Work Text:
Their Final Chapter
29th, January 2062
They’re 86 and 91 now.
Their final chapter started unassumingly.
Sherlock would forget to set the coffee pot before bed. He’d misplace his wallet or forget to charge his mobile. Most days, nothing out of the ordinary happened at all. Some days, he’d forget their address. When the forgetfulness became a bit more obvious, at John’s urging, they drove to London and had some tests done.
Sherlock was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's. They drove back to Sussex in silence. That night, as they laid in bed, holding each other as tight as their old bones would allow, they made a pact: Pills dissolved in their tea. No need to die unhappy.
They told Rosie about their plan. She wanted to be with them when they went through with their plot,
but they convinced her to stay with her family.
Sherlock used his lock picking set for the last time to steal a bottle of Valium from the local chemist. He used his mortar and pestle set for the last time to crush the pills into a fine powder. John stirred the crushed powder into their expensive, favourite, brand of tea.
You only die once.
John brought the cups of tea out to the sitting room. They were already clad in their softest pyjamas, socks, and dressing gowns. No sense dying in uncomfortable clothes.
They sat in the same chairs as they’d sat in while living in Baker Street. They’ve been reupholstered and restuffed over the years, but they looked pretty much the same.
“We met 52 years ago today. Do you remember that, love?”
“I do, John”
“I told you I’d hold your hand when you died, didn’t I? Long time ago? Do you remember that, Sherlock?
“I do, John. I remember all of that.”
They sat in comfortable silence for almost an hour, sipping at their tea and smiling at each other over the rims of their cups.
When they were both finished, John picked up his cup and saucer and placed them next to Sherlock’s on the table beside Sherlock’s chair. He reached in the pocket of his dressing gown and retrieved three letters: one addressed to Rosie; one to the person who eventually found them, (Molly and Lestrade’s detective son, Hamish, in a prearranged agreement.) and one detailing the contents of a safety deposit box containing a manuscript of a book John wrote about their adventures.
“Are you ready, sweetheart?” He offered his hand to Sherlock.
Sherlock stood and took his hand, as he had so many times before. This time reminded him of the first time, so many years ago, as they ran for their very lives. Now, they were walking towards their death, but they were smiling now. How contradictory.
They entered their bedroom and laid together on their favorite bedclothes. They pulled the duvet to their chins; the softest one they owned. They held each other tight, John making sure to hold one of Sherlock’s hands in between their bodies, steadfast in keeping to his promise.
“I wish everyone in the world could go like this, Sherlock. Holding someone they love as they fall asleep.”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted. Did I ever tell you that?” A kiss to John’s chin.
“You did, Sherlock. And even when you didn’t say the words, I knew it.” A kiss pressed to Sherlock’s cheek.
“I knew you loved me, too. Even when we were both too stupid to say it.”
“At least we came ‘round eventually.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
“We should’ve left a note for Mike. Thanking him for introducing us. “
“He knows what he did, John.”
“You think so?”
“Of course. Did you see his smug smile in the lab that day? That self-satisfied grin? How could you have possibly missed it?”
“I was too busy looking at you. You had me. ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’, you said. I heard your voice and heard that question, and I knew then that I’d met someone that was going to change my life.”
“I knew you’d be endlessly fascinating from the moment I laid my eyes on you.”
“We’re waxing poetic, now. That’s not our usual way.”
“John, I just want you to know that I’m glad that we’re doing this. I don’t think I’d survive if you died before me.”
“I almost died when you left for those two years. I understand that sentiment, love.”
“Ah, sentiment. I couldn’t have been more wrong about, that could I?”
“Are you glad you were wrong?”
“I am now.”
“I love you so much, Sherlock. Come closer, please. I want to hold you as tight as I can before I can’t anymore.” They held each other, in the warmth of their bed, in their cottage in Sussex.
Sherlock closed his eyes and pushed his forehead to John’s right shoulder and smelled him and kissed him through the soft cotton of his vest.
Sherlock let himself remember. Sherlock couldn’t always remember his address, but he could remember every time they hurt each other. Every time they moved inside of each other. Every exclamation of the other’s name. The first time he held Rosie on the backseat of the Watson’s car. Their wedding. Rosie’s graduation from university. Their move into this house. Every smile. Every tear. Every inappropriate giggle.
“I love you, John.”
They would take all of those memories with them.