A/N And... sort of angst? From the reader's POV, maybe.

Thanks to johnsarmylady, MapleleafCameo, Hummingbird1759, Orchfan, sparrowismyhummingbird, glambertcello, Violette1415scs, and NinjaGirlRebecca,

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LXXII. Mischief Managed

It's done.

Sherlock thinks these words, calmly and with absolute conviction, as he lies in his bed, the same bed that he's had for years, so many, many years, since the beginning, when he first met John that one fateful night back when he was still working for Scotland Yard.

How long ago it seems now.

He's still there, of course, still in Baker Street—barely there, but clinging on… he could never bring himself to leave it, in the end. Not even in the past few months, when the memories it held burned worse than anything, when the halls seemed to echo a certain dusty finality.

There were no more experiments in the kitchen, of course. Not anymore, now that he was too damn decrepit to clean up after himself… it wasn't too bad, though. He'd grown used to it, grown used to relaxation, even if he still poked a perceptive, insulting observation at everyone who came in to 'check on him,' clearly indicating that he didn't need their help at all, that his mind was as polished as ever, thank you very much, whether or not his face had lost its smoothness and his hair had begun to shine silver.

John used to laugh whenever he did that. His laugh never changed, over the spans of the decades. It was still just as warm, just as sweet and flawless. Just like the rest of him had been, up to the very end.

Sherlock used to despise the idea of the end. John's end, his end. Now the first has come to pass, and it doesn't even hurt anymore, but only because he knows that it's not going to matter, not for much longer.

Not for much time at all, because, as he reminds himself patiently, it's done.

Sherlock never gave much thought to how he would die, over the course of his life, but it now seems exceedingly obvious that this was always the way to go. With several cases unsolved, of course—he could never make a clean job of anything, and John would tease him about that, too—but with the most important questions answered, the vital questions.

He knows why he lived. He knows what he lived for. And he knows what to die for.

The answer to them all, of course, is the same thing. His work. His absolute passion for the game, the puzzle, the chase, for dashing down alleys and shooting down criminals like the wild young man that he once was.

And John is a part of that. He'll always be a part of it, the essential part that brought those silly old emotions into the whole thing, made it all more than a job, made it a life.

He sighs at the memories, then casts them off gently as he uses the last tiny fragments of his strength to turn on his side, gaze out the window that the drapes are finally drawn back from.

Snow is falling, light, swift.

But the room is warm, and it's positively toasty under the blankets, everything around him is so soft and his breathing is so slow and he's going to see John, he's going to see John again.

It's done, he repeats for the third time, and a tiny gust of air parts ways with his lips as his eyes flicker shut, his body sinks more heavily into the mattress, letting the last of its strength melt away.

It's done.