You and Me Till The End of Time

Waiting For The One To Rescue Us

Hello, loves.

I wrote this story because of a Johnlock prompt I saw on tumblr. It was about imagining your otp at the end of an apocalypse. Dancing together as the world outside ends and this is what I came up with.
I hope you all like it. Please vote and comment I live for your guys feedback.

Xoxo,
Molly

Edited 22.08.2018: Minor revisions.

John

Blood trickles from her mouth as she coughs and splutters. Every breath is wheezy. Blood in her lungs I think to himself. She doesn't have much time. Maybe a couple of minutes at the most.

I grasp her limp hand and bring it up to my lips, kissing it as tears prick at the corner of my eyes.

"Sherlock, she doesn't have much time." I say quietly knowing that Sherlock will hear me; he always hears me.

Sherlock turns to me with his eyes drawn down sadly as he walks slowly over to us. His gait is lacking the usual arrogant, confident stride. He looks tired. Tired of waiting and fighting and fearing. A small sheen of sweat coats his hairline. It is warm in here.

Sherlock grasps her other hand and bends down to brush her hair away from her profusely sweating face and kisses her forehead and pulling away. She gives a violent shudder, her eyes going wide as her mouth parts involuntarily. Blood gurgles in the back of her throat as she tries to breathe. Pain evident across her dying face. Sherlock grabs my hand, warmth radiating off of it as I  hold onto it with everything in me.

We watch as she makes cruel gasping noises, trying to get a breath but failing. The sounds escalate, getting worse with every feeble attempt before it reaches a grueling climax, and then the flat falls eerily quiet. Her fragile chest stops heaving, and the last of the dim light in her eyes flicker out.

I don't bother checking for a pulse. I know Mrs. Hudson is dead. I don't need a confirmation of that. I press her still warm hand against my lips, shaking as I pinch my eyes closed from the tears that threaten to fall. I open my eyes to see Sherlock's shaking hand close her eyes for the last time.

Mechanically we move in unison, I pick up Mrs. Hudson's body, cradling her in my arms and carry her downstairs to her flat as Sherlock begins to pick up the supplies we used to make her final moments as painless as possible. I lie Mrs. Hudson limp body gently on the floral duvet in her room. I cross her hands on her chest and kiss her forehead one last time in goodbye before covering her face in a white blanket.

I trudge up the flat feeling weak and decades older as Mycroft's promise echoes through my head.

I'll be back for all of you, I promise. Don't leave the flat.

That was a month ago, and still, we've heard nothing from Mycroft, and our food source depleted two days ago. The last word was the virus had killed 70% of the world's population. Sherlock had remained hopeful that his big brother will return for us, but from the hours following Mrs. Hudson's becoming ill that hopeful light in his eyes died.

I reach the flat to find Sherlock back on his perch looking out the window. His tall, languid frame silhouetted by the setting sun.

"He's not coming." Sherlock says bleakly, taking a deep breath feeing rasping inside him. He turns off his barely charged mobile that we turn on once a day for 15 minutes at 6:00 hoping a voicemail of rescue awaits us, but none ever is.

"We don't know that." I say grasping Sherlock's hand trying to comfort him in any way possible.

"No, John." Sherlock says, turning towards me and shaking his head sadly. "He's not coming. No one is coming. He was our only hope, and if he's not coming that means... that means..." Sherlock trails off in distress as he begins to hyperventilate, the rasping almost detectable.