John ran down the hallway of the hospital, somehow knowing that Sherlock’s essence was ebbing away. He skidded to a halt, as his shoes slipped on the glassy surface of the lanoline tiles. “Damn, I will never get used to these saddle oxfords,” John swore as he struggled to remain upright. A figure in a white coat turned around and giggled as he watched John regain his balance.
“Why, John have I ever told you how adorable you look in that frock? I swear I could slit your throat right here. Can you see it John, your blood flowing down your amply endowed power blue sweater, all while Sherlock watched, helpless to save you?” Moriarty threw back his head and laughed. “Well, I guess I will have to be satisfied with watching you, watching Sherlock die. Life is good, isn’t it John? Oh, look how poor Sherlock struggles to breathe in that iron lung-his coffin.”
John felt as if he were going to faint as he looked through the observation window to where Sherlock lay strapped in that horrible contraption. He tapped on the window and smiled as Sherlock weakly turned his head to look in John’s direction. “Sherlock,” John mouthed as he struggled to keep Moriarty from seeing the tears that were forming in his eyes.
Moriarty clapped his hands together, “Oh my, this is going to be wonderful. Keep your eyes fixed on him. See how his face is turning gray and how he shivers? You’re a Doctor, how long would you say he has? Two maybe three minutes? Poor, poor John how you suffer, for you feel everything he does, don’t you? Well, say goodbye to Sherlock, Johnny, for I have won. Death will always be on my side. There is nothing more powerful.” Moriarty whispered.
John’s head snapped to attention as he looked Moriarty full in the face, “You’re wrong, there is something more powerful than death. There is love.” Without another word John shoved past Moriarty and entered Sherlock’s room.
Sherlock looked horrified as he whispered, “John, no, I’m contagious.”
John smiled at Sherlock and said softly, “My detective, my genius, my friend, my life.” He then looked back at Moriarty and kissed Sherlock on the lips. It was not a kiss of passion, or unfulfilled longing, for the kiss was not stolen; it was given freely and just like a prince kissing his princess, John’s lips lightly touched Sherlock’s. At first nothing happened, then Sherlock’s eyes widened as his head drooped to the side. “Noooooo,” John shouted just as everything blurred out of focus. Moriarty screamed in frustration as they both disappeared for he had forgotten that there was nothing more powerful in this world or the next as true love’s kiss.
John opened his eyes. “Where am I?” He thought as he looked around him. “I seem to be in a grass filled meadow,” John said softy as he sat up and felt the green leafy blades beneath him. Then he saw Sherlock curled up beside him. Sherlock was no longer a girl, but neither was he the Sherlock that John knew in London either, for the Sherlock that sat up and looked at him was a much younger Sherlock, an unscarred Sherlock.
“John?” Sherlock asked as he stared at John’s face, for it was a young face maybe eighteen or nineteen. John’s frown lines were gone, the puffy circles under his eyes were non-existent as well, and he looked peaceful for his eyes held none of the haunted look like they did in London.
“Sherlock, do you think we are dead?” John asked in a small voice.
Sherlock stood up and looked around at their surroundings; they appeared to be on grassy hill that overlooked a small train station. “Come on, let’s find out where we are,” Sherlock said as he held out a hand to help John up.
John took Sherlock’s hand and noticed that it was not cold and clammy with stress like it was in London, it was warm-vibrant. “Sherlock, do you think we’re in heaven?” John asked as he held tightly to Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock sighed, “John, I don’t believe in heaven and if by chance I am wrong, you and I would hardly merit the dubious distinction of such angelic bliss.”
John laughed, “Sherlock, it’s so good to…well you know…”
Sherlock smiled back and said, “Yes.”
As they made their way to the train platform, a woman stood waiting, and when she turned to look at Sherlock and John, he gasped, for it was the woman from a study in pink except she was alive and younger, much younger, her face fresh, clean, no lipstick, no eye shadow, no mascara to hide the pain behind her expression. She waved at Sherlock and John and then turned her attention to an oncoming train, its whistle shrill and clear as it chugged to a stop at the platform. Several passengers disembarked and faded away as they made their way to their destinations, only one remained, a small girl around five or six that ran towards the woman in pink shouting, “Mummy, Mummy.” The woman in pink bent down and gathered the girl in her arms, buried her face in the girl’s hair, and said, “Rachael, I’ve missed you.”
Sherlock and John looked at each other, but had no time for contemplation for in the distance they could heard a dog barking. The dog’s body quivered in excitement for like the woman in pink he had also been waiting for a long time, for the special someone that had been his world-his boy-Sherlock.
Sherlock stared at the dog that ran towards him and even before he could clearly make out his features Sherlock knew it was Redbeard, his childhood pet-his best friend. Before Sherlock knew it Redbeard was jumping on him, licking his face, as his hot dog biscuit breath filled Sherlock’s nostrils. “Redbeard,” Sherlock said as he tried unsuccessfully to keep Redbeard from knocking him down. Like a sack of potatoes Sherlock fell to the ground laughing as Redbeard pawed at his chest.
John smiled and thought that for the first time since he had known Sherlock that Sherlock must be wrong for they definitely appeared to be having an afterlife experience.
John looked down at Sherlock and asked, “Sherlock, where do you really think we are?” His question went unanswered for Sherlock was laughing so hard he had started to hiccup.
