weight of his body, it makes a very annoying sound. Sherlock hates that sound. John was always the one making that sound. John was always the last one going to bed.

Sherlock closes his greyish eyes and he tries to sleep, but he feels John turning to his side. He can feel his blue and sad orbs on him and Sherlock thinks he can consider it again. This game must end; he loves John, why must he make him suffer like this? Why must his brain rule his heart? Every time, every second away from John, his heart tries to make him understand it, that he needs John like air. That he needs him to live. But his brain is strong, it's too powerful to give up and it makes Sherlock surrender. Because he has convinced himself that he does not love John anymore. It has convinced him that everything under his touch is meant to rot and die. It has convinced Sherlock that John has to die to make him understand things.

He thinks how he should tell John that he wants everything to be as it used to be. Sherlock makes a list, he knows he will have to fight his own mind and convince himself otherwise, that he loves John, that John is his air, his life and that John is everything to him. He will have to teach his own brain to fall for John again, and he will have to erase that stupid idea of weakness. Love has never made him weak. Those last months without loving John have made him the weakest person in the world. And it is time to love him again, ask for forgiveness and redemption and be the couple they used to be.

But, will it be too late to do so?

"Sherlock,"

John is not asking him, John is calling him. John lets out a deep and silent sigh. And waits.

"Yes, John."

Sherlock answers back. For the first time in months, he replies back and they share a few words. Sherlock feels the words John wants to say, but he will not tell John to carry on, he will wait.

A pair of silent tears is falling from John's blue eyes and he smiles. He has got a chance tonight. And he is not going to waste it. He is going to cling to that chance to never let it go. John's heart is at stake and even when he knows he will leave soon, he wants to do it remembering this moment. Because John knows that, very deep in Sherlock's heart, he knows he is going to die.

Sherlock knows John is going to die. His mind is playing a tricky game with him, and he is ignoring it now. But the clock is going, and it is now too late to turn and kiss. It is too late to ask for forgiveness. It is too late for Sherlock to undo all the damage he has done.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

John waits.

He waits for an answer. There must be an answer.

Sherlock decides he will give him an answer. He turns a bit, just a little bit and he lets John see his greyish eyes. Complicity in the extreme. Both men are accomplices of something that will set them free. At least one of them.

"Goodnight, John."

And that is it. Now John Hamish Watson can rest in peace. Because he turns to see those photographs over the drawers again and he closes his eyes. Sherlock hears a deep and long sigh and then John's heart stop beating. His lungs stop moving and the ribcage stops rising.

Sherlock feels a need to turn to see him, because he can sense something. Something is wrong.

But Sherlock Holmes does not turn and he closes his eyes. There is a new case lying in his own bed, just beside him and he will not take it. Not know. Because this case is simply domestic, not worth his time.

When John opens his eyes, he finds himself lying on green grass, holding hands with the love of his life. Both are dressed like the day they got married and he is smiling. John asks him why he smiles. And the other man stands up and offer his hand again and John can't deny his invitation. His limp has gone, as has the pain in his shoulder, and he wonders why this is happening.

Sherlock hushes him and kisses him. He even assures John nothing will keep them apart. Nothing.

"Not even death?"

The younger man walks with him until they stop in front of a large lake. The water is so clear and blue that John agrees with him that it looks like a mirror. Both men go down until their knees meet the green grass again and they look down into the water. Their reflections are clear. And the water, as a mirror, shows them their youth and the hope in their faces. There is nothing more. Just the two of them. Everything is about them. Just the two of them. And John Watson is happy. He feels his heart beating inside his chest and his eyes sparkling. This is the place he belonged to long time ago. And he even regrets that his presence here has taken him so long.

"Nothing will keep us apart. Never. Because I have you." The dark haired man smiles and nods. They share a long and deep kiss until Sherlock breaks it. "And because I love you, John. I will always love you."

John nods with him in agreement. This does not hurt. This is what he craved for so long, this is the peace he wanted.

This is Heaven.

When Sherlock opens his grey eyes, he hears his husband's clock alarm going off. He counts to three, but he does not turn it off. And it is annoying.

Sherlock presses a long arm over John's right shoulder in order to reach the clock and turn the alarm off. He believes that is enough to wake him up and decides to get to the bathroom to have a shower first. He can smell his own shampoo, and he discovers John had used it last night. And that doesn't annoy him in the slightest.

He expects tea when he approaches the kitchen, but the tea maker is not up yet. And, with an air of discontent, Sherlock prepares just one mug and one tea bag and at the time the kettle finally announces to him that the water is ready, the detective realises today is not John's free day. He must go to work and for some reason he is not up yet. There is a bag full of lollipops he knows John takes to his work and that bag is on the counter. John's white coat is in the basket and his bag is on the sofa. And he knows John Watson well enough to know he is never late for work. That is something he has not deleted from his hard-drive.

He turns on his phone. There are no texts from Lestrade or Victor. However, he remembers his idea. Sherlock remembers what he thought before going to sleep yesterday. Sherlock remembers about giving love and John a second chance. Though, Sherlock must give his own heart a second chance. Sherlock is the only one who decided to walk out of John, he is the only one who decided to surrender to his brain and he is the only one who destroyed the only love his life will ever have.

But there is something else. A smell, there is a smell he only relates to Molly because that is the smell of the mortuary, that characteristic smell you can only sense when you are in the presence of a dead body.

Sherlock knows what that smell means, of course he does. He had seen it, he had felt it and he had heard it. He had seen John vanishing with his own eyes, and he did nothing and now he smells that smell and he knows what that means.

The consulting detective does not know it yet, but he is going to face a new case, all the clues are going to be all over his own bed because he is the owner of those clues, and he will not be able to solve it. Sherlock will not be able to solve this case, not this one. Because, as soon as he leans in the doorway and sees John's body, he can't process what he already knows. Clues, there are a lot of clues, god, it is written all over it and he can't process it because he refuses to believe it. Sherlock Holmes can't believe what his eyes are seeing.

Sherlock can see the back of John's ribcage. And it's not moving. Curiosity kills the cat. He walks until he is standing next to John. He kneels until their faces share the same level. Sherlock moves his head from one side to another while he sees John's pale face. John's hands are so pale, so pale in a prayer position under his chin and Sherlock's pale hand caress his cheek. They are cold. John's body is cold and he is not breathing. John is not moving and no matter how hard Sherlock shakes his shoulders, John will not wake up.

Sherlock screams at John's lifeless body. He makes promises; he even begs him and tells him to come back, to stop playing this absurd and dark game. Sherlock also tells him to stop doing funny things, because this is not funny. Sherlock screams at John that he has learnt his lesson, that he will behave, that he will be the husband he deserves to have and that he will stop seeing Victor. His long and big hands are on John's shoulders and he shakes him over and over, and John's motionless head hits against the pillow over and over but his blue eyes are shut. He will not open them again and Sherlock continues making promises and asking for forgiveness and redemption.

The consulting detective does not care about the smell and the coldness of John's lifeless and extremely pale body when he starts crying and buries his own face on the dead man's chest. He kisses him and mumbles things just to himself. John's pale lips taste bitterly. Sherlock wants to feel that sweet taste again, he has been craving John's lips for so long that now that he is kissing him, Sherlock feels them bitter and cold.

Too late, Sherlock.

Two steps back and his grey eyes meet two envelopes over the bedside table. When he takes them, he already knows what is inside. Instinctively he opens the smallest envelope and prepares one hand to receive the contents inside. A letter addressed to him, medals and John's wedding ring, perfectly polished with its engraving inside shining.

"Mine says 'John Watson' and yours 'Sherlock Holmes'"

"Because we belong to each other"

"Till death do us part."

His dark silhouette moves from the place he is standing to his usual black armchair with a violin in his hands that are perfectly used to this instrument, and with a quick, studied and a very neat movement Sherlock supports his face over the chin rest and let his fingers dance over the scroll and then to the fingerboard. Another hand moves in the air holding the bow and soft, hurtful and dark notes are produced by this man and his violin.

The only audible sound is produced by this dark haired man and his violin. The curtains are wide open and the panes are dirty but the light fights and wins, illuminating the only man alive in that room and his dark music. The little pieces of broken frames and ripped pictures are shinning too and then the notes change their rhythm and the violinist is losing control. The bow is hurting the strings of his precious instrument and the fingers of the tall musician are bleeding. Sherlock stands up and walks until he is just inches away from John's lifeless body and continues playing heavily with erratic movements, frowning with the sun light that is also entering from the window in front of the bed. It shines over his pale and expressionless face. His grey irises are shining.

Sherlock Holmes is not crying anymore. He is just playing the violin because he needs to think about why the man lying in his bed is dead.

Tick tock goes the clock, even for him.

"This letter is addressed to you and it's bound to be read by you and only you in case of my death..."

The bow is moving slowly over the strings and the violinist is creating a new piece of music.

"I know what is taking me now. It is you. You are taking me and I know it. I know I am going to die soon after I finally close my eyes tonight."

He closes his eyes so tightly that his fingers are pressing the strings with more force than necessary. The creation, his creation, is changing its own colours. It's not a sweet tune now.

"Pretend some sadness and fake some tears. It will be helpful for you, trust me..."

The tune in his violin is dark.

"Looking for Heaven, Sherlock, I found the devil in you..."

The tune produced by his violin becomes scary.

"Please, when you find my body, do not harm it... Let me rest in peace, Sherlock."

The violinist stops and moves the bow against the lifeless body lying on his bed. Sherlock can't stop. He can't stop hitting John because he has left and nothing will bring him back. Not even hitting his dead body will bring him back. He promised it, John promised him they would always be together, that they would grow old together but he lied. John lied to him because he is dead now, he escaped from the same hell Sherlock built for them and now Sherlock is alone. There no one in this fucking world to love Sherlock Holmes because the only love god sent to him is now dead. Why? Because the same Sherlock Holmes killed him. Because everything Sherlock Holmes touches has to rot and die. And I told you, John Watson was not the exception.

Tears starts to flow from his grey eyes and he stops when he needs air, because he is convulsing. The detective can observe now what kind of bruises form on a dead body and that makes him remember that day, the day they met and the day they chose the other for ever.

For ever until death do them part.

Until now.

Sherlock Holmes covers his face with his hands, looking for a reason. Looking for the reasons. This is a case in which he is the owner of all the clues but then again, he can't solve this.

Sherlock Holmes can't solve the case of the death of John Hamish Watson. And he lets the letter lie on the floor.

April 15th, 2012. LETTER ADDRESSED TO SHERLOCK HOLMES.

Sherlock Holmes,

This letter is addressed to you and it is bound to be read by you and only you in case of my death.

My life is a disaster, Sherlock, and I do not want you in it. Not any more. The causes of my departure, physically speaking, are natural. I am not ill, quite the opposite in fact, but my heart has decided it can't beat. And I accept that without the concern of anybody else. Because naturally, my heart belongs to you. It has always belonged to you, but you seemed to forget that. You, Sherlock Holmes, ripped my heart in countless ways in front of my eyes every day with your silence, your coldness and every yell, and with your murdering eyes. So finally, I have decided I am done with my graceless heart. I went to Afghanistan and I met the same Hell, all its demons and I have seen so many lives being taken. I knew I could die at any moment, but I also knew I was not going to die there. I know what is taking me now. It is you. You are taking me and I know it. I know I am going to die soon after I finally close my eyes tonight.

I always wondered if people know when they are about to die. If there is a signal or if an angel appears to tell you your time is done. And now I know it. I met my angel this morning before I could go and set you free from jail. And while I write this, I can't believe you needed me to be free. Please note this is not sarcasm. I know you were not good with sarcasm but now you are an expert. So I trust you will not detect any of it in this letter. I, John Watson, set you free early this day. God really planned this, hasn't he? Look at it as an exchange of favors; I set you free this morning, and now you are realising you did the same in the night.

No matter how hard I try to think, I can't find the moment when everything started. I can't find the moment when both of us stopped talking, when we stopped holding hands. I can't find the moment when you stopped loving me, if you did. But I know you did. I could have ripped my heart out of me just to remember that moment when you stopped loving me, the last time you kissed me, the last time you touched me. The last time you told me you loved me and I can't remember, Sherlock. I look at old pictures of our wedding or the ones about our first cases together, and it hurts like Heaven not being able to remember those moments. And I treasured them in my heart and then again, I can't remember. Can you, Sherlock? Can you remember the moment I proposed to you, the moment when we first made love, the moment when we had plans together? I do not even know why I am asking if you are not going to answer me. Maybe after tonight I will be able to know the answers to all those questions, but it hurts me to know I will not be able to hear them from your own mouth.

It is hard to love a demon, not impossible, but it is hard. A fine romance, isn't it?. But it's leaving me so impaired. A half heart can't beat when the other half has left. And I can see no way in this life without you. I need you to continue breathing and my heart needs you to continue beating. And you are not here for us, so it is better if I kill this pain your absence is causing us.

Also, I wanted to tell you so many things, face to face obviously. But it is so hard to do it when your own eyes are burning my skin. My throat feels sore. I cannot speak for myself and this is why I am leaving this letter. When we came back from the Yard early today, I stood in the middle of our sitting room hearing my conviction from your lips. I have heard every accusation and you signed my sentence. I was not able to hear you and I am still can't. I am deaf and I am speechless. I swear to God I was not able to hear your yelling, your words, your truth. My knees were weak and my eyes were blind. I prefer to leave this world remembering those happy moments between us rather than you yelling at me things I do not deserve. Because I do not deserve the feelings of hate you have for me. And I do not understand what I did to deserve this from you. I can't remember the last time I felt any joy. The last time I felt my heart warm.

I can only remember the moment when you almost hit me.

You may care about this or not, but I am leaving this world relieved. I have lived a life full of good and bad moments, more good than bad, believe me. I am grateful to you, because without you maybe I would have killed myself a long time ago. You gave me all the love I wanted and despite the fact that that love died before me, I am leaving life as I knew it, happily. The only thing I regret with all my heart is not being able to tell you face to face what I already have written here, and what I already know and what you seemed to forget.

While I am writing this you are furiously observing me through those grey eyes. I am observing you, and you have not changed in the past ten years, Sherlock. I admire that. Believe me. Not a single wrinkle in that porcelain face of yours nor a single white hair in that dark and curly head. You resemble youth and life. Have a long life, Sherlock.

My apologies for leaving my will to your brother (I don't know how you will feel about that, maybe relief, I do not know), but I seriously do not want you to be bothered with a dead body and also my things. I am truly sorry for my boxes upstairs. I catalogued everything and you can do whatever pleases you with them but, as a suggestion, think of your homeless network. I am sure they will need jumpers and jackets this winter. Before you ask your brother, I do not want to be buried. I do not want and I do not need anyone feeling the need to go to the cemetery to leave me flowers. Not even you. But that is something Mycroft will be taking care of. My flags, my medals and my wedding ring are bound to be burnt with my body. Please, do give them to your brother.

Do not worry about the police. The causes of my death, as I wrote at the very beginning of this letter, are purely natural so they will not be charging you with murder. And yes, I have been searching for information. And I also know the police like to pop their noses where they are not supposed to. You will call them soon after you find my dead body. Pretend some sadness and fake some tears. It will be helpful for you, trust me. But then again, that is something Mycroft will be handing as well and I am truly sorry for bothering you with Mycroft. I know how much you dislike him (I am sorry, but I can't use the word 'hate' like you do) but he is the only one left and I do not have any family to ask for all these things. I think that after years being your keeper, this is the last thing I can ask for. No one will be charged with my death. I will leave that to the God I do believe in.

Please, when you find my body, do not harm it. I don't care less, really. But do not take out your fury on me. The only thing I am asking you is to respect my dead body. Let me rest in peace, Sherlock.

If I could go back in time, believe me when I say I would not change a thing. Not a single moment. Not Afghanistan and not even meeting you in that lab at Bart's. I would choose all of that again. Even this pain, Sherlock. Even this pain, if it means I would be able to share all those years with you, all over again. I am trying to convince myself that the good moments with you were worth these last months. I love you. I love you with all my heart, with all my being. I would give you all my blood if you ask me to. I would give you my heart if you need it. But I do not blame you, Sherlock Holmes must have got bored with me a long time ago, and it is my moment now. I can't help being the boring John Watson. I am sorry if you expected more of me. And no, I am not pitying myself in order to make you feel bad and guilty. Do not feel guilty, Sherlock. I am only saying (or writing) the truth that you, Mr. Punchline, couldn't tell me. I see and I do observe.

Continue working, the world needs your cleverness. London needs you.

Captain John Watson, M.D.

Author's Note:

Thank you so much to the lovely librarianmum for being my beta and to the readers for their support and feedback.

The following chapter should be the last one. So please, if you have the time, review!