Tissue box warning for the following chapter

Thirty-one years later

Lestrade pushed open the door to the hospital room. It was quiet as he slowly moved to the chair already waiting near the bed. The figure in the bed seemed a shadow of his former self. Dark hair now streaked with silver strands; his muscle tone diminished with the accumulation of years. The man lay still and silent, turned slightly on his side with his hands curled in his lap. Despite the nasal prongs providing supplemental oxygen, Lestrade could still hear audible wheezing.

Lowering himself slowly with a near silent groan, he set aside his cane and looked back towards the bed. Blue-green eyes peered back at him and he flinched in surprise before releasing a soft huff of laughter.

"Never could sneak up on you."

"Hello, Greg," Sherlock murmured, shifting himself in the bed.

The two men stared at each other for a moment.

"What do the doctors say?"

Sherlock shrugged before speaking. "My youthful dabbles...in drugs...have weakened my...heart. Not long...now...they expect."

"Never really expected you and I to die of old age honestly," Lestrade said, looking at his wrinkled hand, dotted with age spots.

"I tried my...best, not to," Sherlock commented and giggled softly.

He curled his hands in tighter against his abdomen, glancing up at the heart monitor. He sighed before slumping against his pillow and looking around the room. They didn't have to talk about it. Lestrade had been there for all the admittances; he knew how weak Sherlock's heart was.

"Any regrets?" Lestrade asked suddenly causing Sherlock to look over at him.

"What?"

"Do you have any regrets? You've led a pretty interesting life. Met unique people. Been to exotic locations and seen so much. Any regrets in all of that?" he asked, watching as Sherlock's gaze drifted to his lap.

"A few," he whispered, lifting something from his lap and setting it on the nearby over-bed table.

Lestrade stared at the mug, recognizing it as John's old RAMC mug. Looking back at Sherlock, he watched the man's gaze drift around the room again while he twirled something with his finger tips.

"Sherlock?"

The genius looked down at his hands and smiled briefly, before lifting the object for Lestrade to see. It was a tan and white feather, worn and missing small parts along its length. Sherlock's fingers ran over it with loving familiarity as his hands rested atop the blanket.

"I miss him."

Lestrade gazed at the mug and it wasn't much of a leap to figure out who he was talking about. How the feather figured into it, he wasn't sure, but he decided to go with it.

"He was a good man. You know, that first case you brought John in on with you? I told him you were a great man, and maybe, if we were very lucky, you could even be a good one. Never knew he would be the one to do it," Lestrade said and dammit, he could still get teary eyed when he thought about their history after so many years.

"He had a...lot of hidden lay...layers," Sherlock panted, grimacing as he pressed his free hand against his chest.

A quick glance at the heart monitor showed Lestrade the rhythm of the failing heart. Scooting closer to the bed and sitting on the edge of his chair, Lestrade reached out, gripping the wrist of the hand holding the feather. A few moments and grimaces later, the monitor showed a steady but ever weakening heart beat. The hand at his chest fell to his lap as Sherlock laid his head back and panted softly.

"Sherlock, d-"

Sherlock seemed to know what Lestrade was about to ask. Just like he always did. "I have...a do...not re-..resuscitate...order, Greg."

The retired detective inspector faltered. The emotional part of him wanted to scream and yell that Sherlock couldn't just give up. The more logical, sensible part replied that it was his choice and he had been through enough. Mrs. Hudson has passed away years ago. Sherlock's parents and sibling were dead. Greg was his only 'friend' still alive. Oh, he had his associates and contacts, but none could claim the privileged title of friend.

"I wish he was here."

"Who?" Lestrade asked even as he saw the blue-green eyes shift to look at the RAMC mug.

"John?" A slight nod confirmed Lestrade's guess.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. He had never known Sherlock to lose track of the present. Well, other than when he was high out of his mind but that was ages ago. Sober ever since meeting John for the first time, he knew he was on good drugs currently but not enough for his mental capacity to suffer.

"Oh don't...look at me like...that, Greg. I hav-...haven't lost my...mind," Sherlock grumbled weakly.

"John's dead, Sherlock. Has been for some time now."

"Dead...but not...gone." Sherlock's eyelids drooped, fluttering slightly before opening them again. "In my...will. I've...de-...demanded to be...placed next...to him. My old...plot. The fake...one."

Lestrade saw he was visibly getting weaker. Tears prickled in his eyes, as he realized the end was near for the great Sherlock Holmes. Giving the cool wrist a reassuring squeeze, he took a deep breath, vowing to hold back the tears until it was done.

"I'll make sure it happens, Sherlock."

A weak, sad grin was his only reply.

"I hoped...he would ha-...have come."

"Yeah, well, you know me. I invaded Afghanistan so I just have to make an entrance."

Lestrade gasped, twisting in his seat to see who may have snuck in without him hearing. The sight that met his eyes made him frantically wonder if he was really the one in the hospital bed hallucinating. Against the wall stood a figure he hadn't seen in some thirty-nine years. A figure that looked as youthful and fit as that first meeting. John wore a pair of jeans and his cream jumper. A set large wings, dappled with tan, beige and white, arched over his shoulders though pulled in tightly to avoid hitting any of the medical equipment. His blue eyes sparkled when he looked over at Lestrade, his smile growing upon seeing the shocked expression.

"Hey Greg," John said softly, moving to the other side of Sherlock's bed.

"John. You're-"

"Yeah. An angel. You all used to say I was a saint to put up with him. Fell a little short of the sainthood line though," John commented, gesturing towards Sherlock.

Sherlock grumbled but anyone could see the fondness in his eyes as he watched the angel.

"Took you...long...enough."

The answering smirk was all John Watson down to a T, prompting Lestrade to blink in surprise; he never expected to see the man again. John braced one hand on the bed by Sherlock's shoulder and his other hand rested atop Sherlock's chest.

"Just like when we used to run around London chasing criminals, and I was always dumped with the paperwork to finish. I knew you wouldn't do it, so I did, sort of...expedited matters."

Sherlock giggled briefly as his body seemed to grow heavier and sink into the bed.

"Is the reaper...coming? I...have some...questions...fo-...for it."

John smiled, all but ignoring the silent man opposite the bed from him.

"I've called in a favor; you can talk to it later. Get up, Sherlock. It's time to go," John said as he straightened.

Plucking the worn feather from the loosening grip, John looked at it for a moment and Greg watched as the feather shimmered and filled out until it looked like the ones gracing John's back. Grinning, John glanced at Greg before reaching across the bed and slipping the feather into the mug.

"Go? I...can barely...sit up," Sherlock muttered with an eye roll. "Idiot."

John laughed as he took hold of one of Sherlock's hands, tugging at him.

"Get up, you lazy git."

Greg watched in amazement as Sherlock seemed to separate from the body still in the bed. The figure that slid off the bed was once again young. Hair dark like a raven, body firm and toned, skin still pale but healthy. His Belstaff sat regally on his shoulders and Lestrade could see the suit coat and burgundy shirt underneath. Now he had a new addition to his imposing look: a pair of jet black wings, streaked with silver, graced his back. In the background, Greg heard the heart monitor start to slow as a small alarm went off at the nurse's station.

Sherlock looked down at his new figure and ruffled the feathers of his wings in amazement, his eyes sparkling with amusement and laughter. Looking from John to Greg, his face dropped slightly and he rounded the bed with long strides. Squatting beside Greg, Sherlock reached out and gripped the man's elbow.

"Greg...thank you. For everything. My life would have been much poorer and far shorter if you hadn't dragged my sorry arse away from the drugs. Ever since then, you've always had my back, especially when I needed it the most. Thank you," Sherlock said quietly before standing.

Sherlock reached over Greg and picked up the mug with the feather sticking out of it. Looking from the mug to John, the former doctor nodded before Sherlock reached behind himself and plucked one of his own feathers. He grimaced slightly at the pain before placing it alongside the tan colored feather and handing the mug to Greg.

"For safe keeping and remembering."

John nudged Sherlock away as he looked down at the other man.

"Thank you for looking after him when I couldn't be there, Greg. You're a good man. I'll be seeing you around." John giggled at Greg's horrified expression. "But not for a long while. You've still got a lot of living to do, Gregory Lestrade."

"John, lets go. I want to talk with Jimmy Hoffa. Oh! How about Henry Howard Holmes! I've always been interested in talking with him," Sherlock said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Let's just take it-hey!"

Sherlock had already disappeared and John took a step towards where the genius last stood.

"Sherlock! Wait up!"

With a flare and a snap of his wings, John also disappeared, leaving Greg with the heart monitor wailing and a doctor and nurse standing quietly in the doorway. Greg knew it was probably in poor taste, but he laughed out loud as the doctor came in to declare time of death. Greg took the mug with its precious pair of feathers and left the room, not even looking back at the shell of a body. He preferred to remember Sherlock and John as they always were. Sherlock leading the way and John yelling at him, faithfully following to guard his back.

(!)(!)(!)

Greg sat back in his chair, listening to his children and grandchildren cleaning up after dinner. Over his shoulder, atop a shelf with pictures of family, there were pictures of Lestrade in his uniform, pictures of Sherlock, John and him at a crime scene; and in the midst of all those pictures was a mug with two feathers sticking out of it.

"Grandpa! Grandpa! Tell us a story, please."

Greg looked down at the five year old twins. He noticed the other three children looking at him, hoping for an exciting cop story. Nodding, he then was forced to smile as a few of the kids whooped and all of them clamored for a seat around Grandpa. Settling one of the youngest ones on his lap, Greg took a deep breath before glancing over his shoulder at the mug and feathers.

"Once upon a time, there was this genius of a man. A man so smart that he scared away a lot of people. He could look at you and tell you your life story. What you had done that day, what kind of job you had, what kind of pets you lived with, what-"

"Could he tell my dog's name?"

Greg laughed. "Yes, he could do that also. But nobody understood him because he was so smart. So he was very lonely, but he thought he was fine being lonely, until one day, he met someone special. He met a soldier who was also a doctor. This man was brave and loyal and thought the genius was brilliant for seeing so much.

"Eventually their friendship became the stuff legends are told and written about. It spanned all of time and space."

"Like Doctor Who?" one of the kids gasped.

"Just like Doctor Who. But that was later on. There are bunches and bunches of stories about their antics and about their friendship. Every person in London knew about these two."

One of the boys nudged his sibling. "This is going to be a good one. I can tell."

Greg smiled, looking over his shoulder again at the mug and feathers. "It certainly was a good one."

(!)(!)(!)

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

~Mary Elizabeth Frye

(!)(!)(!)(!)(!)(!)(!)(!)(!)

Did I move you to tears? I would really like to know where the emotions got to you. For me, it was when John takes the old feather that Sherlock had held onto for so many years and freshens it up.

Thank you to everyone that has read and commented and liked the story. Many thanks to MyFirstistheFourth for proofing and providing many hilarious responses to this story. My favorite still being: Damn you! Damn feathers and cups and fucking angels.