Chapter Text
I fumble with the damn tea bag. Tearing the packet seems to be much more difficult tonight than it ever has been. I realize that my hands are trembling. There is nothing I can do to stop it.
John seems to be sure that tonight is the night. He had awoken this morning with that look in his eyes that only a sick man can give and only an expert can recognize. He is a medical doctor; if he feels that his body is near the end of its use, I should agree with his diagnosis. But there is no part of that which I can accept.
I had attempted to make the day as comfortable as possible for him. His worsening condition has made it difficult for him to move, and in consequence we haven’t left the flat in a few days. I don’t mind. I’m afraid that if I leave, he’ll be gone when I return. I’ve never been much of a believer in fate, but somehow I believe he’s hanging on, if for no other reason than my sanity.
Sentiment. Funny how completely understandable it is to me now.
I manage to place the tea bag into the kettle, pouring the boiling water inside to fill the emptiness within. I wait a couple minutes until the herbs blend with the liquid before placing it on a tray with two cups and a bit of milk. How does John like his tea? I can’t seem to remember.
Somehow I am able to make it up the stairs without dropping the platter of what I knew would be John’s last cup of tea. The little things have become so heavy on my conscience. His last shower, his last dinner, his last words to Harry, his last breath of fresh air. It is cruel; completely cruel that the strongest man of the two of us should be the one to die first.
I reenter our bedroom. John is lying in the same place that I left him. He is on his back, a peaceful expression on his old face that seems to light up as I step in further. “You’re getting slow on the tea,” he teases with a grin.
I didn’t think the need to portray emotion would come so soon.
“The woman of the house is clearly incapacitated at the moment,” I reply, mirroring his smirk, but his is genuine. Mine is breaking. I set the platter down on the nightstand beside him and return to the chair I had placed at his bedside.
I pour him some tea, which he accepts with gratitude. Fortunately I seemed to have remembered how he likes it. Good. I would hate to have forgotten such a menial thing.
We talk for several hours, my hand resting on his chest to feel the rise and fall. We reminisce on past cases and think of how much time has passed since our first introduction. Remember how Toby used to chew up your slippers? How Molly planned you a surprise birthday party? Don’t forget the time bandits broke into the flat or when you and Lestrade burned the casserole at Christmas dinner.
The memories sting like needles, piercing everywhere I thought to be strong. The hours pass too quickly. I find myself grasping for them even before they’ve ended.
It is the change in his breathing pattern that I notice first. Shorter, raspier breaths. I take his hand in fear of him disappearing, but he offers me an understanding smile.
“Sherlock,” he sighs, “why are you sitting all the way over there?”
He is summoning me to lie beside him. I’m not sure I can handle it.
I swallow hard and give him a slight nod of my head, pushing myself out of the wooden chair I had been sitting in for too long. My back gives a few cracks as I stand, but age has been kind to me considering all I have put my body through.
It takes effort to crawl my old bones up on our bed. It’s not so much difficult as it is painful, a pain of the interior kind, pain in knowing that this is the last time we’ll ever lock into each other’s hold. It shouldn’t be as caustic as it is.
I stutter there for a few moments, figuring out where he wants me. His body aches. I know, because he always moves to meet me halfway and this time he has not done so. I settle for slipping one arm under his back, the other over his stomach, placing my head on top of his heart.
A bittersweet decision.
We lie in silence for what feels like decades. He holds me closer. John isn’t as strong as he used to be, the realization of his rapidly deteriorating health growing violently stronger in my mind like a hurricane. I know what’s coming. Each second is living on the edge. He inhales. I prepare.
“I love you, Sherlock.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
A sob escapes my lips. I make no attempt to stop it.
I am undone.
John pulls me to the center of his chest, holding me as close as his weakened arms allow. I find myself squeezing tightly. We hold each other for what I know to be the same reason; the unyielding anxiety that the other will slip away. Maybe if we bring ourselves close enough, Death will take us together as he should.
It takes me a few minutes to find my words. “I know, John,” I mutter back as I lift my head to meet his eyes. They are tranquil. It’s nearly time. My senses have escaped. It’s hard, but I muster enough strength to give him my final words.
“I will always love you too.”
The smile on his face is shatterproof. He lowers his head and kisses my lips slowly and tenderly, more than once. It breaks me and puts me back together at the same time and the kisses are over before I get a chance to log them into my memory. He repeats those three words too many times to count. I let him. It will be a long time before he can say this to me again.
It starts with his breathing. He gasps for air, lungs unable to supply what his body needs. I leave all focus on myself behind and bring him closer if possible, burying my head into his neck, clinging to the last moments of his precious existence.
They say your life flashes before your eyes, but I don’t expect his to flash before mine too. We are there in St. Bart’s. I take his phone and send a text to Lestrade that I can no longer remember. We become flatmates. He complains about the messes I make and the body parts in the fridge. He is with me as I rabble over case details and beside me when I battle with the definition affections and their relation to daily life. We embrace. I am ill and he cares for me. He is not shocked at my proposal. I stand across from him at the altar, hands and hearts entwined. We solve cases, make friends, travel to distant countries, perform rigorous stunts and somehow John lives to type the tales. A fall and a fixed point cannot separate us.
We live a happy, adventurous, sometimes bittersweet life. There is no tragedy in that.
John grasps the back of my shirt in the balls of his fist. I may have just told him not to fight it; I can no longer discern my thoughts from my words. I might be telling him that I love him, to save a spot for me when my time comes, if an afterlife exists. I've never been so desperate for one.
It should frighten me how all thought process has been lost, but I can’t bring myself to draw attention to it. John Watson, my John is the only thing that matters in this world and he is leaving me an eternity too soon.
His grip loosens. I hear his heart slow to a stop. His last breath is a soft, merciless sigh that brushes against the top of my head.
He is gone.
I bring him closer still, laboring under the delusion that he may have just fallen asleep. My better judgment argues otherwise. We’ve shared a bed for nearly fifty years; I know the difference between falling asleep and passing on. I simply cannot accept it.
The time that was given to us was an illusion. Our life had lasted so long, filled so much, but only now do I realize how excruciatingly fast it flew by. I find myself begging for another chance.
I lie there with him for God knows how long. I have given up on time and its futile measures. It is mercy, not strength that pushes myself out of his loose embrace when his warmth begins to dissipate. I can’t bear to look at him but my eyes want to see nothing else. There is an aura of peace about him, his lips form in a gentle grin.
I hang my head. Suddenly, months of pent up aversion and anxiety pour from my tear ducts and shake me with violent sobs. I want to vomit. I want to scream. I want to march up to whatever lies ahead and demand his return.
John had lived without me for a year. There is no fiber of my being that finds the strength to do the same.
I manage to send a few texts. I can’t bring myself to attempt a phone call. One sends to Molly, and the other to Detective Inspector Dimmock.
My body will not let me leave the room. I stand there, frozen and unfeeling before returning to the chair at my husband’s side. I take his hand in mine, stroking his soft hair gently with my other as if it will sooth him. I kiss his forehead several times. He is still and at peace, and I am neither.
I don’t stop crying. I don’t leave his side. I don’t move when I hear Molly calling my name. I don’t look up as the flashing police lights invade our bedroom with their intrusive glare. They tell me I need to move. I don’t listen.
When Molly pulls me gently from the chair, she encloses me in a tight hold that I do not feel.