Hopeless Wanderer | Tony Stark & Sherlock Holmes

Prologue

Life had used John Watson's face as a canvas. Wrinkles tickled his light grey eyes in which Sherlock Holmes had seen more of the world then he had ever managed to find in his own life. Watson's breathing was soft, an almost invisible movement beneath the sheets Holmes had draped over him the other day. He held tightly onto the weak hand of the doctor as he stared at the worn-down man.

Holmes remembered the countless adventures they had been on. Everything they had lived through still lived in their eyes. He still remembered the jittery feeling that had taken over him when they had moved in together, how it had always been him and Watson from that moment on.

So much had happened, so much, but it seemed he would soon be on his own again. The daylight that shone down on his beloved Watson could very well be his last. The doctor from the village would come no more and Mary Morston would soon arrive to regulate Watson's funeral and recover his ownings, because in reality Watson had been on his own for quite some time now.

"Oh, Holmes," Watson croaked softly, long-lived years audible in his speech. "Do not mourn me. You will find someone else." He smiled reluctantly, but sincerely. His old hand reached for Holmes's sleek face, a face that would stay young forever, that refused to age like the rest of the world.

The detective shook his head and his voice cracked when he spoke, "I don't want anybody else." He didn't hide the sadness form his voice. He carefully took Watson's hand and pressed it against his cheek. It was still warm, but some day that warmth would disappear and leave behind the coldness of death. He didn't mind showing his affection and simultaneously make it clear how much he hated their nearing farewell. It felt like forever ago when he had first pushed his distant personality aside and had committed himself to Watson. What use would it be to now try and appear stronger than he felt?

Carefully, Holmes lay Watson's hand down next to the man. He looked down on him in defeat. Watson had been very clear in his decision when he had discovered time wouldn't be able to get a grasp on his flat mate. They could share eternal life, Holmes had said. Watson had answered that he didn't want the eternal life, that he surely had seen the sorrow hidden in Sherlock's eyes. He had firmly stated that he wasn't afraid of death.

It had been difficult. Holmes had told himself he wouldn't get attached, that he would be a rational character in the society of the 19th century. He vowed that he would carry through with that, no matter what. But John Hamish Watson had not been taken into account when he had made those promises to himself.

And before he had realized it, they had fallen, for each other, into each other arms, and Sherlock had tried to deny it, but the love had clearly been present and all of a sudden quietly dropping off the face of the Earth had no longer been an option. He had gotten stuck in the life he had so carefully laid out for himself years before he had met John in a way that had left no room for turning back. And then it had happened; John had gone down on one knee in the safety of their London flat and had said, "But as of right now, I take you, Holmes, whether the world will grant us this whish or not, I will take you." It had been that moment that Holmes had realized that he had waited too long. They had laid far too often by the fireplace on the tiger skin he had take with him from another life, they had solved too many mysteries together that had caught the eye of the public, they had had breakfast together like lovers more often than not. It had been too late. He had fallen, had been caught really, and he had not had his mind set on leaving ever again.

"But Holmes," John whispered from his bed, a bed that Holmes had pushed underneath the window days ago because the doctor had longed to see the stars one last time. "Has this life been the most meaningful? Was I worth staying for?"

Holmes smiled. He played with the ring John had gifted him. "Of course, my friend. You were worth everything."

John's eyes dimmed a little, not because of sadness – they twinkled out of happiness and maybe a little bit out of proudness because he had been worthy of the attention of an immortal creature – but they dimmed anyway, because the life inside of him dimmed a little, dimmed because death would soon arrive. Holmes had seen it often enough to recognize her, and he knew it wouldn't take long before she would come for his doctor.

He pressed his forehead against his soulmate's. He breathed in John's scent with closed eyes – a scent that already seemed to be fading – recognized every little peculiarity that distinguished John's scent from all the other scents he had ever smelled. It was the hint of the Second Afghan War that still clung to the man's eyelashes and the slightly sterile smell that had descended from the operation rooms, it was the aroma of gunpowder and blood which Holmes had never fully been able to wash out of the man's clothes. But most of all, the doctor smelled like a home Holmes did not wish to leave behind.

"You were worth everything." He fell back in his chair and held on to John's hand as if his life depended on it.