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"And I know you're a part of me
And it's your song that sets me free
I sing it while I feel I can't hold on
I sing tonight 'cause it comforts me"
- In Loving Memory, Alter Bridge
I don't think I'll make it. He's not to know that, of course, but I see it in the way he moves, his gestures, his eyes. My God, his eyes tell the story of the thousand words that he won't bring himself to say. I've learned to read him like he reads a corpse, a crime scene. I observe him with the same fascination and awe- I just express it differently. Nonetheless, the feeling is always there.
Sherlock doesn't think that I will survive either, but he hopes I will. I hope I will but I can feel myself disintegrating beneath his fingertips every single time he caresses my arm or presses his soft, warms lips to my rough, chapped ones. I'm slipping away but I will hold on for as long as I can, for him.
Christ, I don't want to leave him. He was so broken when we first met, so lost. It's that brain of his. So intelligent, so brilliant, so destructive. Always needing stimulation, a distraction. He was close to breaking but I like to think I saved him from all of that, all of his demons. In fact, I know I did save him. He told me during that first night we spent together.
It seems like an infinity ago that we had that first night. Our bodies slick with sweat, our lips pressing together in a way that just seemed right. He was so gentle with me, as if he was afraid he'd break me. I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous- I was terrified. I've no idea why. It was as if the universe had written our story out for us. That night was meant to be.
I am grateful that we came together, as one. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
He was so beautiful, in fact, he still is. Ghosts of words were whispered into each others lips as the night drew on, our story continuing, each chapter laid out, every word selected with precision. His eyes spoke of his admiration, the way he looked at me as if I was the most delicate, astonishing thing he ever had the privilege of witnessing. Everyone deserves that type of love. I am proud to say that I reciprocated that same amount of adoration for him, aswell. He deserves it so much.
Being with him made me feel alive. It's a silly thing to say, I suppose, considering that before him I was still living. But he made me feel different. It's cliché but bloody hell is it the truth. He ignited the fire within me and I craved the feeling, I needed it. I never deserved a man like him, I still believe that, but knowing that he was mine, that was something else. God, he was simply the most amazing thing to ever have happened to me.
My time with him has been tremendous. We understand each other in a way that not many people get to experience. It's one of those feelings that, even if you express it with exaggerated gestures and extravagant words, you will never truly show the magnificence of the time you had together. That doesn't stop me from trying.
He looks at me now as if I may break. I already am broken, though. Of course, he did fix me at one point. The point when I didn't think I was able to be fixed, no matter how hard anyone tried. But he did. The ghosts that haunted me from the war didn't attack, just lingered, until eventually they dispersed and vanished altogether, all because of Sherlock. But I am being crushed, falling down again. Falling from such a height that even my true love will not be able to save me from.
He tried though. He is still trying. Will always try.
I'm getting tired now. Lethargy is carefully dancing around me, occasionally holding onto my skin and tugging at it. Come on, John.
I try to avoid it, but my attempts are becoming futile. Instead, I try and focus on Sherlock.
Tears are threatening to spill from his eyes, his beautiful, gorgeous, ever changing eyes. They are so unique, much like the person they belong to.
I will miss him.
One arm is resting atop of my shoulders, a light pressure that is comforting. He is a part of me and I cannot fathom the thought of us separating. I will not think about it. His hand is touching my chest, feeling the gentle thumping of my heartbeat. It is getting slower.
A tear drop falls but he makes no effort to hide it, to push away his emotions. I know it is real.
His thumb slides ever so slowly across my clavicle- he's been doing that for the last five minutes. He knows that the time is coming nearer.
I am starting to feel afraid now. A nervous feeling is fluttering around in my stomach, making its presence ever known. I can feel the invisible hands still pulling at me, trying to introduce me into a new world that I do not want to visit, not just yet.
His thumb still caresses me.
It manages to calm me down but a new feeling is taking over me. My body is hurting so much, irritating and vexatious. Tantalising. Come on, John.
Sherlock must realise this as he lowers his head downwards. His hair brushes against my nose but I do not mind. I never have minded. His perfectly shaped lips touch mine and he breathes for me, just once, but it is enough.
I am alive again, just for that moment. We are one, as we always will be.
Come on, John.
I do not want to walk a path that Sherlock does not follow me in and I feel selfish. I know I must, but I cannot.
It isn't until Sherlock's words meet my ears, one final time, that I realise what I need to do.
"It's ok, John." His voice is barely above a whisper but it is everything that I need. He will be with me. Nothing will change that.
Finally, I succumb.