Electromagnet

But it seems he doesn't have to.

John stands in the red-golden sunlight of a dying Saturday, twenty or so hours after his visit to the cemetery. His eyesight is rendered almost useless by the reflecting mirror on the opposite wall. He grasps the edge of the open door with fingers of ice; his feet are plastered to the ratty carpet.

He had unlocked his door, made to step inside.

And someone tall and dark and thin had unfolded from his chair. A familiar coat flapped in the wash of amber rays.

John stopped moving. Now he stares blindly into the dim flat, trembling.

"Sherlock?" he tries, feeling idiotic. He swipes a hand across his eyes, trying to see.

"John."

The voice is unmistakable.

John reels, even though he knows, he knows Sherlock is alive. This is not a surprise anymore; it shouldn't be.

Even so, shakily, he says, "Well?"

And now he can see him.

Sherlock.

Thinner, tanner, older. His grey eyes are rimmed in red.

As John stares, wordless, Sherlock moves. He strides so quickly across the room that John almost backs up in surprise. He hardly manages to stop himself, still clinging to the doorframe, breathing harshly. He's half-afraid he's seeing things: what if he's a ghost – what if he's gone mad and Sherlock isn't here? What if he's –

But then strong arms slide around him, thin, wiry, desperate arms, and there is nothing to see for a long moment but a shining blur of dark curls as Sherlock buries his face in John's shoulder.

"You idiot," John croaks, but his arms come up around his friend. He digs his fingers into a dead man's shoulders and doesn't let go.

The sodden clump of fear at the base of his throat transforms into a lump of indescribable joy.

The two men don't see this, but over their heads a small globe coalesces, twirling for a moment in silent green-and-blue revolutions. It shines like a tiny underwater star, illuminating the faded walls of the flat in elusive light.

It is the True Mark. It is a promise.

A promise that the Withe and the Anchor beneath it will never be parted again.

John and Sherlock stand motionless under the Mark, and their future unspools before them, blazing like a river through the darkened desert.

"I have herd that men looke for the Marke, and nere fynde it. But I have also herd that they who fynde it are nere allone ayen, not een in deeth. What manere of frenshipe is thys, unbrokon een thenne? Who can hope to fynde it?" – Troilus, 14th century, The Withe Papers

A/N: And thus ends this small, re-imagined, embellished portrayal of Sherlock's and John's story.

As for the translation of Troilus' quote:

"I have heard that men look for the Mark, and never find it. But I have also heard that they who [do] find it are never alone again, not even in death. What manner [kind] of friendship is this, unbroken even then? Who can hope to find it?"

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- Coquillage

La Fin