Never Let You Go

by

Blackcurrant Bonbons

'It was worth a wound – it was worth many wounds – to know the depth of depth of loyalty and love which lay behind the cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.'

The Three Garridebs

The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Conan Doyle

John Watson leant back into the stiff hard back chair, his aching, world weary muscles groaning in protest.

Age had not been kind on the good doctor. Not to say he had grown fat, on the contrary, he had retained a hint of the stoic frame of his youth, and held himself the way only a former soldier can.

A bitter laugh escaped his withered lips as his failing eyes fell upon his walking stick in the corner. Life was a cruel cycle. Just as he thought he was rid of the damned thing, he had been handed another one.

By God, he hated the caring home.

In hindsight of the lifestyle he had once lived, it had seemed highly more likely that he would die fighting, the glorious rush of adrenalin still pumping through his burning blood.

But no, John had allowed himself to be carted off to the dullest hole in existence. Each day, a little more of his mind died as he resigned himself to the dull boredom of monotonous existence.

As was the fate of many elderly residents in Britain, John had been signed off to a care home by his daughter, Sarah. He had not even been allowed the small pleasure of a familiar companion, as his wife Mary had died a decade before, in a car accident.

But however much guilt he felt when he allowed himself to consider the thought, John knew that marrying Mary had been the biggest mistake of his life.

Allowing his eyes to close, John let his mind wander to bittersweet thoughts that he reserved only for times when he was truly alone.

Sherlock had never been an emotional man.

But he was self proclaimed sociopath, so the world was as it should be.

That was the true reason why John had forced himself to marry Mary.

The mere thought that Sherlock could never return the emotions that John felt towards the younger man left a bitter taste on his tongue and a heavy weight in his stomach.

He had needed an easy way out, as he could not stand to be in the same room with Sherlock anymore, treacherous emotions brimming on his closed lips every second. It almost drove him mad. So only a few months after meeting Mary, he had convinced himself that he had fallen in 'love' with her, and married her soon afterwards.

After Mary had died, John had repeatedly promised himself that he would not return to Sherlock, but in the end had succumbed. Sherlock had by now retired to the countryside in Sussex and was keeping bees, but still continued to solve the occasional case that popped up.

John had visited regularly, right up to the man's death. Natural causes. Age had finally caught Sherlock out. The news hit John badly, and he had never properly recovered. He suffered from a serious heart attack only a few days after being informed, and as he lay in hospital, he had lain awake all night, muffling his hiccupping tears into the starchy, soaked pillow. He had not cried since, and the hollow pit in his stomach had only grown larger as the days passed by.

As he reminisced, his mind struck upon possibly the happiest moment in John's existence, even if it was permeated with pain. A genuine smile spread across his face at the memory. John had as usual been accompanying Sherlock on a case – the particular details of which evaded John's grasping mind – and John had been shot in the leg by a misfired bullet.

An expression of pure rage and protectiveness crossed Sherlock's face as he smashed down his gun on the criminal's head, leaving a substantial dent. He had looked like he wanted to inflict more, but decided against it and instead rushed over to John. The expression on Sherlock's face as he looked down upon John near broke his heart, and any of the pain evaporated.

"John, for God sake John, please say that you're not hurt!" Sherlock's lips were quivering, and John could see the glistening tears beginning to form in his eyes. He clutched John's hands, squeezing tight. For one time, John caught a glimpse not of Sherlock the sociopath, but Sherlock the human. His heart had burst with love and longing, and he smiled. "No, Sherlock, I'm fine. It's just a scratch."

With that treasure memory in mind, John took a deep breath, and gave up the constant battle with his body.

His weary heart stopped beating.

When John opened his eyes, he found himself to be in park. Luscious green grass tickled his bare feet, and the whole world seemed permeated with a white light. In the near distance stood Sherlock, who glowed with the former radiance and energy of his youth, very much as he had been when John first set eyes upon him in Bart's lab. The younger man had a rare smile across his face, the one John had only glimpsed on rare occasions in his former life.

Sherlock outstretched his hand, and John bounded forward to take it, any of his former weariness gone. He felt alive and invigorated for the first time in many years, and as he stretched to take Sherlock's hand, he realised it was unwrinkled, and his bones did not ache.

For the first time in years, John felt happy.

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He was home.