The last chapter.

Enjoy.

And review.

~Mistro

P.S. I also switched to past tense because the present tense was killing my soul a little bit. I'm sorry if this upsets anyone.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

I stared up at the church like it is the darkest of night skies, trying to squeeze me in and chew me up without a second thought. Some say that even the darkest of skies hold stars, but not for weeks. My evenings were devoid of all light. As I tried to adjust to my surroundings, people brushed past me in a blur, whispering their regrets and confusion.

"How did he die so young?"

"I see members of the Scotland Yard have decided to come."

"Did you hear he was with a woman? How hard it must be for her…"

Bile and something like a rock bubbled up in my throat, but the feeling was familiar and so was swallowing it down. My hands shook as rainwater dripped from the edges of my umbrella, dampening my shoes and my shoulders. I was trying to stand up straight, but my whole soul felt as if it were weeping.

I hadn't spoken a word since we had left Mycroft's cabin in the Alps. John had tried maniacally to get me to eat more, talk more, sleep more. None of them were as easy as they had sounded. None of them were easy without Sherlock Holmes contributing to the other half of it.

Something warm pressed itself against the small of my back. My eyes darted to the side as the rest of my body remained frozen like the statues that tower above me. Nothing seemed to surprise me anymore. "Mary."

"Renadale." Her lips were pink, somehow unfitting for the dread of that afternoon. "Come inside, darling. You're going to catch a chill."

A chill? Sherlock Holmes tossed himself over a ledge and Mary was concerned that I would catch a chill? The image replayed itself in my head again. That look. The snow that fell on his hair like a blanket protecting him from the storm. His legs disappearing with his torso. A knife in my stomach.

Suddenly, I could feel myself struggling to breathe. My whole body began to collapse over itself as my hands reached for my throat. "Renadale!" Mary's scream overpowered the frantic sprint of my heartbeat. There is fear interlaced within her delicate wrinkles, but her emotions did not concern me. I was being torn in two.

"I-I can't…" Tears began to sting like the bite of a snake. Painful. Unbearable. Hot. How are they not finished? How do I have any left? "Mary, I … I cannot go in there."

"You must, surely…" Her words were not convincing. Even she knew that the pain in my heart might have buried me alongside him. "Renadale, you can sit with me. Your mother will understand. My hand is prepared for squeezing." I knew she was trying to make a joke, but not a single part of me shook with laughter.

"Is everything alright?" John's voice trickled in at my other side, his previously strong hands weak as they wrapped themselves around my upper arm. "Mary, is she alright? Come, come. Let's get you inside."

My feet stumbled up the broken church stairs as other kinds of 'stares' met my face, sides and back. Who is she? I presumed the people were thinking this question. I am Renadale Adkins, I thought to myself. The girl who wants to die.

There was no surprise that the church is cold upon entering. Five single candles were lit at the alter and I could see my mother waiting patiently for me near the front. Her face twisted in an unfamiliar fashion. Does she even recognize me? How gaunt am I? There was a window beside me, but it had been two weeks since I have seen my reflection.

I am not myself.

Once everyone was seated, the priest began to speak. How unfitting, I think. A priest at Sherlock Holmes's funeral? He would have hated the idea. My eyes briefly darted around the room as my other senses tried desperately to tune out where I was. A young woman with black hair sat near the back. I had never seen her in my life. Another man sitting in the opposite aisle was elderly, but with a modern elegance and style that struck me as strange. Have I met him before?

John did not sit with us. His place was at the furthermost corner of the room.

His nights had been just as black as mine. You could see their weariness in the circles beneath his eyes, so thick and dark it was as if they were carved out with knives. Simza entered at some point during the middle of the speech, but I did not seem to recognize her for nearly twenty seconds.

"Are you doing alright?" Mary squeezed my hand as her whisper intertwined with that of the booming voice of the priest. "You seem ill at ease."

"Fine," I muttered, though I could take my eyes off the other guests. A young boy sat across from me with finely brushed blonde hair and eyes so brown they looked like freshly polished leather. "Just fine."

And yet, how can one be fine when their other half is somewhere in the water? When the pull of a current and the battering of strong waves are suffocating their body even after death. When their soul is tied forever with the fate of a demon's, a notorious criminal who deserves what he got. And yet my other half did not deserve the same fate. He deserved gentleness, justice, and the woman who loves him.

"Stop."

The words fell from my mouth before I even realized I had uttered them. The priest knotted his brows together as if my interrupting has been a mark against me by God. Even my own mother looked confused, though she knows the hell that I am living in. There were so many things I wanted to say to these people.

"Who are you? How did you know him? If you knew him, you knew he would have laughed at all of this. A priest? A plaque? A church? How can we go on living like this? Even though he is dead, it as if you have forgotten what he was like while he was living. His soul doesn't fly into this room it flies into Baker Street, or my arms. This isn't what he would have wanted. This isn't who he was."

And yet I said nothing. The bile feeling came back up in my throat and a deep inhale was a miserable attempt to regain my posture and sense of awareness. That is when my own bawling occurred to me. I began to sob in front of everyone in that room: the people who I did not know, but seemed to know me. The gaze on everyone's face was so pitiful. Making me feel like a shattered China doll.

The misery did not linger as the sickness returned. My feet carried me to the door without a second thought. John's voice called after me, but all I could hear is the laughter that used to tinge his words, knowing that I may never hear it again. The rain pecking away at the ground as if searching for buried treasure underneath.

There is no treasure on this Earth. Return to the sky, rain. That is where heaven lies.

Before the doors swing behind me, the plaque wishes me goodbye. It reads:

In loving memory of Sherlock Holmes. 1854-1891. He played the game for the game's own sake.

But the game cheated. It was the game that played him.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Three days had passed. My movements were frozen. My voice was lost. A flicker of sunshine would greet me in the morning, hoping to stir me from my cave of darkness made by the depressing dome of my bed sheets. The radiant sun's plea grew as each day passed, her shine working more on the other residents of London. But I saw each ray a continuously heated dagger piercing my cold heart.

"Renadale, are you ever going to get out of there?" My mother's voice was like a repetitive drumbeat in my ears. Over the days, it became numb and mute and I taught myself how to focus on something else. Things changed on day four after the funeral. "John and Mary are leaving today."

A single eye lifted from the edge of the covers. Like a dragon awoken from a slumber, I could not find motivation to do even the most important tasks. "Send them my best wishes, will you?"

"Renadale Adkins. I did not raise a hermit as my daughter." The wooden panels of the wall beside me hid the view of my mother. However, her tone was far more stringent than I recognized. "These are your last two friends in this world and they are leaving you. If you do not go and see them off, then you are not my daughter."

Last two friends? I scoffed at my mother's scorn, but when thought on further, I noticed she was right. They were the only people left to my heart, excluding my mother.

The last two. Sherlock was gone. He wasn't coming back.

Just as the weeping was about to commence, the door shut gently. If it were a slam, my mother would be heated and acting without thought. The gentle close of the door proved she was genuine. Would she rid herself of me? Surely she knew that I was bedridden from a broken heart. Didn't she remember what that was like?

My memory traced back to my father's death in an attempt to recall my mother's reaction. I could remember years afterwards and how my mother's nerves had spiraled out of a doctor's control, but directly after my father's passing she had seemed strong. Gritted. Determined. Proud to raise a daughter just as well as if he were still there to help.

What was I thinking all of these years? My mother had been strong. She still was, though I failed to see it due to bad habit. My torso crawled out into the trickling sunlight, the stench of night sweats dripping from my aging nightgown.

John and Mary were leaving. They were my only connection to a real life: to happiness. And where had I been? John needed me at this time just as much as I needed him. And yet, I had shunned them and locked myself in memories and heartache. Refusing to come out. Refusing to heed the plea that Sherlock wrote so carefully and so beautifully in his final message to me.

I was not only disrespecting John, Mary and myself, but I was disobeying the wishes of my soulmate. I failed to save him. I failed to see through his plan. The least I could do was step outside and say goodbye to our mutual friend.

The prison had to be opened. I had to push the thought of Sherlock away from my mind, if only for a mere hour, and remind my only two friends of the affections I held for them. And beg them to write to me or threaten them with the idea that I might go mad.

Except it wasn't an idea. I had already fallen on the path of madness. My thoughts were quiet and empty for most of the day and night pulled me into memories that only made my tears fall as fast as the waterfall that took him.

The clothes in my dresser were washed and smelling much better than my current ones. I changed quickly and trudged down the steps with more determination in my soles than I had in weeks. A certain spring was still lacking from my step, however. When I made it to the bottom floor my feet halted in the threshold of the kitchen. My mother turned over her shoulder to offer me an amused grimace. "I'll have tea ready when you return."

There were so many things I wanted to tell her. About me. About Sherlock. Apologies. Teary confessions. There were so many hugs and kisses I longed to gather from her, but it was not the time. All I could manage was a nod.

"When I return," I muttered with a bitter smile. I thought a tear might have trickled at the edge of her eye, perhaps from sadness or relief that I was walking outdoors.

Or maybe she knew.

I was going to leave London and start a new life as Sherlock suggested. Try and become a new person. A better person. No one said I was a bad one, but I needed to give myself strength. It would be hard, but Sherlock had asked this specifically of me. And he hardly ever asked for anything.

I had to think about John at the moment and I pushed the idea of travel out of my mind. The sunlight hit me like a whip as I closed the door tightly behind me. My sweaty fingers lingered on the doorknob, finding it troublesome to let it loose. It was like every part of my body was weeping for the missed touch of Sherlock Holmes.

Can you see me? I thought. Can you see how I suffer? I began to walk down the street with no answer to my question beside the sound of a lonely violin trickling in from a nearby alley.

That sound. Why was the tune so familiar…?

Die Forelle. It was the sound Sherlock was tortured to, despite its elegant notes and lush stanzas.

The violinist was playing "Die Forelle". My feet stopped as if nailed to the cobblestones, thick and unmoving. Was it a sign? My eyes searched for the owner of the mysterious melody, but when I turned the music stopped. Were they hiding from my gaze? A shuffle in a nearby corner and then it was gone.

Silence.

I waited for a minute, hoping that another message would could. My only comfort was the continuous rays of the sun.

I continued on my way, though my shaking legs found it hard to move.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains. Any attempt at finding the bodies was absolutely hopeless. And so there, deep down in that dreadful cauldron, a swirling water sea of foam will lie for all time. A most dangerous criminal and the foremost champion of the law of their generation. I shall ever regard him as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known. The End.

"It's beautiful, John." Three words were all I could manage to utter as I read the freshly inked words of John's last page. "You wrote this all in less than a fortnight?"

John tried to smile, but it came out twisted and strained. "I had a lot on my mind. My therapist said it might help."

"Your… what?"

John gave a weary smile. "I may be a doctor, but there are some things I can't fix on my own." John was at least being more sensible than I. I hadn't been talking to anyone. Not even my best friend.

My fingers gently placed the paper upside down on top of the pile as I tried to focus on something else. It looked so perfect- a perfect square of memories- but with an ending that would crush even the saddest written book. I knew my words were too limited. I should have asked John if I could borrow the book and read the entire thing, offering my opinions and good memories. We both knew that neither of us had the strength.

"Has Mary read it?" I asked in an attempt to change the subject.

"Yes," John said quietly. "She says I should forget medicinal work and become a writer."

My lips turned upwards into what felt like a genuine smile, however small. "Perhaps you should. You have moved me, that is for certain."

John failed to pick up on my playful attitude. He closed the leather cover of his notebook and shoved it harshly into a nearby briefcase. "That is because you lived it beside me."

My efforts to get out of bed seemed for naught. John was beyond my help at this stage and even I felt unaffected by his presence. Our thoughts were the same and yet they were each our own. We could choose to suffer together or suffer in silence. The former seemed desirable, but the latter won out.

"I'm leaving London."

John's eyebrows came together in that familiar curious look. I almost beamed at seeming a remnant of his normal self. "Why would you do such a thing?"

Did he need to ask? "Sherlock asked me to. I have also decided that it would be best for me. Mentally. Physically." My shoulders rose lazily. "I need to escape. There is nothing here for me."

John nodded with understanding. "Yes, but what of your dear mother?"

"She will live." Again, a genuine smile. "I think she would prefer this situation. She is much stronger than I believed her to be."

"And so are you," John said firmly. "You are her daughter, after all."

A shiver of pride danced down my spine. I was Judith Adkins's daughter. There were people in London with the title of Prime Minister, Chancellor, Captain and even King. None of them were anything compared to the Adkins. I had a mother and a father worth dying thousands of lifetimes for.

John took one last look around his study. The chairs were neatly pressed, their red and white pattern almost smiling goodbye at the pair of us. It was empty, but there was a lingering presence in the room. As if a spirit of a good life was remaining there, reminding him that he was not going to forget Baker Street. This step was another chapter in his beautiful life that waited to be written.

Mary called to him from the front room. She and I had shared our tearful goodbyes, although we knew our paths would meet again and soon. She had been proud of my decision to leave London. "It will do you some good to get in touch with nature," she had said. "Go to the countryside. Smell the flowers. Walk the paths until your feet hurt, but make sure you take a sketch pad or a poetry book in case the beauty sucks you in and refuses to let you go." Her fingers lingered on my cheek affectionately after her speech.

She had gone to the coach. John had just finished his final goodbye and we hardly had any words to express our continued grief. Not only because of Sherlock, but because of the departure that was happening right before us. The tearing of both of our hearts. The three muskateers were no more. "Renadale…" He muttered with a trembling lip. It was hard not to mirror his misery. "Tell me you will see me."

I nodded, the words turning into a silent sob deep within my throat.

"I need you," John confessed. "You are my sister, Rena. You have to know…" He struggled for the right words. "You have to know that I would be lost without you."

That was enough to cut the barrier in my throat and let loose my sobs. My hands collapsed over my lips, trying to bury the pain that was audibly coming from my body. John's tears began to fall in unison with mine, though quieter and more reserved. "Go!" I said behind a pool of water. "She's waiting for you and there's n-no sense in hanging around foolish… naive girls!"

John's arms pulled me into him suddenly, the familiar beat of his heart an unforgettable comfort in my ears. "I love you, Renadale." His words stung even worse, making my cries louder while my heart simultaniously trembled. "I will always hold you close to my heart." It was ironic: how such kind words could still manage to kill someone's soul.

"Go on," I managed quietly. My vision was blurred behind salty rivers of misery. When they finally dried I found myself alone. Warmer than before. Sturdier than before. I could take hold of my surroundings and not entirely curse my being.

"Two Twenty One B Baker Street," I whispered incredulously into the empty room. Sunlight continued to shine in with her warm kisses planted across my cheeks. I glided over towards the window, letting it warm my skin. "I will miss you."

A pause.

"Renadale."

A voice. Familiar and heartbreaking. "Sherlock?" My voice came out in a gasp, but when I turned to face his voice, my angel was not there to greet me. There was nothing but two empty chairs waiting for their new owner. "Sherlock…" Again there was no answer.

I thought my heart would break without his presence. My fingers fluttered up to my heart and pressed it gently. There was a pumping inside of me. It was slow and uneasy, changing with my breaths and my tears. But it was life. It lingered within me and moved me. Moved my eyes. My limbs. My spirit.

My life was still on Earth. My life was still flowing, its unpainted canvas waiting for a brighter colored stroke than the dim grey and black it had been painting for weeks.

Red. Like the sunsets I would see in my countryside home.

Orange. Like the flowers I will smell to brighten my mornings.

Blue. Like the sky that will shroud me in her comfort.

Green. Like he eyes that will stare back at me every morning in the mirror, telling me things will be all right.

Yellow. Like the cat that I would ultimately like to have.

It was time to start a new painting. The world was my model and only I held the brush in my palm. This would not be a painting only for myself, but for the man that I loved incredulously. The man that I loved more than the breath and depth inside of my soul.

"Sherlock Holmes," I said with a mischievous smile. "It's time to start another game."