A/N: I'm baaacckkk...

I've missed you all. I felt the need to write angst after my last, (mostly) ridiculously fluffy story (or series of one-shots... whatever you wish to call it) which drained me. So. I tried filling some prompts I was left, but this story idea wouldn't leave me alone. That, and another idea, which I will also be publishing in a few minutes.

I'll post my typical ramble at the end of the next story. (For those of you who are new to my work, i write really ridiculously long author's notes, call them "Rainy's Rambles", and for some reason, people find them funny.)

But in the meantime- enjoy some angst.

Happy reading! (or not-so-happy, actually.)

WARNINGS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH

Disclaimer: Basically, nothing except the story is mine. Which is probably a good thing.

The damp air was just the icing on the cake, John thought.

He sat down on the sand, holding Sherlock's hand as he lowered himself gently into its slightly cool embrace. He breathed in the air around him, looking this foggy surroundings. A few seagulls shrieked overhead, and he listened to the sound of the ocean crashing onto the abandoned beach. He smelled the salty ocean breeze as it danced across his and Sherlock's skin, cooling to the touch.

All in all, not a bad place to die.

John looked over at Sherlock. He was already beginning to get sleepy. He simply smiled and stared at the man he loved, soaking in every last detail about him.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, interrupting the silence. John frowned as he took in his lover's troubled features.

"Not your fault," John mumbled, scooting closer to the man. "You did everything you could."

"John, I could've thought of something, I could have-"

"Sherlock- shh," he mumbled. He took another deep breath of the salty air. It'd been a long time since he'd been to a beach. Too long. And now he was going to die in one.

He found he didn't mind.

Sherlock did, however.

He fought desperately to maintain composure as he saw John slowly slipping away. This wasn't supposed to end like this. He was supposed to be the clever one, with all the answers, who saved the day in the end. He wasn't a hero, that was just who he was.

But he had failed, and John was paying the price.

"We had a good run," John mumbled, wrapping his arm around Sherlock and pulling him closer.

Sherlock couldn't help it- he laughed, a short, hoarse, chuckle despite himself. "Yes," he chuckled weakly, "I suppose we did."

"Come here," John muttered. Not wanting to argue, Sherlock scooted closer to John until John's head was on Sherlock's shoulder, and they were both staring up at the sky. Grey fog swirled above them. More seagulls shrieked.

Sherlock tried to pretend he couldn't hear John's increasingly laboured breathing. It didn't work.

John turned his head so that he faced Sherlock. Sherlock did the same.

"Sherlock," John whispered, trying to sound stronger than he felt. Then he remembered who he was speaking to, and gave up.

"Sherlock," he whispered again.

"What, John?" Sherlock was trying to keep the despair out of his voice. He didn't want John to leave him.

"I need to tell you some things." John hoped, prayed, that he could last enough to say all he needed to.

Sherlock wanted to scream. He nodded instead.

"I'm going to die." There was no emotion, no overly dramatic utterances. John was simply stating a fact. Sherlock shuddered.

"I... I need you to keep going." John shuddered, feeling his body begin to rebel against him. "I don't want any arguments. You're going to hurt. You're going to try and hurt yourself." John took another breath. Breathing was becoming more and more painful.

"I need you to keep taking cases. I need you to keep experimenting, and to drive Mrs. Hudson up the wall. I need you to eat, to sleep. I'm going to die, Sherlock, but you can't." John exhaled as he finished his speech. It had taken more effort than he had thought.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. He wanted to shout at John to fight it, to fight his death, to scream at him that he would do as he damn well pleased because John wasn't going to be there to stop him and goddammit, John, fight, just fight, please. But he couldn't, could he? John was dying. So instead he nodded his head, barely moving.

John sighed. That was the easy part. This one would be harder.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned to look at John again, eyes filled with sorrow and pain. For a brief second, John wanted to fight. That's who and what John Watson was. John fought, John won. John didn't give up.

Bur this was a fight doomed from the beginning, and John had already fought. Sherlock had helped John fight. John wouldn't, couldn't, fight anymore. He needed to tell Sherlock this, one last time. So he gathered up the last of his strength, and stared directly into Sherlock's beautiful eyes, which were as stormy and moody as the ocean next to them. He stared at him, gaze unwavering, and opened his mouth.

"Sherlock Holmes, there's a lot I want to say right now but can't." He laughed once, weakly, bitterly. "I may be your blogger, but you have a way with words that I never did." He let out another exhale. He was done fighting, but he needed to get this out. "So I need to say this to you one last time. Sherlock Holmes, it has been a privilege and an honour to know you, and I was happiest when you were in my life. I love you, and I am still amazed that you could love someone as ordinary as me, but I'm happy that you do."

Sherlock stopped John by placing one quick kiss to his forehead. He wasn't crying, not yet. He'd cried several times before, but they were all when both of their lives were in danger and he didn't have to be strong. He needed to be strong now. "John," he whispered, breath hitching slightly, "you idiot, you were never ordinary. You are everything I couldn't be, and..."

Sherlock Holmes was lost for words.

John felt a breath stutter and stall in his chest. His time was here. He looked one last time into Sherlock's eyes. "I love you," he whispered. He took one last shuddering breath, and let go.

He didn't breathe in again.

Sherlock put his head on John's chest and cried.

Lestrade was the one to discover the two men.

In retrospect, he should've figured something was wrong by the way Sherlock didn't raise himself from above John. Or how he didn't hear him approaching.

He wasn't expecting it when he reached the two men, only to discover Sherlock laying next to John, huddling around him protectively, looking up at the sky, as if he was someplace else.

Lestrade would have thought Sherlock was a corpse if he hadn't turned his head once he stepped too closely to him.

"John's dead," Sherlock whispered, and Lestrade shuddered. It wasn't just because of the horrible thing Sherlock had just uttered, but because of how he said it. No emotion, inflectionless, and his eyes were the same dead, dull grey they had been all those years ago when Lestrade had seen his body at the foot of St. Bart's hospital.

Lestrade checked for a pulse, knowing he wouldn't find one. He called for paramedics, knowing they wouldn't be able to do anything. He lifted the shaking detective away from the body, wrapped his coat around the man to protect him from the cool beach breeze, and sighed, bringing his fingers to the bridge if his nose like he had seen John do so many times. He couldn't cry. Not yet.

That was Sherlock's job.

Sherlock stared blankly out into the waves.

Only one body was removed from that beach, but two men died there that day.

A/N: Ah, hello, angst, my old friend. How I've missed you.

I am American. I wrote this in a single draft on my phone. Any mistakes or Americanisms are entirely my fault, and I apologize for them.

Please review. Please. I am begging shamelessly for you to review. Please.

Love, RainyDays-and-DayDreams