"I feel old," John studies his wrinkled hands and realizes that he wasn't just feeling old. He was old. The wrinkles that once weren't there were now very visible. When he closes his hands into a fist, it shakes. The strength it once had had disappeared. He wasn't as strong as he was before.
If Sherlock asked him to punch him - like he did at that time when they were after Irene Adler - he probably wouldn't hurt the consulting detective.
Sherlock looks at him from the other side of the sofa and says, "So?"
John shrugs and slouches a little on his seat, "I don't know. I can't... I'm not... capable anymore."
The doctor stares at his hands longer... they weren't John Watson's hands anymore, he thought to himself. The John Watson that was a soldier, the one who had a steady hand and a firm grip, they weren't the hands of a crackshot. They weren't the hands of the John Watson who can protect Sherlock Holmes from bad guys. They can't punch and grip and be steady anymore. They're just a pair of weak hands now.
He's not the John Watson... not the John Watson. He feels old, he feels weak, he feels more invalided than he was when he got shot.
He can't be reliable to Sherlock anymore - no, he's not really worried about being reliable (he can still make him tea and cook for him, can't he?), he's worried about not protecting Sherlock the way he did before.
Maybe he should find a new partner. Someone who's still strong. Sherlock should have done that a long time ago. He should have known this was going to happen.
"Too loud, John." Sherlock says.
John turns to him, "What's too loud?"
"You know what."
John glances at his hands again. Weak, old... and you know where 'weak and old' leads to.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Have you ever thought about... separating? Death? Dying?"
"Is this your way of breaking up with me? Bringing up your wrinkled hand and mentioning how old you feel? Because I'd rather you tell me the truth than talk shit."
There was a pause and it seemed to John like the world has stopped. Sherlock never spoke like that.
Sherlock exhales and closes his eyes, "You're John Watson. You are still the John Watson - I don't even know what that means, but you are. You are, John. You're not weak, you're not old. You can still protect me. You're -- what you're thinking right now is pointless. I am not going to find another partner. I can never find anyone like you. I can never find another John Watson, because there's only one John Watson in my life, and there will only be one John Watson in this eart. There will never be another. I can never imagine myself living with another human being who is not you. I can never imagine solving crimes with another human being who is not you. I cannot imagine myself living without you, so shut your mouth, shut your thoughts, don't think about that anymore and just... just stop it, okay?"
Sherlock's voice is shaking and so is his hands. His brows were knitted and he squeezed his eyes shut. He's not going to look at John... he decides not to.
John's heart was beating really fast - he didn't know if it was because he was nervous or guilty or because there was too much love in there and he could not stop them from overflowing at the moment.
"Sherlock..."
"Stop. Don't talk."
"Why?"
"Just shut up, John."
