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Every morning, the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, awoke – and he did not read the newspaper, and he did not accept visitors, because he was too busy for cases.

Each day, he did the same.

Holmes slept on the couch in the sitting-room, leaving the bed for Watson. He would awake, call for a nice breakfast, and take the meal to Watson, who would take small bites and tiny sips.

Holmes would sit with Watson and talk with him for a little while, but then he would depart so that Watson could sleep. At lunch, he returned, and the same at dinner.

When dinner was done, Holmes would sit in an old chair by the bed and comfort Watson with his presence, and then, after Watson had drifted off, Holmes would retire to the couch in the sitting-room, and the cycle would begin again the next morning.

The first few days were frightening – Watson did not seem to be getting any better. He was frail, and his aching chest heaved with ragged coughing.

But he never needed to fear that he would run out of something to drink, clean clothes, or the small white cloths soaked in cooling water, the ones that sat upon his burning forehead, because Holmes was always there.

Always.

Each day passed like a week – slow, frightening. Every hour, Watson's condition seemed to change – sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.

But each night, Holmes would do the same he had every other day, carrying out his routine, watching over Watson, hoping for good health.

Their nights were full of quiet talk, violin solos, and occasionally, a bit of laughter. Holmes would stay with Watson until he fell into an uneasy sleep, and then the detective would retire to his couch in the opposite room.

Days turned to weeks. Weeks into a month. Watson remained bedridden.

But Holmes did not give up, he would never give up – he was determined to get Watson well again, no matter what it took.

Every day, the sick man seemed to change. He would be dreadful one day, barely able to speak, barely able to breathe – but the next, he would be hungry for toast and jam, and in a chatty mood.

Watson often wished, out loud, that he could lie beside Holmes and simply rest, the two of them together, but Watson's contagious condition had forbidden Holmes from getting too close to his poor companion for too long. This was very necessary, the doctors had said – though Holmes hated what they had told him.

Try to stay away from Watson.

This sickness continued, dreadful and long, and it seemed that perhaps the influenza would never cease.

Toward the end of the first full month of illness, however, Watson had seemed to be feeling much better, a few days in a row he had been a little more energetic. Holmes told him he must be getting better – this dreadful sickness would be gone away soon.

And, indeed it was.

The sky was black with clouds, though there was no rain. Dinner was over, but Watson had neither eaten nor drank anything. Despite his more recent days of well-being, he seemed much worse to-night. However, even on bad nights, he had always made a comeback the next day, and Sherlock Holmes was sure his partner would be asking for food the next morning, his stomach grumbling for toast and tea.

As was the usual after-dinner ritual, Holmes sat in his bed-side chair as poor Watson lay in the bed. He hadn't said anything, but Holmes could see that he was not sleeping, so he tried to be positive, even if only just a little, in the hopes that it might uplift Watson.

He rambled on for a while about the theories of music, and then on to his favorite pieces of violin to play. Holmes did retrieve his violin from the sitting-room and played a few cheerful pieces for Watson to enjoy.

Eventually, however, Holmes set his violin aside and smoked his pipe a bit, asking Watson questions and telling him little stories, which the bedridden man seemed to enjoy.

It wasn't until later, however, when the cheerful mood of the room was dramatically changed.

Holmes sat in his chair and said thoughtfully, "Your favorite opera is showing to-morrow, Watson. I overheard Mrs. Hudson talking about it."

"Is it?" said Watson weakly. "I should like to go, but this damn influenza has kept me in this bed for so long."

Holmes nodded slightly, a sigh escaping his lips. "I know, dearest Watson, I am sorry. I wish that I could comfort you more. My little stories aren't much help in getting you right and well again."

Watson was silent for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his mind lost in thought. He stayed like this for some time, as though he had just come to a rapid realization. His face was calm and terribly sad.

Suddenly, Watson's eyes widened, and the doctor slipped off the thin sheets and sat up in his bed, pausing for a moment so that his head could settle. He then fell into a horrid fit of coughing, his eyes watering with pain.

Holmes stood from his chair. "Watson! Are you all right?"

Watson's voice was quiet and rough as he beckoned. "Holmes, come here."

Sherlock Holmes stared at his friend, whose head in was his shaking hands, and the detective's heart cried out for the poor man. He hesitated, the hospital doctor's words of warning ringing in his head, but Watson's horribly pitiful state was too much, and Holmes gave in.

It had been ages since he had been so near the man he loved.

Holmes came to the side of the bed and sat beside Watson, though the sick man did not move for a moment. He simply sat, head in hands.

Holmes tilted his head a little. "Watson?"

It all happened all at once, so fast – John Watson threw his arms around Sherlock Holmes, buried his head in Holmes' neck, and shook, his body shuddering with sobs.

Holmes was still for a moment, frozen with silent dread, but soon he wrapped his arms around his crying companion and rested his chin on Watson's head. He said nothing, Holmes' own gray eyes still, silent, and afraid.

After a few minutes, after he had calmed, Watson spoke, his voice thick.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Holmes cradled his poor sweet Watson in his arms and closed his eyes. Pulling his partner closer to him, he whispered, and the words that left his mouth were so rare, but so exceptionally true.

"I love you too, John."

What does it take?

I awoke beside the bed, in the same chair that I had fallen asleep in the night before, instead of the usual couch in the room next door. I had stayed by John's side through the night, per his request.

Oh, God. My poor John.

By the sky's light that was peering through the crack in the window-curtains, I guessed it was probably around seven in the morning.

John lay in bed, turned away from me, his body still.

Oh, my poor John.

I stood from my seat and stretched myself, my back aching with sharp pain from my uncomfortable sleeping-place. I walked to the window, parting the curtains just a little to look outside.

It was surprisingly light; the dreary clouds from last night had cleared from the London sky and the sun was shining down upon my face from above.

My heart was lifted a little at the singular sight of the sun. Perhaps it would bring good fortune for to-day.

I continued to gaze outside as I said in the cheeriest tone I could muster, "Wake up, dearest Watson. The sun came to see you."

I fully opened the curtains and turned to him. He hadn't moved.

I came to the side of the bed and sat, gently ruffling John's hair, ignoring the doctor's words to avoid him. I couldn't, not now. "Watson?"

He was unmoving.

The feeling took no time. Something struck me then, deep in my chest – it was cold, bare, and yet it seemed to slowly wash over me, chilling every part of my body. It was horrifying, numb and bitter, pushing aside all other feelings.

Fear.

I shook him, calling his name, my voice ragged. "Watson? Watson, old boy, it's me."

Again, softly, my voice beginning to fail me. "John? My John?"

But I could speak no more, and I felt cold, all the life drained from my body, my heart hammering in my chest, that eerie feeling of fear refusing to leave.

I couldn't speak, could barely form thoughts, the fear overriding my brain, and though the cheery sunshine swept over the room, indulging it in warmth, I felt frozen. Petrified.

Slowly, my brain realized. I ran my thumb over John's face. It was cool.

My movements were rigid, and I shook as I ran my hands over his face, through his hair.

Denial. No, please, no.

But the logic in my brain, the logic that I depended on, the logic I, for now, simply hated – it took over, and I was hit with the horrible realization again, and it hurt.

I was still for just a moment, and then I leaned down, in perfect silence, and kissed John on the forehead, my mind in pieces.

He tasted like sweat and misery, all the days that he had suffered now silent and cold, like he, and I knew that John Watson would never smile upon my retched face again.

"Never a single tear," whispered the words inside my head. "Have you ever even cried, Holmes?"

Again I looked down upon his face, cold and lifeless – and I sat beside the only man I have ever loved, the man whose voice I would never again hear, and the man whose eyes would never again rest upon my face. The man who had been everything to me.

I sat beside the body of John Watson.

And I cried.

A/N: I know. This was sad. Really sad. But I'd like to hear your thoughts on the ending - did you like it, were you expecting it, etc.

So, if you did enjoy this story, please leave me a review and let me know! I would really appreciate it.

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