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"To the best of times, John."
The words hung in the air like the sour notes of an unfinished concerto, just as the detective's hand print still lingered against John Watson's own. His hand suddenly felt colder than before, and he knew, the moment that Sherlock Holmes turned away, he was watching to love of his life fade away in the lingering cold breeze.
He tried to be the soldier.
He tried, God, he tried, he tried so hard to keep the tears rising in his throat to go down as he watched the flowing Belstaf coat sweep away from him for the last time, and he nodded in his friend's direction.
Always the soldier.
Six months. That's what he had said. John Watson wasn't an idiot, he knew exactly where Sherlock was going, and although they didn't say it directly, they both knew that he was on a suicide mission. He was going to have to see Sherlock die for the third time in five years. His Sherlock. His detective. His first real love, his best friend, his only real reason why he still lived and breathed... And there he was, sauntering off without him again, but this time, there would be no reviving Sherlock Holmes.
If John was really honest with himself, which he very rarely was, he would turn to Mary, tell her he was sorry, and run away, run straight onto the plane before the doors shut, throw his arms around Sherlock, and kiss him until he could no longer breathe. He didn't want this, he didn't want this horrific domestic life that awaited him while Sherlock was fuck-knows-where, probably dying. He couldn't do that again. John knew he had chosen this life for a reason. He knew what he wanted, and it wasn't the red pea coat wearing ex-assassin of a wife standing a few feet behind him. He knew what he needed to do.
So then, why couldn't he move?
Why were his legs anchoring him to his spot on the tarmac while he held back tears and the icy burn of a love confession he so desperately wanted to sing out loud enough for the whole bloody world to hear... Why was he not with Sherlock on that goddamned plane? He deserved it to, for everything he had done. He had as much to do with Magnussen's death as Sherlock did. It was his own gun, for Christ's sake. The doctor's chest ached at the thought.
I did this. He thought.
I did this to him.
The realization, sharp and painful like the blade of a knife, pulsed through his body, and he nearly fell to the ground out of agony. He hated this. That man, that beautiful, stunning man that John was so in love with, as he had been for five years, was going to his death, and it was his fault.
He felt a warm hand slip into his own, and the sweet smell of Clair de la Lune sweep up from his wife as she cradled his hand into her own. John knew it was meant to be comforting, but it did no good. Mary leaned up toward his ear, and he could feel her sweet breath on his cheek. "Go after him, John." She whispered, her voice breaking. "Please. If you love me, go after that man. I won't watch you die like this again."
John whipped around to face her, and was met by the gleaming smile and the loving, misty eyes of his wife, not understanding. Did she... Want him to go? "Mary..."
She kissed him sweetly on the cheek, and he felt the wetness of her tears on his skin. "I'll be fine, John. Go after him. Go."
John Watson met her gaze, searching for a deeper meaning, anything that would help him interpret this differently than 'go on a possible suicide mission with your best friend who you're secretly in love with', but... There was nothing. Mary was crying, and suddenly, he was too, but he knew that she had realized his love for Sherlock before he had, and she didn't want to separate them again. This wasn't just a regular request. This was Mary's apology.
And then he was running.
The dungeon lock on his legs was finally broken, and suddenly, John Hamish Watson, soldier, doctor, and consulting detective's assistant, was leaving his life behind and was pushing his legs as fast as they would push him without screaming protest across the tarmac, and he barely noticed that no one, not even Mycroft or his men were running to stop him. He would not let those doors close. He would not let Sherlock leave him again. Never. The doctor threw himself up,the gate steps just as they were beginning to raise, and he nearly sunk with relief when he lay his eyes on the detective.
Sherlock was sitting in the corner seat, staring out the window, his hand curled into a tight fist in front of his face like he were trying not to cry. The moment he looked up and saw the army doctor leaning up against the door, he shot to his feet, his eyes erratically sweeping over John's exasperated form. "John! John, what are you... How did you... You can't..." He babbled, the words spilling out of his mouth in a jumbled, but strangely ecstatic heap.
John closed the distance between them in the tiny plane but grabbing at the detective's collar and pulling him in for a passionate kiss, only that started out intense and surprising, but, as Sherlock began to melt like sweet honey into John's lips, it became easier, more loving, and enough to bring both men to tears as they pulled away. "I'll be damned if I ever let anyone in this whole bloody world take you from me again, Sherlock Holmes." John spoke, his voice strong.
"John." Sherlock breathed, his voice panicky. "You can't, John, this is..."
"I've walked into countless suicide missions with you, before. I don't care, Sherlock." The doctor retorted. "That day at the pool, you gave me one look, and we agreed to die together, and we had known each other for only a few months. That still stand, Sherlock. I'm not letting you leave again. If we die, we die together, just the way it was meant to be. I love you, you idiot." The words had tumbled out of his mouth so smoothly, like they had been placed there on purpose, painted there, just for him to say. The words sent a shiver of relief down his spine, after they had lingered on his tongue for much too long, but they also flooded every inch of his body with warmth. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's own, allowing his eyes to close. "I won't let you leave me again."
Sherlock seemed at a loss for words, but he did not by any means pull away. "What about Mary?" He asked quietly, timidly, afraid to ask.
The army doctor sighed. "She... Was the one who convinced me to come." He said simply, leaving it at that.
"It'll be dangerous, John." Sherlock's voice wavered.
John chuckled. "Good. We won't be bored. You and me against the world, remember?" He knew Sherlock remembered, but he wanted the detective, his detective, to know and trust that he was there for real, that he was never leaving, and that he loved him.
Sherlock hesitated. "Just the two of us?"
"Just the two of us." John replied, kissing him again and pulling him into his arms, burying his face into his shoulder. He could get use to this.
The detective sighed and relaxed into the embrace, holding him close and trying hard to keep the crack out of his voice. "I love you too, John."
The doctor only smiled.
They settled into their seats, side by side, their fingers firmly laced on the arm rest between them, not saying a word. John was leaned back against his chair, thinking hard an,out his decision. He had been honest with himself when he confessed to Sherlock. He did love him, he did agree to die with him, and he didn't care as long as they were together. He thought about Mary, knowing he had left her behind, but, Mary knew what she was doing. She wouldn't have told him to go if she hadn't been being sincere. She knew. Just like everyone else.
He glanced over at Sherlock with a happy, satisfied smile, and squeezed his hand, causing the detective to look over at him. They shared a smile, a genuine, loving smile, and with that smile, it said everything. All five years of loving each other, desperately hoping the other didn't know, every case, every almost kiss, everything they ever did, and realizing now that it had come to this. Neither man knew exactly what was in store for them in Eastern Europe, but whatever it was, if they lived, if they died, they knew it would be alright.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, just two men against the world.
Then, the phone rang between them, and the moment was gone.