The Last Thing I See

At the end of the world

Or the last thing I see

You are never coming home, never coming home

Never coming home, never coming home

And all the things that you never ever told me

And all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me

Never coming home, never coming home

-My Chemical Romance, The Ghost of You

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Smoke, thick as a cloth, smothers everything. It reaches its acrid fingers down our throats, tearing at the flesh, suffocating us. There's barely enough light to cut through it. It shines onto his face intermittently, lighting up his eyes, his lips. Even in the dim light of smoke and flames, I know that face better than my own. 

The building shakes around us, making dust and rubble sift down around us like a deadly rain. The long, pale fingers I know so well come up to cradle the fire-lit face. The thin, coat-clad shoulders shake. For perhaps the first time, the unbreakable man is breaking.

Machine. Stone man. Monster. Best friend. Best man. Sherlock.

The light catches on the tears on his cheeks. The first real tears I've seen him cry.

And me? I'm too shocked for tears. Too stunned that this is it; the end of the great duo that is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. There's nothing fake about it this time. No turning back. Nothing and no one can save us now. The walls have caved in all around us, and everything is in flames. The curtain is closing on our story.

"John..." His voice is raspy and shaking from the smoke and tears, but when his eyes meet mine, his gaze is unwavering.

"Sherlock..." My voice claws at my throat on its way up, stinging like the devil. His name is the only word I can manage.

"God, John..." His voice breaks, and those ever-changing eyes of his squeeze shut against a fresh wave of tears. The trembling hands clench into fists against his cheeks. "I'm so-- I'm so, so sorry... this is my fault... all my fault..."

The pain so deeply imbedded into his words is what finally sends me over the edge. Tears begin to fall in a thick torrent down my cheeks, dripping off my chin and evaporating before they even hit the steaming ground. Impulsively, my hands grab onto his, entwining our fingers and pulling his fists away from his skin. Gently, I rest my forehead against his. His skin beneath mine is feverishly warm, but by far the most comforting thing I've ever felt in my life.

This man. This one, incredible man has pulled me away from the brink of death more times than I can count. He is my rock; my anchor in a stormy sea. How ironic that we're about to die together when all we've ever done is keep each other alive. 

Still, there's no one I would rather die next to.

"Sherlock..." I murmur, "Stop." He shakes his head, his warm forehead rocking against mine.

"John, this is my fault, you can't possibly--"

"Stop," I cut him off, "Sherlock... Sherlock. Stop. Look at me. Look at me." My hands press gently against his cheeks, our fingers still clasped together. We're holding onto each other for dear life, because we have no other choice. 

Tears shine in his eyes as they raise to meet mine. I've been to war, I've been through hell and back. Never have I seen a man look so broken. So lost and unsure. It breaks my heart to see him like this.

Almost as soon as his eyes meet mine, they flit back down again. So I do the only thing my panicked brain can think to do. I tilt my chin forward and press my lips against his.

The skin is soft and a little chapped, and you'd think that I would know everything there is to know about his lips, from the sheer amount of years I've watched them. I know the way they look, the way they turn down at the corners when he thinks I'm not looking, the way they look when he genuinely smiles. What I didn't know was how they feel moving against mine. How they taste. How I can feel his breath against my mouth. Or how much I've wanted this.

"Look at me," I whisper, my breath mingling with his. 

"Why? It won't change anything..." he replies, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. Soft enough that it's almost hard to hear over the ever-growing roar of the flames around us. 

My fingers tangle in his dark curls, weaving themselves into the locks dusted with ash. My lips brush against his as I speak.

"Because... I want you to be the last thing I see."

He finally raises his eyes, tears shining brightly in the corners. The building shakes violently, but his eyes stay on mine.

"John... I love you," he whispers. I hold his hands more tightly.

"I love you too." Our lips touch in a brief kiss, but the building trembles again, forcing us apart. The rumbling of the flames gets louder and louder, and the heat gets even more unbearable. This is the end. We both know it.

His every-color eyes are the last thing I see before the entire building explodes around us, and I know nothing but pain and horrible, fiery heat. 

And then I know nothing at all.