I wrote this a while ago but didn't know if it was worth posting. Found it in my notes and it made me feel sick. We'll see. Johnlock angst, trigger warning for death.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
"It's alright! I can fix this, I will fix this, just, give me a second, I need to...."
"Sherlock..."
"SHUT UP! I just need to go to my mind palace, just shut up..."
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
"Sherlock..."
"JOHN! What don't you get in 'shut up'?! Stop distracting me!"
"Sherlock!"
"I'M RUNNING OUT OF TIME!"
"... There is no more time. We're done."
Sherlock looks around, and his shoulders drop, letting the weight of the world slide off.
"No... I can still... I can..."
"Even if you found the code now, we can't access the panel anymore. It's over, Sherlock. The game is over."
John puts a hand on Sherlock, and he's not mad. He smiles at him. After the worst mistake of his life, Sherlock gets a smile as punishment.
"John... I'm sorry."
"Sorry? You never apologize. Why start now?"
"Because! Usually..."
He sighs, and lets himself fall to the floor. Rock bottoms are comfortable to him. Familiar.
"... Usually, the mistake isn't so bad, or, I have time to... Fix it..."
"Maybe. But not always."
"What?"
"Not always, Sherlock!"
John laughs. It's the best sound Sherlock has ever heard, when knowing he's about to die.
"Sometimes, you say something, or do something, to our clients, and you just... You never apologize. And you never fix it. You never see those people again."
"Doesn't matter."
"What? Your mistake?"
"No. Them. Besides, one would argue that by fixing whatever problem they came to me for, I fixed my own blunder times a thousand."
Sherlock knows John. He knows John wants to say something to that.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He knows John won't waste their time bickering.
John laughs.
"Alright, Sherlock."
They sigh, and there's silence, as they sit next to each other, waiting for the room to swallow them whole. They're going to be crushed. Mashed into each other. Their bodies, if they're ever found, are going to be indistinguishable, a gruesome mix of blood and gore. Inextricable. Sherlock finds the thought oddly comforting.
"I love you."
Sherlock didn't expect John to waste their time lying.
"What?"
"I love you, Sherlock. I have, for a while. Maybe since the start."
He shrugs, with a casualness that's heartbreaking, in context.
"Since we're gonna die, I just thought I'd let you know. You don't have to say anything, I know you don't..."
John looks at him, and even now, there's hope in his eyes. Sherlock isn't about to waste this. What use are masks when the mascarade is over?
"I love you too."
"No, I mean..."
"I know how you mean. And I love you too."
There's a silence, as they both stare each other down.
May the stages of grief begin.
-----
Denial.
"Wh-what? No!..."
"Yes, John."
"No! No you don't... You don't love me! I mean... M-maybe you do, but you're not... In love with me! Sherlock!"
Sherlock sighs. Weary.
"I am, John. I tried hard not to be. To pretend otherwise. But I am."
"But... But..."
John looks angry. Perhaps he will waste their time with bickering after all.
----
Anger.
"But why!"
He finally explodes. Sherlock is confused.
"Why what?"
"Why... Why... Why didn't you say anything!"
"Why didn't you?"
Sherlock's counter accusation is enough to catch John off guard.
"I... Because, I..."
"Because you were scared."
Sherlock's tone is cold, implacable truth.
"I was."
"And so was I."
"And so were you."
Silence. No, not silence. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
"... We're really two idiots, aren't we?"
Sherlock laughs, because it's true. They are. And he'd rather hear John laugh than cry.
----
Bargaining.
"Well, then."
John gets up. Slaps his knee. It's about to be too small in here to do either of those things. He looks at Sherlock, beckons him with a nod. Sherlock hesitates and gets up. John pulls him closer, and Sherlock swears that this will be enough to make time stop, to delay the inevitable.
John kisses him.
Sherlock eventually backs away, stunned.
"What? What's got you so wide eyed?"
"I... You... Kissed me."
"Yes, I did."
John smiles. He kisses Sherlock's hand.
"It's my last chance to. I'll take as many seconds as I can get."
Sherlock breathes again. He shakes his head.
"We... We have to get out of here."
"Sherlock..."
John watches, as Sherlock paces along the narrow corridor, trying to get his thoughts in order.
"We have to get out of here, John. I have to figure this out."
"Sherlock... Sherlock!"
This time, John isn't as patient. He pulls Sherlock by the wrist, and kisses him again. Puts a hand on his cheek. Looks at him, sorrowful.
"It's over, okay? It's over. Let's just... Make use of the time we still have."
"But... If we get out of here, I... I could..."
"I know. I know what we could be. Could have been. But it's too late for that. Let's just... Take what we can, while we can."
He pulls him closer. Sherlock feels himself die in that moment, even if the walls haven't crushed them yet.
-----
Depression.
Sherlock falls into John's embrace, and the men are too close to pretend the other isn't crying. Their tears mix on their cheeks, and Sherlock feels John's leg trembling against his. He's scared.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"I am, John. For everything. For not getting us out, for bringing you here, for never saying anything earlier..."
"Don't apologize, it isn't like you."
He kisses his neck as he says this.
"And I love you."
Sherlock wants to cry so badly. But it isn't like him. And John loves him. He'll give John as much of what he loves as he can.
-----
Acceptance.
"There isn't enough time."
"Even for a quick one?"
The two men laugh at the whispered joke from Sherlock. The detective knows it's unlike him, but by God, is John's laugh addicting. And caving to addiction is very much like him.
"Sherlock..."
Their bodies are pressed against each other now, and it's pleasant, not that they have a choice. Sherlock felt the breath John took to say the word against his own ribs.
"Get your hands off of me!"
"Well, it's not like there's ample room to move about, John."
"Sod off, you know what I meant."
Oh, he knows. But he won't die without feeling John's package, not when he has the option to do so. It's not so much that the context is conductive to that sort of mood, or even that this half-measure press over the jeans is anywhere close to what Sherlock really wants, really craves, but the little endorphins he gets from it help. You know, with acceptance. Of what's to come.
There's a moment of silence, as they gently kiss each other, as John ravages Sherlock's neck, as Sherlock tries not to be bitter, or think of what ifs. It's harder than it looks.
"John..."
He hasn't said that name enough in his life. He could've lived forever and still wouldn't have said it enough, really.
"Yes, Sherlock?"
There it is. There's little room to breathe now, let alone speak. Those are his last words, Sherlock knows it. Not that anyone is here to record them. Well, John has always been the only ear that's mattered, anyways. He'd be lost without his blogger.
The Great Sherlock Holmes, about to draw his final breath. A mind so incredible, few even believed in it. But John did. John always did, no matter what. What words will best undo his time on Earth, unravel all that he is and bring to it a satisfying conclusion? What would be enough to summarize him?
Sherlock takes a deep breath, for the last time.
"I love you, John."
So pathetically cliché.
"I know, Sherlock. I could read it in your eyes, in your every word and silence. In your everything. My everything. My amazing."
And how fitting, that the writer's last whisper is so much more eloquent than snotty Holmes could ever hope to be. So much more fulfilling. Sherlock sighs and holds him, and he hopes John knows that Sherlock could read it, as well. In every line of his blog. John's love for Sherlock was so engrossing, the world even fell for it, even started to love Sherlock as well. Every flutter of every heart, every smile on every face caused by Sherlock Holmes' great mind, really was caused by John Watson's greater heart. And Sherlock hopes John knows, no, knows John knows, because he's John, and John knows everything that matters, always has, even when Sherlock was blind.
And their bones start to crack. And it's starting to hurt.
And the detective hopes that his last thought is John's name, because nothing else in that brain of his matters now. Nothing else. That's the flaw of genius, it needs an audience.
The genius holds his audience captive, not with words, but loving arms.
And the soldier holds his allegiance back, with the strength and fervor of a fighter, and the tenderness and care of a healer.
And why would you want to read what happens next?
