CHAPTER ONE
Sherlock watched, a silent sentinel, standing between a static Mycroft and one of his innumerable, faceless minions, as the sleek black sedan moved across the tarmac to where they waited in front of the plane. As it approached and pulled to a stop, he was hit with a moments de ja vu. That stomach in the throat feeling as you fall; as he fell more than three years ago.
His fists clenched tightly against the small of his back at the recollection, fighting against that moment of terror he had had to overcome. All the planning in the world hadn't given him a 100% chance of success. Luck, loathe as he was to have depended on such a whimsy, had been on his side.
That no longer seemed the case at present.
Mary exited the car first and he noticed immediately her coat. Bright red. A signal? Overkill. It wasn't needed. Her victory was appallingly apparent in the swell of her belly, the shining smile on her face and the fact that Sherlock was to shortly board a plane to a very limited future.
Well done, you. It was all Sherlock could do to keep from pulling his hair from the roots in utter despair.
A victory, though? Really, Sherlock? Victory would indicate a competition. And, a competition would entail multiple participants. You were in this one all alone, Sherlock. Remember that.
But, then John emerged, coming around the car to join his wife as they both approached Sherlock. There was no smile
Sherlock welcomed them with a smile as if they are there to see him off on holiday.
"You'll look after him for me, won't you?" He teased, warm, familiar as he leaned into Mary's embrace, refusing to shudder with repulsion as he kissed her on the cheek in continued affection.
He must have been convincing in his performance as she teased back. "Don't worry. I'll keep him in trouble."
No, you won't. I made certain of that with a bullet to someone's brain.
"That's my girl." His smile is tipped with sadness, but there's nothing to be done about that. He is sad. Being forced to leave the one place he loves most, the job that was his life and the man...No. That's done now.
She turned away, back to John and Sherlock looked down, something indefinable on his face. Regret. Jealousy. He hates the thought of leaving John with 'this' woman.
Mycroft remained a blank canvas at his side, obviously taking in every nuance in the exchange. He must be mortified by all this sentiment, but thankfully keeps his observations to himself.
With a nod, John smiled at Sherlock as Mary took her place at his side.
Her place.
Her place. It should be mine...
No.
As the weight of the inevitable, of goodbye, again, pressed down upon him, Sherlock turned to Mycroft, his voice pitched so that John may not hear. "Since this is likely the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?"
Mycroft raises his brow in surprise? Confusion? Sherlock imagines his brother's inner dialogue, confounded by Sherlock's insistence to...care. He had warned him not to get involved, the dangerous disadvantage, but Sherlock had been doomed from that first meeting at St. Bart's.
Resigned and possibly out of sentiment of his own, Mycroft nodded to the man with him, obviously giving his consent to give them time alone.
Sherlock hid his surprise as Mary moved away with the two men without influence. She had nothing to lose, after all.
When the three are far enough to offer a semblance of privacy, Sherlock turned to John who was standing at parade rest, his default stance in the face of nervousness and seriousness. He knew Sherlock was aware of that, there was no hiding anything from Sherlock Holmes, after all, so he nodded to Sherlock again, all military stoicism intact.
A tight smile graced John's small mouth, and he nodded again, as is his wont to do, "So here we are." He cleared his throat, a tell Sherlock had learned had a myriad of meanings. The detective won't infer what it might mean in this context.
John took a few steps closer to Sherlock, who stood in mirror image to John; back stiff with hands clasped behind his back. Sherlock's fists clamp tightly together to physically restrain himself.
To keep from reaching for something he could never have.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." His deep voice announced without hesitation in firm but quiet authority. He can only hope John hears it for the revelation it is.
All of who Sherlock is, revealed to John. Given freely. He has given everything he has. All of it. His life. His future. He has laid himself bare to John Watson since his return. He is nothing but raw flesh to John now. Flayed open to the bone to the one person that will ever see him. Has ever seen him.
There will be no other.
"Sorry?" John tilts his head, the momentousness of Sherlock's reveal completely lost on him.
Oh, John.
"That's the whole of it, if you're looking for baby names." A quip. An incongruous tit for tat, but right in this moment. They always had the laughter, so many light-hearted moments (though inappropriate they may have been). But, it's also a throwback.
The Woman.
What had been the motivation for John to offer his name up like that? A name he so thoroughly hated and didn't share with anyone.
Had it been jealousy that caused John to toss his own name out there, putting it between Sherlock and Irene to remind Sherlock there was someone else there, too? Unnecessary, in the extreme.
Stupid, stupid. Why hadn't he paid attention? She had never meant anything more to him than a puzzle.
It was always John Watson.
John's smile was downcast. Was he thinking of that moment, too? Did he remember it the same? Was John possibly tucking his name, that last bit of him, away for safe-keeping?
Pull the other one, Sherlock.
John chuckled and it's music to Sherlock. A baroque symphony.
"No, we've had a scan, we're pretty sure it's a girl."
Ever more data Sherlock was unaware of. A scan. Of course. Sherlock didn't know this. Should he have known this? Why didn't he know this? Ah. Yes. He had been held in custody for the last few weeks, while the whole of the British government had plotted and schemed over the best way to dispose of his ilk. With the least public impact as possible, of course. Heaven forbid Sherlock Holmes be the cause of an English uprising. Imagine the non-conversation over the tea trolley then.
Apparently, life did not stop when Sherlock wasn't around.
John and Mary, now with irrefutable proof of three. A girl. In just a few short weeks there would be more of John Watson in the world. More of him than Sherlock will ever get to know. A tiny piece with John's fathomless blue eyes that will grow, nourished on the smiles and laughter that Sherlock covets.
His eyes are laser-focused on John. He will remember every second of these last moments with John if he has to delete every type of tobacco ash known to mankind, the decay rate of lung tissue in acid, the entire works of Bach to make room in his mind palace, then it will be done. Every twitch of eye, flutter of lash, curl of lip. Every last crease and crag, every last line that is graced and blessed to write itself across that golden skin. The flash of light that gets to play in the calm blue serenity of the only eyes he ever lost himself in. Every breath that serves to preserve the perfection that is John Watson.
He will remember.
"Oh, ok." Sherlock's lip curled in the least facsimile of a smile he could ever remember making and he turned away, looking across the airfield. At nothing.
He should be used to that by now. Had better get used to it. But, he doesn't want to, not again, Two years of endless nothing in his quest to end Moriarty's reign was more than enough. Nearly more than he could bear. Running to the far corners of the earth, places and people and cultures that did nothing but reinforce the gaps in his knowledge. Seeing so much and looking at everything but never finding what he yearned for:
John Watson.
Not fair. He doesn't want to be gone again. He doesn't want to disappear. The invisible man.
The moment between them is awkward again. Unknown, the way they were that first meeting at Baker Street. It's like reliving those long, painful days after his return from the 'fall'. How did this happen?
It shouldn't be like this, now that this is really goodbye. Final. The End.
John looked around at the nearly empty airfield, just a nervous gesture. Both are feeling the awkwardness of this drawn-out farewell but at a loss as to how to bridge the gap that yawns between them.
"Yeah." John was grasping for something, anything to fill the emptiness. "You know, actually, I can't think of a single thing to say."
Sherlock's brows draw together. "No. Neither can I." He lies.
There are too many things he wants to say.
Oh, John. Do you remember? I asked you once, our very first night together, what would you say, if you knew you were going to die? What would be your last words at that moment? John. I have everything I want to say to you. So much. Volumes. Libraries of words to fill you with. To praise. Adore. Lo...lovely things that I dream of saying. Have dreamed so long. Nothing but those words to keep me during those long years I was alone and gone from you.
I'm to be gone again. Never to return this time, John. I'm never coming back to you. To us. What? No. Not us. It was never us. But, I wanted it to be. Desperately.
Isn't it hideous?
But, I did ask you what you would say, and you knew already. You had done it. That fateful, hateful, blessed day under an unrelenting Afghan sun, bleeding out across the sand. You knew what to say. You said it. "Please, God, let me live."
There is another question, John. I could have asked it another time, looking down on you from that rooftop, just like now, but I can't. I won't. As before, you can't know this is the end. I'm never coming back, John. But, I would ask. I want to ask. It's a desperation bordering on pain.
And, fear. I fear an answer. Oh, I could work out the probabilities. The mathematical likelihood of hearing what I ache to hear (I am Mummy's son, after all). But the balance of probability...No. Best not.
Six months. I can delude myself for that long. Hell, I've done it for years now. Old hat to me.
But, oh, how I do wish to know the answer...
What would you say if you knew I was never coming back?
Sherlock takes a deep breath. Focus. No sense in all this now. He can do this. He will do this.
For John Watson, he will endure his own war, his own injury and face his own tragic loss, in order to keep all those things from touching John one more time on his behalf.
"The game is over." Resigned, John's mouth flattens into a pinched line. Yes, resignation. Sherlock refused to deduce more about John, not this time. He only wanted to take with him what he can truly see. He doesn't trust his deductions anymore, to be honest. Too many things have slipped past him for his comfort.
Sentiment, Sherlock. That sounded too much like Mycroft for Sherlock to deal with right now. Bad enough the bloody nosy git stood only feet away but he had to be in his head now, too?
"The game is never over, John. But, there may be some new players, now." Sherlock admits, nodding in deference to this fact. Not trivial. John should be aware of this, though. Just because Sherlock will be de...gone, doesn't mean John and Mary won't still have to watch their back.
Guilt by association. Live with that knowledge, Sherlock.
Sherlock lifted his head, looking out, past John shoulder. What does he see across that black, empty tarmac? The end. So close. "That's ok. The East Wind takes us all in the end."
He didn't really think he had said it out loud until John asks,"What's that?" John's brow creases even further, doesn't understand the reference. Another bit of John to commit to memory. Remember, Sherlock. Remember it all.
"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind is a terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path." Had a taste of that already, haven't you, Sherlock? He sniffs deeply, as if scenting for the change in the air to come. "It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth."
It was coming for him soon. Too soon. Not enough time. Never enough time. Because if anyone were ever unworthy it is Sherlock Holmes.
Never worth enough for John.
John.
Sherlock can't see his own face, but he knows what is written there. The sadness must be screaming from the depths of his eyes. It's what it feels like to him. The ache of loss is tearing him limb from limb. It is the salt to the already peeled flesh of his skin, burning its way into the soft meat beneath, eating away at it until there is nothing but bone. Cold and hard.. He's too tired to fight it and his only hope is that John is as oblivious as he always was and just doesn't see.
Don't observe, John. I know it goes against everything I tried to instill in you, just please, this once, don't. Don't see me.
"That was generally me." The truth of that statement is painful.
Unworthy. Unworthy. Unworthy.
"Nice." Is John's retort, because that's John, isn't it? It may not have always been the best relationship between them, but John always believed the best about Sherlock. Much to John's own detriment.
Sherlock shrugs it off. "He's a rubbish big brother."
That did it. That made John smile. He understood the Holmes brothers, that love/hate front they armored themselves with. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back, but he couldn't look at John.
"So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?"
Ah. Here it was. Cue all the awards, Sherlock was going to sell it.
"Ooh, some undercover work in eastern Europe." Easy peasy with a non-chalant sigh. It was just all so beneath him, wasn't it?
Sherlock raised his chin with haughtiness.
"For how long?"
"Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong." Damn him. Damn it all!
John!
Sherlock curls his lips in against his teeth, holding them closed, forcing them to remain quiet. Don't say it, Sherlock. What good will it do now? Don't look at him. You'll be gone soon, you can hold it together until then. Let him have this. Do this for him.
"And then what?" Oblivious. He doesn't know this is goodbye.
Sherlock chances to look at John. He believes Sherlock will be back to Baker Street. Maybe he even thinks he'll stop by between diaper changes and bottle feedings. Mary wouldn't mind John helping on the occasional case. It would be good for him. Give him that rush they all know he needs.
It's all fine.
"Who knows." Did his voice just catch? Sherlock is a good actor, but there are limits even he can reach. He'll be on the plane soon. This will be over soon.
Too soon.
John nods, taking a steady deep breath as he looks away. Sherlock wants to read more into the moment, to the movement, the motivation behind it but he quickly quells any deductive reasoning that wants to push its way into the conversation.
Maintain the status quo, Sherlock.
He's speaking before he even knows what he's saying. "John, there's something I should say," No. "I've meant to say always," Don't. John looks up at him, his mouth pinched into something indefinable. "And, I never have." Jesus! Sherlock, what are you doing? "Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." STOP IT! For God's sake, look at him! Look, Sherlock. If you do this...If you say anything to him, what will that solve? What will that do? To him? You are leaving! Gone. You are never coming back. To London. To Baker Street. To John. He is going to be here, living, working, raising a baby with a wife he loves...what good does telling him do?
Haven't you hurt him enough?
Sherlock's eyes focus on John. His mind coming back online and he sees John, stoic, strong, perfect John and finally hears the words that were bouncing around inside his head. Listens until they finally made sense and his resolve reasserts itself. And, he knows what to do. He knows what he has to do, to have the one thing of John he can take with him.
"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."
And, there it was. John's smile. Radiant and incandescent. His huff of a giggle filling up all the empty spaces inside Sherlock. That smile, burned so brightly. His mind palace was ablaze, its walls razed and every stud and beam and floorboard remade from the purity that was John's smile.
The only thing good Sherlock had ever done in his life coalesced in that wide, smile-split face. It made his own mouth want to mirror the image. And, he thought, if he could manage to match that smile their mouths would fit so perfectly together...He wondered what that smile would taste like...
Do not go there, Sherlock Holmes. Never there. You will be lost.
"It's not," John offers with a smile-soaked shake of his head.
"It was worth a try." Did you even try, though, Sherlock? So much time he wasted.
"We're not naming our daughter after you."
"Oh, I think it could work." He teases to make John laugh. If it's all he can have he will take it all.
They look at each other then, both sensing their time drawing to a close and Sherlock removes his glove, offering his hand to his best friend. An echo of that first handshake, on the sidewalk in front of 221B.
It's what people do, don't they? When they are meeting? Going away for a bit? Or, saying goodbye?
John considers the offer before slipping his own palm against Sherlock's.
"To the very best of times, John."
It had been. In spite of everything that they had endured, Sherlock knows that every moment he has spent in the presence of John Watson has been the best he has, or ever will know in his extremely limited future.
Years of crimes and tea and take-away. Arguments and laughs and crap telly. Quiet moments in their chairs by the fire. Body parts in the fridge. Complaints and adrenaline and the thrill of the chase pumping through their veins.
Sherlock has six months left to relive every moment.
So, if he holds onto John Watson's hand just a second longer than is appropriate and necessary, he is beyond caring. He relishes the warmth of that smaller hand in his. The rough texture of sure and deft fingers wrapped around his own. The handshake is a miniature version of the man it extends from. Firm. Solid. Capable in a strength that is cleverly disguised.
Sherlock squeezes minutely. A covert sign to his one and only best friend, that he knows John Watson and that he will never forget him.
With reluctance he prays to a god he certainly doesn't believe in that John doesn't notice and slips his hand away. Without a second thought, he turns from the man that means too much to him and enters the airplane.
No backward glance. No hint of reluctance.
A swift and clean break. It's all he can manage.
It was harder than jumping from the rooftop of a four story building.
More painful than a gunshot wound to the chest.