"So here we are."

How can I so love a man whose greatest deduction is to state the obvious? (Because he's so much more than that.)

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

To remember me. You will, won't you? Remember me?

"That the whole of it. If you're looking for baby names."

I'm not really conceited enough to think you'll name your child after me, but there's no point giving up the act now.

"No, we've had a scan and we're pretty sure it's a girl."

A girl. A girl. You're having a girl. I wonder if you ever dreamt of the day you'd have a daughter. I hope you did. I bet Mary did, before everything that happened to her, and even after.

"Oh. Okay."
"Yeah... yeah, I can't think of a single thing to say."
"No. Neither can I."

I lie far too much to you, John Watson. Far more than you deserve. But the truth is, there are so many things I wish to say to you that I simply can't choose. You understand that, don't you?

"The game is over."
"The game is never over John. But there may be some new players now."

You, and Mary, and your baby girl. She will be wonderful.

"It's okay."

Or at least it will be, one day.

"The east wind takes us all in the end."
"What's that?"
"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The east wind, this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. Seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth. That was generally me."

But what about this time? Am I the unworthy, or am I the wind?

"He was a rubbish big brother."

Not entirely true, but I can't be going and getting sentimental now that Mycroft is sending me to my inevitable death.

"So what about you then. Where are you actually going now?"

Oh John, you really don't want to know. Because if you know you'll scour papers that you don't read for news and peck out internet searches looking for patterns that may or may not exist. And it will only break you in the end.

"Oh some undercover work in Eastern Europe."
"For how long?"
"Six months my brother estimates. He's never wrong."

And by six months, I mean that's how long I'll survive. I do loathe when Mycroft is right at this sort of thing, so I shall endeavour to defy his expectations, but I fear...

"And then what?"
"Who knows."

Indeed. Who does know? I was only dead for a matter of seconds and never even made it out of my mind palace. Who knows...

"John, there's something... I should say. I meant to say always, and I never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."

No, I can't do that to him. There are only so many times you can patch a man back together with apologies and wounds healed with the other's blood. There are only so many tears you can cry for one person, only a finite amount of time that should be spent on suffering.
And I simply can't do that to him.
So I'll lie.

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

A smile. I knew you could do it John. (Some days it's smile or cry, and I have a clear preference for which I want to see on you.)

"It's not."
"It was worth a try."

I know you don't believe that's what I intended to say. And it's not. But it's for the best.

"We're not naming our daughter after you."

Would it remind you too much of the suffering I caused?

"I think it could work."

Probably not. It would be hard living with a reminder of the man who saved you, only to break you. Twice.

"To the very best of times John."

And they were. They were the best.
The very best.