A/N: Remember when I said I wouldn't be posting for the summer? Well this is the exception! A Guest asked me to write a songfic for FOB's Alone together and it just so happened to kind of go with this prompt so I hope it's what you wanted guest and be warned - ANGST AHEAD~S
Prompt 38: Rhythm
The low hum of buzzing had become so normal to them both that they had all but tuned it out at this stage. Then again, it might have been an indication that they were getting old and deaf in their later years. Of course the great Sherlock Holmes would never age in his mind, but his transport had betrayed him once more, showing the marks of his near eight decades of life in his still full head of suave silver curls and little trenches etched across his face. The detective was whirling about the sitting room with his violin the same way he had been when John had first gotten to know him. John himself was in the kitchen puttering about making tea, the familiar rhythm of what John had come to call 'Breakfast time sonata 4' serenading him as he worked.
Sometimes, even after all the years they'd lived together in Sussex, John would wake up ready to rip through the streets of London on the tail of a vicious killer, wondering if Mrs Hudson would like to join them for lunch though her death had been the a major catalyst in their moving plans years earlier, and Sherlock often felt the same way. Not that they had retired completely, after all that would have been impossible for both of them but these days it really was more of a consulting position than an active participant in the crime scene shenanigans. Inside they would be young forever, but when your lungs begin to give out after a few miles of walking it tends to indicate that maybe retirement was the best way to go.
Truly it was for the best, they were constantly teetering on the fine line between life and death, and it was better to take the next exit off that particular road to ruin before they reached a dead end - quite literally. Their apiary had been Sherlock's idea, a countryside haven of lavender, lilac, heather, and honey. John had discovered unprecedented green fingers when they'd arrived to the cottage and took great pleasure in tending the flowers and trees while Sherlock worked with the bees. A day never truly felt the same if he hadn't spent time in the flowerbeds or among the trees, glimpses of Sherlock flashing past him dressed all in white and net, the two of them coexisting with nature and each other, even after all this time.
At many points in their friendship John had tried contemplating why he hadn't moved on, found that one special someone, built up a life with them and all that stuff, but everything wound back down to the simple fact that as long as he had Sherlock at his side he didn't need anything or anyone else. He loved him, of course he did. That was fine. It was all fine. Sherlock didn't know or if he did he didn't reciprocate, hadn't made their friendship any different because of it which was a mercy. John didn't know what he'd have done if he lost Sherlock again. After breakfast John was straight up and out in the garden, the summer afternoon sun gave the fields of flowers a purple hazy glow that he couldn't get enough of, not to mention this was one of the best days for pollinating them which meant bees, which meant Sherlock would be coming outside to see what variety of bees were there, take data about all sorts of things, and talk to John the entire time. It was exactly as he'd imagined their lives would be, two old men content together for the rest of their days. The afternoon rolled around with the sun high in the sky and John opened the window to let Sherlock get some air since he wasn't coming outside. John was not quite prepared for the voice that interrupted his work. He hadn't known the dream rest of their days would be ending soon.
"John?" Sherlock called softly to him through the open window of the cottage, sitting now in his chair with his violin strings being plucked between his fingers. "John I'm not going to wake up in the morning." John frowned and looked up from his weeding. "What are you on about Sherlock?" Sherlock held his gaze with a sombre expression. "I am not going to wake up tomorrow John, nor any morning after that." John sputtered and stood up, eyes wide and terrified. "Of course you are! We have so much.. You have so much time left yet! You're Sherlock Holmes, young forever!" Sherlock's lip wavered just a fraction. "John." He was up and inside in moments, sliding to his knees on the ground in front of his best friend's chair. "You can't know that, tell me you're kidding Sherlock. Tell me it's just a trick. Please."
His lip quivered again. "I know the signs when I see them, and now I know them in myself. Its been coming on for a while now. I feel weak John, and I don't... I couldn't find a way to tell you until now." John was silent. Utterly and completely silent on the floor, Sherlock wouldn't have known if John had been breathing if he couldn't physically feel the chest expanding against his knees. "John I..." A gnarled hand rose to silence him. "How do you... how do you want to spend the rest of the day?" Sherlock hadn't expected that at all, he'd thought there'd be a lot more shouting at least. But that was John, still surprising even now, him half a century later. "I want to be alone I think..." John froze for half a second and Sherlock watched the strife cross his face before it disappeared into soldier John's stoic mask. He began to stand up and suddenly Sherlock understood. "No!" He reached out and grabbed John's wrist "I meant alone... together. I always mean you and I when I say alone." John sank back to the ground, and, just for a moment, they didn't have to pretend (as they were going to for the rest of the too short hours they had left ) that everything was going to be ok. The moment passed as all moments do and John was a soldier again. "What do you want to start with?"
As it turned out Sherlock wanted only two things: Baker street, and John at his side. So John, ever the faithful companion, whirled about the cottage preparing various bits and pieces for the journey and for thei- his, return. Sherlock whirled about too, pulling on his customary suit and disappearing for a devasatating ten minutes only to return with a beautiful wooden chest in hand. He placed that gingerly in the centre of the kitchen table and then stood by the door, waiting for John to catch up.
The train journey was a quiet one, by some miracle they had a carriage to themselves, and they entertained each other with shared memories of their adventures, Sherlock quick to correct if anything was even slightly off, John content to listen to every tangent the detective went on no matter the relevance. The train (their second of the day) pulled to a stop at the Baker Street station and the two men disembarked, John pulling his coat tighter as the evening was markedly colder than he had thought it would be. Perhaps it was just his imagination.
Looking around the familiar spot, very little had changed since the last time they had been in London, the only thing that had changed had been them. "Sherlock I-" John was quaking, his leg paining him more than it had in almost fifty years and suddenly everything was too much. Sherlock finally looked round and his hand shot out to steady the older man, the warmth of it penetrating through layers of coat and jumper until it felt as if they were skin to skin. "Not yet John, we're almost there." John steeled himself and nodded, and they stepped out into fading sunlight side by side, partners to the last.
221 Baker Street stood towering above them, it's shadow sprawling across half the street, the emptiness of it quite obvious. "How do we plan on getting in? I don't have my key and I'm sure the locks have been changed by now- Sherlock! We're in broad daylight you can't just-" Sherlock glared and shushed back at him while his hands continued to pick the lock. "I'm surprised at you John, Where's your sense of adventure gone to?" John rolled his eyes and smiled exasperatedly. "Just hurry up and get us inside will you? Prat" he added fondly, and even from behind he could see Sherlock's face wrinkle up into a smile. His own smile was faltering,faltering, faltering, because each little thing they did would be the last time they did anything at all together, each stupid joke that made both of them laugh might be (would be John, do you doubt me? a voice that sounded uncannily like Sherlock asked in his head) the last, The last time he'd get to look at those wonderous curls, The last time he'd see that crooked grin... the last chance he had to say-. The lock clicked and the door swung open, Sherlock grinning triumphantly as he swooped inside and John raced after him.
They stopped on the landing of 221B and stared at the door in silence for a while before Sherlock opened that too and they walked somberly inside. A layer of dust covered the mostly empty apartment, obscuring a few of the shallower bullet holes and burn marks. John was still in the foyer, zoned out, while Sherlock paced the living room, what had been the living room, his hands reaching up to touch the faded yellow of a graffiti smily face. It was dark already, and they hadn't had the foresight to bring candles or torches or really anything much useful seeing as the electricity was obviously not going to still be running. Still, hindsight wasn't much use to them. Eventually they simply lay down on the floor.
"What am I going to do without you?" John asked, his voice cracking. "We were supposed to have so much more time! I don't... Christ I miss you already Sherlock and you're right next to me." Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat and said nothing, but his long hand reached out and fell on top of John's. The message was clear- I'm still here."Sherlock..." Some movement then and Sherlock's eyes could pick out the pinpricks of light in John's as he turned to face him. "Why are we here?" He was thankful John had, for once, asked the right question.
"Because" Sherlock smiled wetly, "This is where it all started, you and I. I was so alone John, and then, there you were, and I couldn't have even imagined someone better suited to be my first friend. We have been through so much together, Moriarty, Magnussen, the list goes on, all of it from right here. I couldn't have done it without you, and I wouldn't change a moment of it for all the cases in the world. John I... I know I said I was married to my work, but that isn't quite true anymore. You must know, surely you must know." John's hand curled tightly around Sherlock's, little drops of warm tears trickling down their joined thumbs. "I know. I have loved you and will love you for as long as you let me."
Slowly, the pace seemed so utterly glacial, their faces moved closer and closer together until both could taste the salty brine of tears in the air, and John's lips were on Sherlock's, warm and supple and inviting, as if they'd been waiting for this all this time. He tasted of tea and toast and all the comforts of home and Sherlock was so grateful that he had gotten to experience a first kiss, and a last kiss with John before he'd missed his chance. They broke apart and John's thumb, solid and steady, brushed across his cheek. "I think, love, it's time to go to sleep." Tears streamed steadily down Sherlock's cheeks. "I don't want to go." John's head fell to rest against Sherlock's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "I know, I don't want you to go either, don't worry, I'll be with you the whole time. Sleep. I'm here." Slowly but surely, both men nodded off, the steady thud of two hearts falling into rhythm as their lullaby.
Morning broke and two officers tread softly across the landing of 221, a call about two men being seen breaking into an apartment had fallen on them. The door of 221B was ajar, and the more senior of the two went first, pushing the door open just enough for the two of them to squeeze through. "Kal, ring for an ambulance!" he called when he entered the living room to find two old men curled up on the floor, entwined inside the taller one's coat, cold, dead, with small smiles on both of their faces.