Notes: Last chapter!

Took you long enough!

Yeah, yeah, I know... Sorry about that. Writer's block, school, yadda yadda. The usual. Anyway, I hope those of you who are still reading this enjoy. Thank you so much for sticking with me, through all of my erratic updates. Hehe... Sorry, again.

The End

Sherlock awoke at three in the morning, according to the clock on his nightstand. He buried the side of his face into his pillow, blinking away the sleep. It wasn't utterly unusual for him to wake up so early, but he normally only did so when had plans the next day. Seeing as his schedule for the whole week was completely blank, he wasn't entirely sure why he was up at the moment.

He rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling that was softly illuminated by the moonlight that bled through the curtains. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John, who was facing away from him, curled up in the blankets. One arm hung outside the duvet, resting on his side as he slept. Lucky for Sherlock, John was never one for cuddling. Not that he objected to physical contact with his husband, but every once in a while he needed his space.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, trying to memorize the way the moonlight hit his now-gray hair. Above the blanket, his shoulder was clearly visible, the faint scar that still marked his skin standing out from the rest of his bare arm and back. Sherlock smiled to himself and reached over with a finger, tracing the scar so lightly his nail was barely brushing the skin.

John had always been extremely ticklish; it was his little secret he had attempted to keep from the detective as long as possible. But Sherlock had seen how he pulled away whenever the spot just below his ear was kissed, or whenever he hugged him at the sides. Sometimes he would sneak up behind the doctor and graze his fingers against the back of his neck just to watch him erupt with laughter whilst yelling in faux anger. He'd squirm beneath his hands, hooting, until they both collapsed on either a chair or a bed, smiling stupidly at each other.

Sometimes they'd stay up late at night sitting close together on the couch, John watching a movie and Sherlock busy reading a book. Neither minded that they were consumed by different activities, so long as they were spending time together. As the movie progressed, John would usually end up cuddled against his husband, subtly falling asleep by the end of it. Whenever this happened, Sherlock would set his book down and cover John in a blanket, letting him rest while he went to the other room to finish his reading. In the morning, he would almost always wake up to John making him breakfast.

Sherlock smiled at the memories. John still slept silently, looking peaceful. The detective reached over almost timidly, not wanting to shatter the image. John Watson, the powerful army doctor who had been through war and death, a man with unlimited bravery, was laid out before him, completely vulnerable beneath the sheets. Only a single layer of cloth covered the old veteran, and his scarred skin was the only thing that mutilated the picturesque scene. Still, he looked like some sort of artwork, painted out with precise and tactful brushstrokes.

Sherlock broke the calm portrait, skimming his fingers against the bare wrist.

His stomach coiled.

John was cold. He wasn't just cool from the autumn air, either. John was freezing; the kind of cold he had encountered before. Years ago, when Sherlock was still an active Consulting Detective, he came across this nearly every day. It was the kind of cold that came over a body that hadn't had blood pumping through its veins for a long time. It was the type of cold he felt on corpses. It was the cold of a dead body.

And John was that cold.

Sherlock sat up numbly in bed, knowing what he should do, but unsure of how to go about it. He instinctively reached over and grabbed John's hand in his own, the stony skin making his chest tighten. He checked for a pulse, but where a lively, steady beating should have been, he felt only still, heartbreaking silence. He tugged his arm up by the wrist, an act that should have evoked some response from his husband. John didn't move, his arm hanging limply in Sherlock's.

The next several minutes ticked by in slow, grinding seconds, making everything that much harder. Sherlock vaguely recognized that he had stumbled off the bed, dragging himself to a phone to call the police, an ambulance, a neighbor… He wasn't really sure. When he hung up, he returned to his room. It felt empty.

Still on his side of the bed, John was lying motionless. Sherlock stepped forward slowly, sinking to the floor at the bedside and staring at the still figure. He looked, well… dead. From this point-of-view, Sherlock could only see every sign of a dead body. There was no movement beneath the eyelids to suggest John was merely dreaming deeply, his face was as white as a polished skull, and there was no steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He reached out tentatively, touching a finger to his husband's cheek softly. "John…"

There was a knock at the bedroom door, and a few uniformed officers entered the room. They were silent. Or maybe they wouldn't stop talking; Sherlock wasn't really sure. He could only watch helplessly as they hefted John's body onto a gurney. A thin white sheet was lifted up to cover him, and Sherlock caught one last glimpse of his husband before he was hidden underneath. He was vaguely aware that an officer had put a bright orange blanket— a shock blanket— over his shoulders. He subconsciously curled his fingers tightly around the edges and pulled it securely around himself, feeling a chill in his bones.

Beside him, someone in uniform clutched the gurney and started to wheel it out, taking John with him. Sherlock looked up as they disappeared, along with the other officers, his vision blurring. "John," he choked, "please…" His throat tightened painfully, and a broken sob left his lips. He sucked in a harsh breath, his shoulders trembling. "Don't leave me. Please," he screwed his face up, a hole in his chest growing. "Don't be dead."

The last officer exited the room, and for the first time since the day he met John, Sherlock was entirely alone

.

Sometimes,
life seems to drag on at a sluggish pace,
drawing out infinitely.
But when it finally comes to an end,
you realize it's all gone by
in the blink of an eye,
and you'd give anything
for it to be longer.