John Watson sipped his morning cup of tea gratefully, reading a newspaper in his chair. It was a cold morning, and the burning liquid warmed his insides so wonderfully. He was loving every second of it, every second of being in the cold flat with Sherlock.

He loved Sherlock deeply. So deeply, in fact, that he was pretty sure he was not heterosexual. Of course, he had Mary, but was Mary what he really wanted? Or needed?

Mary wasn't the one that pulled him out of the fire. Mary wasn't the one who stopped a bomb detonating. Mary wasn't the one who he needed.

He loved Mary, to almost every extent. But he wasn't in love with her. That claim was to Sherlock, and Sherlock only.

He loved Sherlock Holmes.

Soon later, when he was just finishing the last story of the Telegraph, Sherlock emerged. He sat in his usual position. Legs crouched up, sitting on the chair with his feet, and his hands pressed together, resting at his lips and chin. He stared blankly into the distance, past John.

And John was ready.

"Tell me how you did it ..." He began, setting his tea aside.

Sherlock remained silent.

"Sherlock ..." John sighed. "I have a right to know."

Again, not a word.

"Sherlock!" He practically pleaded. "I want to know how you did it! How you managed to miraculously survive, how you managed to fulfil the last thing I asked you, because I need to know. I need to know that I'm never gonna lose you again. Sherlock, I'm ready. How did you do it?"

A small, soft, sad smile broke across the mans lips as he stared up at John with heartbreak.

"My dear Watson ..." He said softly. "I didn't."

And he vanished.