Do you know that poem?” John asks him. “’Do not go gentle into that good night’?”
Sherlock closes his eyes, briefly. Imprints the image in front of him into his synapses: John, smiling. John, tender. John, old; John, young; John, in-between. John. Just that. John.
“Yes,” he says.
“’Rage, rage, against the dying of the light’?”
“I know it.”
John takes his hands between his own. The texture of his skin is pressed against Sherlock’s once more. For the last time. Calloused at the fingertips, soft in the middle. A metaphor, in that, Sherlock thinks. The wedding band that has been there so many times cold, but always clean, shining, and warmed by the both of them now.
“Let’s go gently,” John says.
— Teatrolley, The cosmology of you and me