The announcement that the world was coming to an end was less of a shock than anyone might have suspected. The reaction certainly was, with the entire world more or less shrugging its collective shoulders and sighing.
Even Sherlock, when told by his brother, who of course knew, seeing as how he sort of ran the government (and he'd finally stopped denying it, because honestly, what was the point anymore) simply let the news roll off him, and decided that the experiment he was planning for the mould would now be pointless, seeing as how it would take him a full month.
According to top scientists (which did not include Sherlock, which he was rather peeved about) the end of the world was scheduled for the fifth of September, 6:15am GMT. Approximately.
With the date less than two weeks away, John feared for the state that the world would devolve into. He suspected that Sherlock would be thrilled, with the crime rate likely skyrocketing, and the police not sticking to such strict procedures and codes of conduct.
But the problem was, nothing really mattered.
Sure, he could solve cases, get people arrested, prove how clever he was, but in the end? Every single person on the planet would be dead shortly after. In fact, there wouldn't even be a planet left.
It was quite discouraging.
Sherlock still continued, solving puzzles and untangling webs of crime, and John was exhausted with his efforts.
"Why?" he asked, when there was only one week left. "What's the point?"
Sherlock simply looked at him, and John couldn't help but notice he seemed a bit exhausted too.
"Why not?" he countered. "Why does anyone do anything?"
"But there is going to be nothing left in a week. Before, there was a future, there was the promise of something else out there, a happy ending or something."
John was aware of how ridiculous he sounded, but it wasn't like Sherlock could mock him for long.
Sherlock ignored that statement in favour of actually answering his question. Perhaps the impending apocalypse had prompted him to get to the point, lest he not make it.
"I'm doing what I like best."
John frowned. "Really?"
Sherlock nodded. "Solving cases with you. Playing the violin. Annoying my brother. Listening to Mrs Hudson claim she's not my housekeeper."
"I'm not dear," she told him again, passing through on her way to the kitchen with the hoover.
John couldn't help the smile that crept up his face.
"This is it," he said with disbelief. "The end of the world is coming, and this is how you want to spend your time."
Sherlock tilted his head, examining John like he was a particularly fascinating crime scene. "Of course. It's what I spend my time doing anyway. Did it not occur to you that it was because it's what makes me happiest? And that I want to continue doing it as long as I can?"
Honestly, it really hadn't.
"No," he admitted.
Sherlock huffed. "That's the problem with all you people. You do jobs just for the sake of doing them, not because you enjoy them."
"That's not true," John protested. "I like helping people."
"Yes, but you didn't like working at the surgery," Sherlock pointed out.
"Not really," he conceded. "I never felt like I was actually helping anyone."
"You kept the job."
Sherlock smirked at him. "But you quit a week ago. Why?"
"Because the bloody world is going to end, and I don't want to spend my last two weeks doling out antibiotics for viruses."
"But you didn't quit this, this thing that we do together, even if it's not going to matter come the fifth."
John grimaced. "No."
"So you enjoy it," Sherlock concluded, in that smug way he did.
"Yeah," John sighed. "I guess I do."
Sherlock picked up his phone. "Text from Lestrade. They've found a body."
John smiled. "I'll put my shoes on."
Sherlock had just placed a pair of stolen handcuffs around their latest criminal's wrists when the world ended.
But they were happy.