Hey guys,

This is a pretty short oneshot I came up with while talking to my Muse, Kendra. This fic, of course, is dedicated to her(: without her support, it would've never come what it is.

To those of you that've read my work before, thanks for checking this out too.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, the characters of the Canon version of the plot. I make no money off of this. Because believe me, if I did own it, season 3 would've ended pretty different.

Ta,

Majix

I love you.

The words sat heavily on Sherlock's lips, begging to be set free as he stared into the eyes of his best friend, memorizing every detail of John's face. He could feel them, like lead against his tongue, and every breath he drew without getting them into the open made him feel closer to bursting at the seams, but as he gazed upon the only man he'd ever truly called friend, Sherlock knew that he couldn't.

This time, just like all the others, wasn't right.

It hadn't been right the night at the pool when they'd both decided in a single glance that they were willing to die together, nor as the great detective stood on the roof of the place they'd met and lied through his teeth to the one person he cared about. It hadn't been right when Sherlock came back and John was getting engaged, or when Sherlock stood before his friend and made his one and only vow to protect the woman who would later put a bullet in his chest, and it wouldn't be the right time now, as they stood before each other, ready to part ways for the final time.

It would remain unspoken, a secret that Sherlock held tightly to his breast, below the white bone cage, close to the heart he once denied having.

So instead, the curly haired detective did the next best thing.

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

Genuine laughter bubbled from the blonde's lips, his laugh lines more prominent than ever as a look of fondness came over his features, his face lighting up with amusement as John offered the brunette one of those special smiles that was reserved for Sherlock alone. It was something the often misunderstood genius never took for granted, the sheer acceptance in those looks, and as Sherlock held out his hand, clasping John's palm in his, he knew without a doubt that he would reserve an entire room in his Mind Palace for that final smile alone.

"To the very best of times, John."

As their palms lingered, the curly haired male thought of all the times he'd felt those warm callused hands. They'd always been sort of a sentimental enigma to Sherlock. They were large, without a doubt belonging to a man, strong and sturdy, worn and callused from normal mundane tasks and the more exotic alike. They were precise and cautious, calm and guiding. They were the hands that'd patched him up after rough cases, that'd gently sought contact with his own violinists fingers when John saw that he was in a particularly bad mood.

They were the hands of a man who'd desperately taken the nonexistent pulse of a man that'd killed himself to save another.

The hands of a doctor as well as a soldier.

And as they let go of eachother, Sherlock found himself infinitely grateful that he was wearing gloves, that he hadn't touched John's bare skin and with great effort, Sherlock pulled himself away from the magnetic warmth that was John Watson.

He'd claimed to have deleted all information of the Solar System, but even Sherlock had the knowledge to know that he'd been in John's orbit more securely than the Earth to the Sun. People often thought that it was the other way around, but the truth was that they couldn't be more wrong. The blonde army doctor who constantly undervalued his worth would forever be the conductor of light for the world's only Consulting Detective, the voice of reason within his Mind Palace, the guidance that'd helped him to become not only a great man, but a good one as well.

Once upon a time he'd claimed that heroes didn't exist, but if they did, Sherlock was sure that John would've been one of them.

The plane stood haunting and final before him, and as Sherlock approached, he could see the barely concealed pain, the glow of determination, behind his brother's eyes. To anybody else Mycroft would've appeared cold, closed off and indifferent, but to Sherlock, the expression sitting heavy on his features remained only as a symbol, something reminiscent of his younger days when Mycroft could fix everything with those cold calculating eyes; eyes that'd taught him everything he knew.

But for as omniscient as his brother seemed, this was something he couldn't fix.

"L'esprit de l'escalier, Brother mine."

/French/ The feeling experienced when when you leave a conversation and consider all the things you should've said.

Even to himself, Sherlock couldn't help but to agree with his brother, unable to deny that this moment would most likely remain within his mind as one of the few things he was made to regret, but he couldn't do that to John Watson. He couldn't leave the sandy haired man that'd changed everything standing on on the tarmac wondering what could've been when he had a wife and a child on the way, no matter how much he would regret leaving the sentiment unspoken.

And despite the morbidity of the thought, Sherlock was grateful that he wouldn't have to regret it for long.

A rare glimpse of true emotion graced the self proclaimed sociopath's face in the form of an infinitely sad smile as he looked to his older sibling, "Even Death has a heart, Brother."

And it did.

Sherlock knew very well that he wouldn't be coming back from this. Mycroft, as annoying and nosy as he could be, was never wrong. The great detective would once again die for John Watson, and though he was loathe to admit true sentiment of any kind, he supposed that he should be honored.

Not many people had the honor of saying that they chose to die for the one they love twice.