Work Text:
John Watson, as often as he mused on his own death, had never given much thought to the end of the world.
He'd never known that as temperatures around the world crept higher, the sun came ever closer. He never knew that every time that fiery orb came up over the London skyline, it was the slightest bit hotter. Didn't know that much sooner than he had anticipated, his life would come to a close, not at the end of an enemy's rifle, but at the end of a night fading into morning. He'd always supposed that he'd never have time to say goodbye to the people he loved, cared about, didn't think he'd die having done all the things he wanted to do. He never knew that one day, humanity would just cease to exist, and that the world would be left as a pile of ash and smoke that polluted the atmosphere, though no one would be left to take the toxins into their lungs. The top scientists in the world said that there was no possibility of it happening.
The top scientists in the world weren't Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock knew. Of course he did, because he was the most observant man in the world, and he caught onto the patterns of rising and falling temperatures. He knew the signs, would be able to tell when the time came that the world was ending. He didn't know when exactly it would happen, but being aware that it would was what made The Work so worthwhile; he might have been a sociopath but even he knew that by solving their problems, the mysteries and crimes, he would be giving people some semblance of normalcy. That was important to give them that, when they were so blissfully ignorant of what would happen to them, to their friends and family someday. He'd known before he met John, of course, and the doctor had, at first, thought nothing of the numerous papers constantly taped to the wall of their flat, the calculations and equations that made no sense to him. Sherlock didn't tell him until years into their acquaintance, when they were both comfortable in their home and in their skins and with each other, comfortable enough to discuss matters of life and death when one of them wasn't at the receiving end of a gun. He waited, because he didn't know how John would take the news, but when he finally did explain, the doctor was nothing but understanding. They planned, they made arrangements, and continued on as if nothing happened.
John never thought he'd have time to tell the people he cared about in turn how much they meant to him, and Sherlock never expected to be one of them. If they sat a little closer in cabs, or their fingers happened to entwine together while watching the telly, they didn't think anything of it. They never talked about what was between them, because the knowledge that someday soon the world would end was enough; that these were the last days, and they were spending them together. The symbolism of their clasped hands every time the moon went down and the sun came up wasn't lost on either of them. Sherlock often found himself watching John as he slept, and thinking that if these were the last moments of his life, he wouldn't mind one bit. John watched Sherlock deducing bloody corpses and insulting everyone around him and thought the same thing.
Then the day came that Sherlock looked up from his place on the couch, laptop open in his lap like a bible, and the solemn look in his eyes told John everything he needed to know. Something in the patterns meant it was time; one of the signs Sherlock was looking had appeared, and that meant that this was the end. The detective pushed his laptop aside as the doctor walked calmly toward him, and they embraced with the knowledge that while this wasn't the last time, it was the time that would matter the most, because after today everything would change. Their number of hours together was now cut drastically, and they held each other like it was the last day, even though the worst was yet to come. "Are you afraid?" Sherlock had asked, with his chin resting atop the shorter man's head. They both heard the questions that remained unasked; are you ready? Will you stay with me? John, ever the soldier, turned his head away, buried his face in the juncture of Sherlock's shoulder, but they both knew that in that gesture was a concealed truth. Yes, he was afraid. No, he wasn't ready. Of course he would stay.
Mycroft was the only one they told. John had tactfully left the room when the older Holmes arrived, and went out to sit on the front stoop, letting his flatmate sort things out with what little family he had left. He'd ascended the stairs one hour later, and opened the door to find the estranged brothers shaking hands in a civilized manner; the equivalent of a hug in their eyes. The British Government had left with a nod to both Sherlock and John, and then he was gone. They didn't see him again.
As the day came closer, they went on as if everything was normal. They dined at Angelo's one last time, gladly accepting his candle, and visited Molly at the morgue. When she promised Sherlock to have infected fingers for him next week, he didn't bother to tell her they wouldn't be back. It was John's idea to tell Mrs. Hudson to spend time with her sister before the end came. The woman left with a cheerful parting, and John pretended not to notice the tear that trekked like a soldier down Sherlock's face. The day before the last, they went to Lestrade, and Sherlock spent half the day solving every cold case file he had. The DI thanked him endlessly, wondering what had brought about the bought of selflessness, but Sherlock had just shook his head and smiled. John could see the sadness in his eyes; the knowledge that solving these cases would not help anybody, would make no difference. As they made their way home that night, the doctor couldn't help but hope that everyone they'd said goodbye to was asleep, dreaming the most beautiful of dreams when the world burned to ashes around them.
When nighttime fell in London, it began. Daylight wreaked havoc on the other side of the world but as the news spread, so did pandemonium. For hours, the streets outside Baker Street were filled with screaming people. Sherlock and John sat together in silence until the noise outside diminished to nothing. The people finally realized that this was a time to spend with loved ones, with the people who matter most, because when the sun came up, it would be too late. Words were not needed between the two as they settled against the back wall of their sitting room, a blanket wrapped around their shoulders to keep out the chill of the night, even as the day crept ever closer. They savored the sight of the moon hanging high in the sky, knowing that after tonight, nobody would be left to admire its beauty. It was quite the shame that Sherlock had deleted his knowledge of the sky and the solar system, because the stars shone brightly against their inky backdrop, and he thinks it would have been a real comfort to John to hear the constellations listed off one by one, before he couldn't see them anymore.
Sherlock's heart beat hard in his chest, and he could almost hear John's responding in an echo. Their emotions were reflecting off each other, and they both felt the need to say something important, something that would seal what was so clearly between them, but in these final minutes could no longer find the courage. Sherlock fought the urge to scream, instead sliding closer to John and twisting their fingers together. He rests their clasped hands on his knee, staring out the window into the silent and motionless evening.
"Are you afraid?" John finally whispers into the darkness, as the blackness of the sky gives way to the slightest sliver of sun, so much brighter and more dangerous than its ever been before. He half expects Sherlock to deny his fear, to keep up his facade and display courage and confidence and nothing else, even now, when it truly didn't matter anymore. But Sherlock simply squeezes his hand where it rests on his knee, and his answer was a wisp, a phantom of speech where it hovered unspoken in the air between them, his eyes transfixed on the deadly sunrise before them. John didn't hear a thing, but he knew what the answer was, and he knew that no more words were needed.
Yes, he was afraid.
They both were terrified to know that any moment now would be their last; to know that the hearts beating so dutifully in their chests would crumble like paper and turn to dust. They knew that in minutes their entwined fingers would mean nothing to the burning daylight, as it evaporated any sign of life left within them. They knew that soon, much sooner than either of them would like, it would all be over, and there was so much that hasn't been done or said.
But they were also proud to be facing the end together. To know that their hearts beat in unison. Their hands pressed together now was more than mere contact; it was a promise, that no matter what happened in the time to come, no matter what happened in the past, no matter that their lives had been incomplete before the other person. They'd be lost in time soon, but they'd been lost before, and this time it would be as one.
A sharp cry pierced the air as a ray of sunlight touched the edge of Sherlock's toe, and he whimpered in pain but John used his free hand to turn his face toward his own. They let their fingers embrace like they wanted to and kept their eyes locked on each other's faces in an effort to ignore the pain as their lives ended and yes, they were afraid.
But they were together. And as the sun broke fully over the horizon, that was all that mattered.