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“Hey, Sherlock, what do you think your seven minutes will be?”
It’s a Saturday, they’ve just finished off a case. Watson’s laying on the couch while Sherlock’s back is against it, opting to sit on the floor. There’s a bottle of whiskey open on the table. Mariana is out with Imani and her other friends for a birthday party. Archie is fast asleep in his bed.
The lights are dim– the blinds are only half open, and London isn’t too busy today. The room is dark, a soft wash of synthetic golden light covering the room and the man on the couch.
“What?” Sherlock asks, looking up at him and raising an eyebrow.
He tries not to stare at him, doused in gold, but if he does, he doubts Watson will remember it.
“Y’know. When you die, you see your happiest moments flash before your eyes for seven minutes, right? What’re you gonna see? Is it gonna be, like, solving cases?”
Sherlock stays silent, contemplating.
Watson takes the bait. “I think– I think I’ll probably first see, like, I dunno, me getting Archie. He was pretty good. God. I love him so much. And then, probably, meeting you. You know? It wasn’t a happy memory at first but now it’s like, thank god I met you. You probably saved my life. You and Mariana. I’ll probably see us going to cafes and pranking each other and movie nights.”
He’s a bit teary eyed now, his emotions exacerbated by the liquor in his system, and he sniffs and swipes at his eyes clumsily.
“Anyways, what about you? What do you think you’ll see?”
Sherlock inhales, pressing a hand to his lips.
“That’s probably a myth, you know that, yes?” he says, in lieu of an answer.
“What do you mean? No, it’s not,” Watson says.
“Yes, it is. If you’re dying your brain will probably focus on keeping you alive, Watson.”
“I mean– it had to come from somewhere, right?” he argues.
“Well, sure, but so did the idea that lead wasn’t lethal,” Sherlock says, mouth twisting into a sort-of-smile.
“You’re no fun, Christ,” Watson pouts. “If it was real– like, no doubt– what do you think you’d see?”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock says. Watson narrows his eyes at him.
“You don’t have a single idea? Not one memory?”
“Well, memories that are important to me now might not be important in the future,” he muses. “My death is still a long way off, Watson– there’s probably more to come that I’ll deem more important than whatever I hold dear now.”
“Yeah, but you seriously don’t have any idea what might make it into your top 10 happiest moments?”
“Like you said, I’ll probably get context for some that’ll make them more happy to me as I get older. So no, I don’t know what it’ll be, Watson. And that’s good because it won’t happen anyways.”
“What, you’re not going to die?”
“Obviously I’m going to die. I’m simply not going to have my life flash before my eyes in slow motion like I’m in some sort of trashy movie directed at teenage girls. And you, of course.”
Watson sticks his tongue out at him.
They come back from India and Sherlock’s orchid is dead.
He doesn’t blame the sitter– he doesn’t, he really doesn’t. Their job was to look after Archie, not his orchid.
Still, he feels a pang of resentment towards them when he comes home and the orchid is wilted, looking so awful in its pot.
He feels responsible– he should’ve left instructions for the orchid, like Watson did for Archie, he left in such a hurry he forgot all about it and didn’t remember it for any of the trip. He only realized his mistake once he saw it bent over the side of the pot, as if it was in pain, its petals, once beautiful, laying on the table, darkened and small.
He doesn’t know why but it hits him and it hits him hard. He locks himself in his room and hides under the weighted blanket Watson bought him (after a particularly difficult night in which he snuck into his room at 3 in the night and buried himself under his body just to feel something). He wants to hold onto something, he particularly wants to rip something apart and throw it against the ground and hit it.
The poor orchid, so beautiful, its soft pink against softer white, standing tall and proud when showered in affections. Withering away in just a week because no one bothered to look at it for more than a few minutes.
Watson must pick up on his melancholy because after a few hours of mourning in his bedroom, he hears a soft knock at his door and a hesitant “Sherlock? You in there?”
“Yes, what,” he says, short.
“Would you come out? I bought you something,” Watson says.
Sherlock huffs. “What did you get?”
“I’d rather you just come out and see, Sherls,”
His lip curls. A ploy to get him out of his room. Maybe Watson hasn’t even bought him anything, the trickster.
“Tell me first.”
“Come outside and I can show you, won’t that be better?”
“No. How will I know if it’s worth coming outside for?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Trust. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Does Sherlock trust Watson? Well, of course, but he knows him well enough to know when not to trust him, too. Oh, intention, you cruel thing, twisting narrative out of shape, and twisting his poor heart.
Sherlock pushes himself out of bed and grabs the door handle, a scowl on his face. He twists it with more force than is ever necessary, and for a moment he gets a bit scared that he might twist it straight off its hinges, but he’s never been that strong.
Watson is holding a brown terracotta pot, a packet of orchid seeds resting on the fresh soil that he presumably packed into it himself.
Sherlock’s eyes widen, and suddenly they’re moist. But he doesn’t feel sparkling joy like Watson must’ve hoped– it’s about the intent, bloody intent, he actually feels a bit worse looking at the pristine pot and seeds.
Maybe he ought to feel better about it. It’s a second chance– a new leaf, a second try at giving life to something.
But it feels wrong. He couldn’t keep the first one alive, why should he be trusted with a second?
“Is it alright, Sherlock?” Watson asks, and Sherlock can’t bring himself to say anything, stuck staring at the packet of seeds with the picture of a beautiful, fully grown orchid plastered on it. “Did I get the wrong one or something? Sorry, you just seemed so distraught, I–”
“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock finally says.
“Are you sure? I can go back out and get another one if you want–”
“I’m sure,” and Sherlock can feel his lips twitching upward, “this is very thoughtful, Watson. Thank you.”
“You don’t seem all that… pleased, though,” Watson says, confused. Concerned, maybe.
“I like it, I really do, it’s just–” he sighs, feeling silly. “It just doesn’t feel the same. I feel like I’m replacing the first orchid– I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right. ”
The way Watson furrows his eyebrows at him tells him that he doesn’t quite get it, not that he expected him to.
“Forget it. I’m being silly. Thank you, Watson.”
And the smile that slowly lights up his face is almost enough for him to forget about the original orchid, dead because no one cared enough.
The park is lively, which is surprisingly rare. The sun is out and Archie is chasing other dogs around, stealing squeaky toys and collars jangling. There are other people (couples) hanging around the park, eating granola bars or playing hand games with each other.
As for Sherlock, he’s sat next to Watson on a bench, their hands irritatingly close together while Watson speaks to someone on the phone. Sherlock tries not to give in to the temptation of hooking a pinkie with Watson’s, and ends up just resting it next to his, barely touching.
Archie runs up to them, a black dog right behind him. He buries himself in Sherlock’s legs as the other dog barks at him.
“What have you done, you fiend?” Sherlock smiles down at the dog. “Who did you piss off?”
The small black dog doesn’t let up in his barking, only growing louder, and Watson cuts his call.
“What’d Archie do,” he sighs.
“I’m not sure, he’s hiding himself in my legs, right now,” Sherlock says. He shakes his leg gently. “Come on, let me see what you’ve done, boy.”
Archie backs up with a bit of resistance, a tangle in his teeth. The black dog barks at him, and he whines.
“You can’t steal things from other dogs, you tosser,” Watson chastises, grabbing the tangle. “You’re meant to be nice– give it to me, please?”
Archie pulls back from Watson, who groans. Sherlock reaches down to scratch Archie’s neck, hoping to coax him into– something, he doesn’t actually know what the hell he’s doing.
But Archie does drop the toy into Watson’s hand, so a win is a win.
Watson gives him a side-smile, and Sherlock’s heart stutters in his chest.
“Now, I’m so sorry, oh, what’s your name…” Watson picks up the tiny black dog and reads its collar. “I’m so sorry… Pebbles.”
His grip on the tangle loosens, and Pebbles picks it up right away, shaking her head and the tangle in her mouth. Watson’s eyes look a bit far away, so Sherlock picks Pebbles up and puts her on his lap.
He scratches her behind the ear, and she pants happily. Archie lays at his feet, apparently tired after all that chasing.
“Watson, are you alright?” he murmurs, playing with Pebbles but looking at the shorter man.
“I– no, no, yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” he mumbles.
“You don’t seem fine, are you sure?” his brow furrows. Watson blinks rapidly, looking at his lap.
“No, yeah, it’s just– I used to have a cat. Black cat. Her name was Pebbles, too. I just– I dunno.”
“Was this recently? I don’t recall you ever mentioning a Pebbles.”
Watson shakes his head, a soft, tired smile playing at his lips. “Way back when I was a kid. Carol was never around, so she got me a kitten so I wouldn’t be lonely when she was at the hospital.”
His eyes are shiny as he clasps and unclasps his hands. His feet are tapping the grass restlessly, his legs going up and down and up and down.
“Dunno why I still remember her. I was pretty young, you know? I rarely ever think about her anymore– god, that sounds so awful– but it’s like the tiniest things will make me remember her again.”
Deep down, Sherlock knows he’s not just talking about his old pet cat. The strained quality of his voice and the way he keeps swallowing tells him enough about who he’s really thinking about, not to mention the lip he’s clamped his teeth down on now.
“Mm… well, for what it’s worth, she’s probably looking down at you from cat heaven or wherever she is.”
That startles a snort out of Watson.
“Thought you didn’t believe in that rubbish?” he grins.
“Yes, well, I suppose I have exceptions,” Sherlock smiles back.
His eyes are still shiny, but there’s more of that familiar spark in them and Sherlock is set at ease.
His hand inches ever closer to Watson’s. His pinkie just happens to slide over Watson’s.
And then there is a call of “hey, is that my dog?” and the moment is broken.
Christmas week brings a flurry of shopping, secrets, and gift wrap strewn across almost every surface in 221. They all go out shopping at different times just to make sure they don’t accidentally run into each other. Mariana goes so far as to ask Imani to buy her something at the mall, which prompts Watson to ask the same of Stammo and Nadia.
Sherlock does try with Wiggins, but he’s shut down fairly quickly.
They spend most of the day before the day before Christmas wrapping presents whilst locked up in their bedrooms, Watson and Mariana blasting music in a competition to see who’s willing to go the loudest before one of their neighbors complains about it. Sherlock puts his ear defenders on, and if it ever gets too loud he yells at the top of his lungs.
It’s fun, but it’s exhausting, and everyone gets tired of hunching over a bunch of boxes at some point, so it’s a relief when the music turns off and he can hear Watson having a good stretch in the next room. Sherlock pushes himself off the floor and opens the door, heading into the kitchen and beelining for the fridge.
He pulls out the eggnog, beloved eggnog, and fetches two matching mugs from one of the cabinets. Mariana has arranged it so that all the Christmas themed mugs are at the forefront, bringing holiday spirit every time someone gets a drink. He starts preparing Watson’s hot chocolate, as well, he still doesn’t quite understand the appeal behind it but he’ll do anything to see the surprised delight on Watson’s face upon realizing Sherlock’s made his drink for him.
He puts the mug of milk in the microwave and pours himself the eggnog. Eggnog is one of his favorites– as soon as it’s on sale in October, it is in the fridge of 221B right up until March when it sells out. It’s a delectable drink– far more appetizing than that cheap hot chocolate mix that Watson seems to so greatly adore.
The microwave beeps and Sherlock opens the door, quickly pouring in the mix and stirring it with a fork. There are marshmallows in the pantry, and he goes to get them to add an abundance of into the already sweet drink.
There’s a gasp from the kitchen while Sherlock is searching for the marshmallow packet in the pantry.
“Sherlock!” Watson’s voice calls. “Is this hot chocolate? For me?”
“No, actually, I rather fancied another drink for myself after the long day I’ve had,” Sherlock deadpans. “Yes, it’s for you. Wait there, I’m getting your marshmallows.”
Sherlock comes back out to Watson grinning down at his gaudy Naughty List mug with the Grinch plastered on it.
“Here, take the packet. Save some for me, please,” Sherlock teases.
“You’re such an arse, do you know that?” Watson pouts. “Come on. It’s holiday movie time.”
“Oh, yes, can we put the Grinch on? I want to watch that one. It’s been too long since I’ve watched it and I remember liking it a lot.”
Watson smiles at him, warm and honey-like. Sherlock thinks he might melt a bit as well.
“Yeah, we can do that. Were you inspired by my mug?” Watson grins.
“Absolutely not,” Sherlock lies.
They make their way to the living room and squeeze themselves onto the too-small couch and Watson reaches forward to get the remote off the coffee table but he can’t quite reach it which makes Sherlock giggle a bit.
“Don’t laugh at me, you bully,” Watson says.
“I’m not laughing,” Sherlock laughs.
Watson gives up on the remote, opting to yank Sherlock’s mug of eggnog from him instead.
“Hey!” he shouts. “Give my mug back!”
“Let me have a taste,” Watson says, taking a sip that takes much longer than it has any right to.
Sherlock grabs John’s mug, taking a swig of it for himself, even though it’s not quite his taste.
“Wait.” Watson’s eyes are sparkling.
“What?”
“Give me that.”
He takes a short sip of the hot chocolate, enough to fill maybe half of his mouth, and then a sip of Sherlock’s eggnog.
“What on earth are you doing?” Sherlock asks, incredulous.
Watson holds up a hand, letting the mixture sit in his mouth for a bit before swallowing it down.
“That’s actually not half bad,” Watson grins. “You try.”
“Absolutely not, you have horrendous taste in drinks and I do not trust you.” Sherlock says, but takes both mugs anyways.
Apprehensively, he takes a small sip of the eggnog, and then a smaller sip of the hot chocolate, and wants to spit it out immediately.
Because he is brave, though, he swallows it down, and then turns to Watson with horror in his eyes.
“Why the hell do you think that tastes good?!”
“I don’t, actually,” Watson giggles. “Think it tastes awful, personally.”
“You lied to me?” Sherlock cries in faux outrage. “Give me my mug back, bastard!”
Watson tries to hold the mug over his head, but Sherlock is taller than him. He realizes this, though, and leans back on the couch as Sherlock tries to reach over him to get the mug.
Watson’s more focused on pushing Sherlock away than the mug, so he doesn’t notice as his grip loosens and the mug begins to–
fall out–
of his grip–
and hits the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces.
It’s interesting how quickly people can fall silent after being raucous only seconds before.
Suddenly, Sherlock is also very aware of exactly how close he is to Watson, how close their faces are, how their noses are nearly touching.
“Shit,” Watson says, and he turns around, pushing Sherlock off of him. “It’s completely shattered. I should probably go get the broom.”
But he doesn’t move, he just sort of stares at the mug’s pieces on the floor for a moment. Eyes widened, brows furrowed. And then he gets up.
When Sherlock leans over the couch to look at the crime scene, it’s… odd. Worse than he’d imagined considering it wasn’t a lot of height in the first place. And it makes him feel odd. That’s the only word he can use to explain it. It feels odd. Oddly painful.
And, unprompted, he drops his matching mug onto the floor with the broken one, and watches it join the shards already on the floor.
“Sherlock? Are you alright?” Watson calls, coming back into the living room with a broom and a dustpan. “How’d you break the other one?!”
“I… it was an accident,” Sherlock lies, again, shutting his eyes. “Didn’t mean to. Do you need help cleaning it up?”
“Yes, please,” Watson sighs.
And Sherlock decides not to think about the two glasses broken on the floor together. He wonders, for a second– if he tried to put the mugs back together, would the pieces mix together? Would they still fit?
Well. They’re broken beyond repair, anyway. No use dwelling on it.
Sherlock holds the dustpan.
Sherlock’s body aches.
He doesn’t have as much stamina as he used to. Which sounds pathetic, considering he’s only in his 30s. He should be in his prime, or at least just after.
But alas. His head hurts and he can barely speak and his legs wobble so badly he almost collapses as he pushes himself out of bed and into the hall.
He whimpers. It’s punched out of him– he would not make a noise like that willingly, and it’s loud enough that Watson hears him from the kitchen.
“Sherls, are you okay?” he calls, and Sherlock’s head throbs and he dearly wishes that he’d put his ear defenders on.
He leans on the door jamb and sighs, frowning. He doesn’t want to go back into his room and come back out, that would take up too much energy, and he’s already painfully hungry. On the other hand, he can’t speak without it hurting his throat and he can’t tell Watson to be a little quieter for him.
Fortunately he doesn’t have to, because after neither providing a response for ten minutes nor showing up at the table, Watson realizes that Sherlock is not faring well and swiftly makes his way to his room, where Sherlock is sitting down in the doorway.
“You alright?” Watson asks, softer. Sherlock shakes his head and taps his throat, looking up at the man (a first).
“Come on, get up. I’ll get you some food,” he says, crouching down and hooking an arm behind Sherlock, slowly raising him off the floor and letting him use him as a crutch all the way to the living room.
“Sit on the couch. It’s more comfortable.”
Sherlock watches Watson’s back as he retreats into the kitchen, and with minimal clanking, brings out a bowl of porridge.
“Can you eat this by yourself or do you want me to–?” Watson gestures off to the side.
Sherlock glares at him, and he puts his hands up in self defense.
“Just thought I’d offer! Sorry,” he smiles.
Sherlock slowly makes his way through the hot bowl while Watson leaves him on the couch again, going into the kitchen and through the hall and back, collecting something in his arms. He deposits it all on the couch next to Sherlock, who tries to make out what it is through squinted eyes.
He, alas, cannot.
“Right, let’s get you fixed up, shall we?” Watson says, dropping the rest of the supplies onto the couch. “Where are you sore?”
Sherlock taps his legs, stomach, and head, and as an afterthought, his throat.
“Right. Take this, put it on your belly,” he says, handing Sherlock a cramp bottle filled with hot water.
Sherlock curls his lip. He’s not cramping.
“Okay, it doesn’t matter if it’s a cramp or not, just put it there. You’re sore. It’ll help. It’s not like you can stand and get into the shower.”
Sherlock huffs at him, throwing his head back.
“Right, I have lemon lozenges for your throat. Open up,” Watson says. He’s seemed to transfer into Doctor Mode, ordering Sherlock around.
He opens his mouth, letting Watson drop a lozenge onto his tongue, careful not to let it go right down his throat.
He lays a wet rag across Sherlock’s forehead, just damp enough for it to make his head cooler without water dripping down his face.
Then he brings out a jar of coconut oil and says “I’m going to roll your pant legs up, yeah?”
Sherlock’s head jerks up as he furrows his brows at Watson in confusion.
“I’m going to massage your legs. Nothing else I really can do, Sherls,” he frowns. “I don’t have to if you don’t want me to, though.”
As much as it makes Sherlock’s stomach flip, he does want him to. So he sighs and lays his head back and lets Watson put the cloth back on his forehead, and tries not to squirm as Watson slowly pushes a leg up.
“You can tell me to stop if you want me to, you know,” Watson says.
Sherlock shakes his head minutely. Watson puts a hand into the jar of oil and rubs his hands together.
The feeling of hands on his leg, slippery yet firm, is an odd one, and Sherlock is tempted to tell Watson to stop, no matter how much it embarrasses him. And then Watson hits a sore spot in just the right way–
And Sherlock is glad for his lost voice, because all he lets out is a long sigh.
Watson has been quiet all day, not without reason.
It is an exceptionally difficult day for him, Sherlock well knows.
Still, it’s a disconcerting sight. Sherlock has gotten used to the nonstop chatter that flows from his podcaster’s lips. The neverending bits and pieces of information Sherlock hoards like a monkey and his pile of shiny trinkets.
“We’re going out,” is all he said half an hour ago, and it’s why Sherlock is pulling on a coat and preparing to go outside despite no case to show for it. He pulls on his socks, staring through to the living room through a crack in the door with worry in his eyes and stones in his chest.
In the living room Watson sits, staring at the floor. He seems so tired, so…
For lack of a better word, dead.
Sherlock quietly slips into the living room, standing next to Watson, trying to get his attention. Watson doesn’t look at him. Watson doesn’t notice.
“Let’s go,” Sherlock says, gently jostling his shoulder. Watson looks up at him, tries for a smile. It comes off as a grimace. Sherlock still appreciates it. He smiles back.
The ride to the cemetery is silent. Watson’s leg bounces up and down, and it’s the only movement that he makes. He stares at the floor of the vehicle and says not a word. It’s like he’s barely even breathing.
Sherlock doesn’t know if it’s prudent to say anything to him, but he assumes not, so he keeps quiet as well. He wants to reach over and– do something, give him a hug, maybe, but it doesn’t seem like he should offer that at the moment. He wants to offer something, but he has nothing.
Sherlock goes to take his hand while they walk, but he thinks better of it.
Watson sits in front of his father’s grave, and gestures for Sherlock to sit beside him. Sherlock sits. Watson breathes in and out, in and out. He presses his palms to the dirt.
“Hey da. How is it up there? Changed much since we last spoke? Hope it’s nice, I bet you watch a bunch of matches up there. Did you see the match Swindon just won? Insane, innit? I got to go watch it!” he smiles. “I have someone for you to meet– Sherlock, come over here,”
Sherlock leans forward, waving awkwardly.
“This is Sherlock, I’ve told you about him lots. I’m sorry I didn’t bring him sooner, I didn’t know if he’d want to come, really.”
“Hey!” Sherlock protests, kicking Watson’s leg softly. Watson huffs.
“It was a real concern! Anyways, this is him, the famous Sherlock Holmes. I think you’d love him, if you got to meet him, you know, proper. He’s brilliant, da– I mean, I’ve told you all this already. Carol’s doing well– she’s out on a trip today, as she always is. She’s thriving, really. I see her a bit more often nowadays. Oh, I had a romance, da! Her name was Mary, oh, she was so nice… we’re only friends now, but she’s just amazing. Carol loved her too– well, she only met her over the phone, but still. You would’ve loved her too. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring Mari, she wanted to come too but something came up and she had to stay at the flat. She had some things she wanted to tell you– I guess we’ll just come back early. You know–”
Watson stops here, looking up at Sherlock.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks.
“N-No, I just– I might– cry, or something, I dunno,”
“Fine with me.”
Watson sniffles.
“I wish you were here proper. You know I always think about you on my birthday? You’re an arsehole for leaving me that early, I hope you know. I could’ve– I dunno. You should’ve stayed. I want to see you on your birthday, not like this– I–”
Watson wipes away tears.
“I miss you. I miss you so much. You should’ve stayed, you fuck.”
Sherlock steps a bit closer to Watson.
“John, are you–?”
Watson clings to him, nearly falling over. Sherlock wraps his arms around him, lets him grip his coat like a lifesaver.
“I will be.”
Watson runs his hands through Sherlock’s curls, talking on and off about every little thing that pops into his mind.
At one point, he starts himself off on a rant about toilet paper packaging, how they’re always so misleading, and how it drives him absolutely insane.
“I mean, how does four equal eight? It clearly doesn’t, there’s four rolls in the damn pack! Just call them big rolls! That’s like if I called my two inch cock large because it had a bit of girth on it! It’s still two bloody inches, isn’t it?!”
Sherlock snorts, Watson huffs, Sherlock giggles. Watson heads off into another long winded explanation about why wooly mammoths are objectively much better than elephants and how humans got stuck with the short stick. Sherlock picks at Watson’s sweater, the threads loose at the ends. Somewhere in the sleeve he finds a bit of yarn, pulls at it, and accidentally forms what he knows will later become a sweater dooming hole.
Well, Watson doesn’t have to know it was him.
Sherlock can see Archie lapping up water and running off downstairs, to where Mariana is probably working at her desk. She’ll probably get up and give him a couple of treats, and put him in her lap while she fills out police forms for the company, before taking a break and texting Imani for half an hour.
The people outside walk by for just long enough for Sherlock to deduct some surface level information about them.
One boy walks by with his head down, a phone in hand. He clicks repeatedly at something on his screen– texting someone. He smiles. One of his friends, possibly.
Two girls are arguing while walking. One of them yells something, or more likely says something aggressively, and the other one snorts at her. Probably friends, then. One girl shoves the other in the arm, and they laugh with each other, heads bowing low and close. Their arms touch, looping together.
…maybe more than just friends, then.
Sherlock looks back up at Watson, finishing up a tirade he’s only just caught the end of. He hums in assent.
The morning sun lights a soft halo around his head, like he’s an angel, and the angle doesn’t help much either. Sherlock’s locked for a moment– eyes stuck on his hair being backlit by the white light, the shine of it in his eyes as he rolls them in frustration.
Sherlock is– happy, he realizes. Joyful. Grateful, even.
Because a few years ago, this very day, he might’ve been on his computer still after hours and hours without sleep, researching a suspect, or chasing a criminal up a flight of stairs, his knees scraping against the concrete and leaving bloodstains on the inside of his trousers. Maybe he would’ve been sitting out at the park, aimless, trying to entertain himself by looking into people’s lives with just a glance.
He might’ve been dead by now, if it weren’t for Watson.
He feels a bit like a domesticated stray cat– Watson petting his hair, him leaning into the touch and sighing softly.
He can’t help but think the sun knows what it’s doing, irrational as that may be. A halo set upon his Watson’s head– well, perhaps whatever gods are out there have sent him a guardian angel.
“Sherlock, are you listening?” Watson asks, pouting, snapping him out of his lovesick reverie.
“Of course I am,” Sherlock says, smiling up at him.
Watson, if you’re listening to this, I so dearly apologize.
It isn’t often that I do that. But I’m distinctly aware of the grief I am about to cause you, or more likely have already caused you, and that’s something I never wanted to do.
Moriarty has given me just a couple minutes to record one last thing for you. I hope this brings you comfort, and that I’m not making everything worse for you.
You’re awfully important to me. It’s disconcerting. I’ve never had a connection with someone like I’ve had with you before, I don’t think. If I believed in fate and destiny and all that bollocks, I would say that meeting you was kismet.
I regret… a lot of things, I think. I regret that it turned out like this. I regret I wasn’t able to catch him sooner. I regret that I’m not going to get to see you again. I regret I won’t feel your hands patching me up after a particularly difficult case. I regret–
I don’t regret meeting you, though. That was one of the good things that came to me.
You said you don’t remember your last interaction with your father. I’d hate for that to happen to us. Allow me to remind you:
You got a call from the hotel. I must admit I did suspect it was a fake. If it wasn’t, well, shame on me, I suppose. We argued because you didn’t want to leave and I wanted you to go.
You’ll wonder why I sent you if I suspected foul play.
Well, to tell you the truth–
I just wanted to keep you safe. I knew he would target you if you were here, and this has nothing to do with you.
You are innocent. Above that, you are valuable to me. I don’t think I would forgive myself if I let you die.
I suspect I’ll miss just about everything about you. Your eyes, your messy hair, your disgusting habits, the song you sing every morning whilst you brush your teeth– Waterfalls, isn’t it called? Ironic.
I’ll miss getting drunk with you, getting gifts from you, going on walks with you, having stupid arguments with you, letting you patch me up, laying in your lap. I will miss you. I will miss you more than I can say. I will miss you more than the words of any language in the world can possibly express.
How long is your little love letter going to take, Holmes?!
Ah. Well, that’s my cue, I suppose.
I’m so sorry. I–
John, you’re my seven minutes.
I’ll see you.
I lo–