His Last Vow (headcanon)

Moments after Sherlock is seated and the jet’s door shuts quietly behind Mycroft—no ceremony there—and the plane begins to lift off the ground, he collapses.

His face pressed into his hands, breathing ragged, muscles stiffening under the strain of superhuman effort for control. Between frantic breaths, he scoffs at his outburst—but there is none of his usual sharpness of self-criticism.

He sits like that for long moments, letting his heart slow down, then he slowly decompresses his hands from his face thinking—

John

“Can’t you see what’s going on?”

—an easily missed crack in his voice as he whispers to the loneliness around him.

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In another thousand lives.

A thousand times in a thousand lives you have been brought to me.
These are tangles in my heart that refuse to untie.
Your fingers, like soft moonbeam that hesitates
to illumine the darkness, never run through my hair.

I look for you in between pages of my notebook,
in the dried up lily stuck in them—old and withered.
I look for you in the scent of rain washed grass
and your scribbles on my notes from class.

I try to find you in postscripts and letters,
in dog-eared books and toffee wrappers and crumpled paper—all that remains of us.

I remember the way your lips moved when
you described how water felt,
running between your fingers,
and how my breath hitched when I thought of them in my hair.
I remember how your palms caught the sunlight
and your eyes twinkled like stars,
I remember the joy in your laugh
and your smile like the only diamonds I’d ever need.

A thousand times in a thousand lives you have been brought to me.
And once again must another thousand years begin.

I find you everywhere and in everything I lost you in. And I know, as sure as the weight of cold, as sure as night after day, that is all I’ll find of you in this life.