Archive of Our Own ^beta

As time went by, we grew slower. Sometimes, Sherlock and I would give two chases to a victim we would have caught in a matter of minutes, hindered as we were by years. His breathing grew more laboured, a result of years of smoking, and as the years advanced, we discovered together the joys of arthritis, of dulled senses and slower healing times. 

When Mary passed, around his fifty-seventh year, we both attended her funeral, and the walk to Baker Street after the event took us nearly three hours, twin canes tapping the pavement (the result of a smashed tibia on one memorable case, for him) as I struggled to stave off tears and he struggled to remain oblivious to my display of emotion.

When Sherlock decided to retire, some four years later, I went with him to Sussex, a painful sense of relief filling my chest- memories, of myself and Sherlock as a young man, of Mary and I as a married couple, dogged my every step in the city I loved. Still, I expected to have several more years with him after the move.

The car came out of nowhere. Two old men, meandering down a lane, heads bowed towards each other as they laughed about something, something I will never know. And then the car, and the only thing I could think, as the world went silent before my eyes, was that really, why would he have pointed the cane at the car?

The driver, whoever it was, swerved away, speeding from the scene, and I dropped the dog leash in my hand as I ran to kneel between them. Blood was everywhere, and I struggled to remember some scrap of useful information, something. The taller man, the one with curling silver hair and blood all over the side of his head, grabbed my arm. "He- John. John Watson. Tell him- I'm sorry-" It was only then that I realized- the cane had gone through his chest, and even as I reached to pull it out, as if that would help, he flopped back, lifeless. 

With a trembling hand, barely able to keep from shrieking, I pressed his eyelids shut, settled two pebbles from the side of the road where I knelt onto his eyes. It was only then that I turned back to the other man. Unconscious, but breathing. I pulled out my mobile, punched in 999 with numb fingers, let it ring out. I barely noticed when the paramedics arrived.

I woke up in a bed, in hospital, alone. Surrounded by white. Hazy with sleep and opiates, and beneath it all, a pain hovered, filling my abdomen, the back of my head, my shoulder.

They told me it was a hit and run, the car came out of nowhere. They told me that, if the angle was right, Sherlock had responded as though his cane were a gun, an automatic response to danger.

The bystander, a young man fresh from uni, who by all rights had saved my life, was able to identify me because of Sherlock. According to him, his last act had been to tell him my name and plead forgiveness.

Oh, Sherlock. You never need ask.

Dr. Watson moved into the flat next to mine, a dingy old building for low-fund patrons. Him being in retirement, and me just out of uni, we made good neighbors. Sometimes, when I was going out, he'd ask to share a cab on his way to a doctor's appointment or the library, and almost always pay the fare. He waved off my protests every time. When I asked him about it once, he said Sherlock had left him everything, and he could afford to pay a cab fare every now and again.

About a year into our acquaintance, I asked Terrance to take a trip with me to London. When we got to Bart's, I asked him to wait in the cab, and went over to the side of the building. I looked up for a long moment, as if I could still see Sherlock standing there all those years ago, before looking down at the ground, at the faded dark stain on the cement.

"I know you're not coming back." The words sounded dry, hurt, strange in my mouth and on my tongue. "I know... I know you're not faking it this time. I saw the wound." Sitting down on the pavement was not the best decision I could have made, but I did it anyway. 

"I can't stop thinking about the night you came back," I said softly. There had been tears, yes, and running, and hiding from assassins, and the night had ended me in the A&E. "And I remember the first thing I thought, the first thing that came to mind... was that now I'd never believe you were dead." 

The laugh was unexpected, and then it turned into a sob. I let it come, coughing into the back of my hand as the tears began. "And now here we are on the last page, Sherlock, you and me, old friend." I sighed, and rose to my feet. "I guess I'll wait for you, Sherlock. Not much else to do, when one is an old man who had meant to spend his last few years with his best friend."

"One more thing though, Sherlock, since I know you're not coming back." I swallowed, throat closing, barely able to force down the sob bubbling in my chest. "Be ready for me, when I come."

Losing Dr. Watson wasn't a surprise, in the end. Still, I hadn't expected it. One evening, he tells me he's not feeling well, goes to bed early. Next evening, he's gone.

The arrangements for the funeral had been made decades ago, probably when he was chasing after his mad detective, and he was buried in under a week. His effects went to his nephew, mostly, though he left me his cane and a letter, tucked in a safe at his lawyer's office.

"Terrance,

I don't believe I ever thanked you for saving my life. No matter, I'll thank you now. 

Thank you, also, for being such a good friend to me over these past few years. I know I'm not exactly the kind of person you were looking for, but nevertheless, it has been pleasant.

Here's hoping that one day, you can find a person who makes you forget your cane, too.

Have a good life.

Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers"

By the date, he'd signed it only a month ago, and for some reason, that made me terribly sad. Still, as I watched them lower his casket into the ground alongside Sherlock Holmes' grave, I wondered what he had said to the pavement that day. I hoped he saw Sherlock again, wherever he was going.