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Another fifty years.

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It was mundane. It was normal. Ordinary. Uninteresting. Uneventful.
In short- it was not the death that Sherlock Holmes ever thought, ever considered John Watson would receive.
Texting on his phone and just happened to step in front of a speeding cab.





And yet Sherlock felt like every single vein had been torn apart, flushed away along with every single tear he had ever shed. His voice hoarse from screaming and his ears ringing from gunshots.
He felt numb.
Limb torn from limb. Nails bitten to stumps of what was, what could've been and what never will be.

His hands stung from fingernails digging in to bloodied skin in clenched fists that were far too tight.
Raw. Tragic. Unending.

Sherlock blinked and found himself on tarmac, his hands scraping desperately over the spot where John was hit. No traffic. Nothing. The emptiness of a road at 2am. The trembling man didn't even feel the cold of a winter night. The distorted reality from the front row seat in his mind palace.
He came around with a start and was hit with a flush of memories.
His best friend, John Hamish Watson, is dead.
Sherlock scratched at his already-raw skin. He'd died too young.
There was so much the pair hadn't done, so much to say but not enough time.

His phone buzzed, The consulting detective instantly reached for it, first checking the date and then the cause of the buzz.
Wednesday 22nd November 2017.
Sherlock calculated back in his head, how long had it been?
Three weeks.
The funeral was monotonous, platitudinous and was just so very dull.
Humans with their insipid emotions, bleating out sympathies and 'I'm sorry for your loss' with dipped eyes that in no way were ever going to bring John back so what was the point? What was the point in anything?
Minutes and days and weeks whittled past like nothing, sometimes Sherlock would find himself on his floor in 221b, other times he would find himself curled up at John's grave.

Everything was just so pointless.

He wanted a way out. Just a way to escape his mind for a few hours, nothing more.
Sherlock stumbled to his feet and padded through to his bedroom, opening the bottom drawer and taking out his hidden stash.
Prepping the needle and ensuring the dose was at least 7%, maybe more, he didn't care.
The broken man moved back into his living room, sitting on the floor and getting ready to switch off.

"Please don't, Sherlock."

Sherlock's head snapped up and met the eyes of his best friend.

"J-john, I need to, you're not here anymore, I want to be where you are" The detective knew how pathetic he must sound but somehow couldn't stop.

"You left me and I can't do it anymore, I can't survive without you here, my conductor of light." Sherlock finished with a shaky breath.

John, without a word, swooped down and left a fleeting kiss on Sherlock's mouth, and then was gone.
Disappeared like a cloud of dust.
Shaking breaths turned into sobs that drowned out the sound of a forgotten needle falling back onto its dish.

He was undone.

In one swift movement he found himself encased in Mycroft's arms, with no strength to protest, to even care, he sank into them, screaming and crying into the material of his brother's expensive suit.

He turned to music to cope, venting out his upset and emotion through his violin, notes flowing out into the street, making themselves heard, known about.

Sherlock logged into John's blog, read each post, checked his drafts and unfinished documents in his files and tried to complete them and make sense of his thousands of pages of writing, he really did write like he was running out of time, Sherlock thought to himself.

Some six, emotional months later, Sherlock was struck with the realisation.
He was going to be ok.
'I stop wasting time on tears, I live another fifty years, it's not enough." Sherlock taps into the entry space of John's long since updated blog.

Sherlock tells the story to the world, the story of John Watson.
He writes and writes and explains everything he knew, everything he wished for.
Sherlock wrote about what could've been if he'd had the courage to say the words.

With a trembling hand he uploads the post.
Curiosity overtook him and the detective scrolled down to the penultimate post.
Dated as the 28th October 2017.
The computer pinged to notify that the update had been posted.
Dated as the 3rd November 2067.

Sherlock stood and shuffled his coat on, stepping out of the flat with his wobbly cane, walking steadily to his destination which he reached in no time at all.

He looked over John's grave, patted the headstone slightly.

"I never had the courage to speak here before, always thought you'd judge me for being a bumbling mess, I suppose.
I remember once, you stood here and asked me for one more miracle, you asked me to stop this, to stop being dead.
Could you do that? For me? John? Just stop this. Stop being dead.
I've never been the best at speeches John but I thought it was about time, I figured I owed you that much." Sherlock continued,

"I love you, I never told you and it was too late.
And here I am, saying it fifty years on, I'm old and grey.
Oh, I can't wait to see you again, it's only a matter of time."

"Goodbye, John."
Sherlock turned away and let a single tear fall from his cheek.

Only a matter of time.