Goodbyes

The rain was pouring outside, streaking the windows of the small house. A young woman was sitting on an ordinary two sitter cream coloured sofa, her jean clad legs curled up beneath her as she looked across the wooden coffee table. The table top was covered with newspapers; each one featuring the same headline with only minor differences in wording. It made her ill to see them, knowing how wrong they were, how they had all fallen completely under James Moriarty's spell.

Sherlock Holmes, the famous sleuth, was dead, committing suicide after it became clear that the entire world was about to find out that he was a fraud, but not only was that his only crime, he had also murdered Rachel Brook, an actress that Holmes had hired to make his story even more elaborate. Rachel had been made out to be another detective, just like Holmes, and the two had worked together for over eighteen months with many speculating there was more than just friendship between them. Holmes had apparently killed her when she had tried to make a run for it, cutting the breaks on her car and causing her to crash into a lake, drowning to death. No body had been recovered.

The woman scoffed bitterly as she ran her eyes over the newspapers, going so far as to grab one of them that had the headline, 'Homicidal Detective Proved to Be Fraud,' and angrily pulling the front page off, violently tearing the paper into shreds. She didn't feel much better after doing it, actually she felt slightly childish, but she just couldn't stand looking at it any longer. She sighed heavily and began collecting up all the papers, including the strips of paper, and carrying them all through the archway that lead into the small kitchen, tossing it all onto the kitchen's white laminate bench top to be dealt with later.

A loud knock sounded from the front door, and she paused to cast the microwaves clock a quick look. Right on time, not that she expected anything less. She made her way back through the livening room and over to the door that led out into the small entrance, which consistent of a wooden staircase with a red carpet runner and a large canvas print that hung on the white wall by the door of a large flower. It wasn't her taste, but it was only temporary. She crossed to the door and pulled it open to find a tall, very wet man standing on the doorstep, his head covered by a black hoddie. She broke into a smile and opened the door wider, "Hello, Sherlock".

Sherlock stepped into the tiny space, closing the door behind him before shaking back the hoddie, his wet curls plastid to his face as he returned her smile, "Amelia".

"Pleasant day for it," she remarked sarcastically, running her eyes over his wet form.

He glanced down at himself, "I don't suppose you have a towel?"

She smiled broadly, "Of course. Come on," she edged past him, careful to try not to get wet by brushing against him in the small space, but it was tricky. The entrance really wasn't built for two, let alone two people both above average height of 5'8 and Sherlock's 6'3 build. She led him back into the living room and walked across to where she had set up a small clothes drying rack in front of the heater, grabbing a couple of white towels that she already had hanging on it, "Take your hoddie off so it can dry," she told him, turning around to pass him the towels.

He didn't say a word as he pulled the hoddie off, revealing the dark blue shirt beneath and handed the jacket to Amelia to drape over the drying rack while he used the towel to dry his hair, causing it to stick up all over the place.

Amelia laughed, catching sight of him as she turned back to face, "Here, let me," she stepped closer to him and reached up to try and help tame his hair as he ducked his head slightly to help her reach better, since she wasn't wearing any shoes. She was slightly surprised that he was actually being compliant; he seemed a little out of character for him to even allow someone to touch him like this, "There," she said after a moment, once his hair resembled his usual look, "All done".

Sherlock straightened himself back up to his proper height, his eyes searching her face for a moment, "You look tired," he commented.

"If that's your way of thanking me, then no problem," she said lightly, really not expecting anything of the sort as she moved around him and weaved past the coffee table to take a seat back on the sofa. She tucked her legs back beneath her, trying hard not to think too deeply about how soft his hair was, even when soaking wet.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, watching her, "You're avoiding the subject," he noted, and she sighed very slightly, "It's not the first time you've had issues sleeping, though you're usually more candid about talking about it, which means…"

"That perhaps I don't wish to dwell on it," Amelia cut in, her voice still light, but there was a slight edge of warning in her face. She sighed, running a hand through her loose, wavy hair, "James abducted me and held me hostage for twelve hours," she reminded him, her voice growing harder, "Then, he had me drugged and put into a car that had the breaks cut, had a hacker get into the car's computer, and then had it drive off into a lake for me to drown to death just so that you could be blamed for my murder and tying up me as a loose end," she raised her eyebrows at him, "Why wouldn't I have trouble sleeping after that, Holmes?"

"I'm sorry".

She blinked, not expecting to hear that, not at all. She stared back at him and was almost just as shocked to see that he was being completely serious. There wasn't any trace of lie in his face or body language, and even though he was probably one of the best liars she had come across throughout her entire career, she had known him long enough by now to tell, "Why are you apologising?" she asked once the shock had passed, confused.

Sherlock wrapped the towel around his shoulders, while draping the second over the seat of the sofa beside Amelia before he sat down, yet another act that surprised her. He was acting very strange, out of character, even, "Mycroft assured me that the extraction plan would be initiated before you went into the water," he told her, a touch of anger in his expression.

"I know. I was there when we came up with the plan".

That had been one of her brother's biggest mistakes, assuming that she would stay silent, just like she always had, but she hadn't, not this time. On the very day that she had met James in the café and he had threatened to kill the people she cared about unless she kept silent and agreed to follow the text that would lead her to being abducted in the first place, she had very carefully told Sherlock about what had happened. She had made a promise to herself not to keep anymore secrets from Sherlock or John, sadly; in this case, she had been forced to leave John out of it, but at least she had had Sherlock on her side.

Together, with Mycroft, they had carefully began to put a plan into place. It had complicated matters that they hadn't known what James's end game would be, so they had been forced to put a very discreet surveillance team on her for the past several months to insure that they would know the moment anything did happen. She had always suspected that James would kill her by water in some way; a bullet was too easy and didn't have enough flare to it. A knife, again, to common. But water had always been a presser point for her ever since she had been ten, James would have found it amusing that she would die by it. She knew her brother, perhaps, not in many of the ways that had mattered throughout this entire game, but she did know how he thought when it came to her. she had been his very first distraction as children before he had grown bored and moved on to other things, she knew very well that he would want to use her death in some way to bring down Sherlock and as a way to tie up loose ends.

"It hardly matters now," Amelia went on, sighing again, "I knew the risks, I'm just grateful to still be alive at this point, and that everything went smoothly…" she trailed off, her eyes growing distant as something occurred to her, "Almost smoothly," she murmured.

It wasn't hard to deduce just what she was thinking of, "Your brother," he nodded, watching her reaction closely. She closed her eyes briefly, and for one worrisome moment Sherlock feared he might actually have to try and comfort her without John being there to tell him to pat her back while he made all the right shushing noises that crying people seemed to like. How was he supposed to handle a crying woman? Let alone Amelia? Thankfully, when she opened her eyes again they were dry and she didn't seem close to tears, just sad.

"He wasn't always horrible," she said softly, the corner of her mouth twitching, "There were times when I got to feel what it might be like to actually have a brother, even if those moments were very rare and never lasted more than a day," she looked up into his face, a proper smile crossing her face now, but even still it was twinged with sadness, "I'll never be able to forgive his memory for what he's done, but he was still my brother and I did love him. I don't suppose you could understand that?"

"No," he admitted, not about to pretend as if he could, even if he believed himself capable of feeling such a thing as 'love' for anything, "But…" he hesitated slightly, sensing that Amelia was seeking some sort of reassurance from him, and he supposed that it wouldn't cause any harm to try and indulge her for the moment. Hopefully, it wouldn't end up causing her to break down into tears, "We all have difficult siblings and we can't choose our family".

Much to his horror, her eyes filled with tears and she grabbed his hand so suddenly that he couldn't even try to move his hand if he had wanted to. She gripped it tightly, her slim fingers feeling cold against his skin as she wove them between his larger ones, "Thank you," she breathed, blinking back the tears as she smiled a watery smile at him, "I know you're not very comfortable with this sort of thing and I'm sorry, I feel like I'm forcing this entire emotional mess that I'm currently in onto you right now, but I am truly grateful for your attempts to help".

He shifted slightly in his seat, feeling very unsure of just what to do. It wasn't often that Amelia had ever cried in front of him before, he was used to seeing her annoyed or angry at him, not this tearful, emotional version of her that seemed to feel the need to touch him. It was very odd and he was completely lost without John there to diffuse Amelia's attention from him. He cleared his throat, trying to make his face into something less panicked then he imagined he probably looked, "Yes, well…" he began, trailing off, not knowing what to say.

Amelia tightened her grip on his hand, the tears fading, "You know, you don't fool me, Sherlock," she told him, and some of her usual twinkle appeared in her eyes that were only a little red rimmed now. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, curious, "You claim to be a sociopath, but you're not".

"Aren't I?" he asked, sounding amused now. He didn't even mind that she was still holding his hand; it just faded to the background as he listened to her.

"A true sociopath is incapable of forming emotional attachments, you, however, do have people that you have literally proven that you would die for if it meant that they lived. There's a difference between suppressing your emotions and not feeling any, Holmes, and you certainly do have feelings," her smile turned into a grin and she leaned closer to him, "I've seen them".

"That psychology degree has been wasted on all these years of detective work, Amelia".

She laughed and she was faintly surprised when he joined in, "Admit it, Holmes," she grinned at him, lightly hitting his arm with her free hand, her eyes twinkling, "You have feelings, you care, you've just spent your life trying so damn hard not to that I think you've forgotten how to".

"Feelings and emotions get in the way," Sherlock replied, shrugging his shoulders lightly, "They get in the way of my work, cloud my logical reasoning and effect my ultimate ability to solve a case".

"Emotions aren't evil," Amelia argued, before pausing, her mouth twitching, "Well, sometimes they are, but they can also be helpful. Personally, I think I'm a better detective because I allow myself to feel, just imagine how amazing you could be if you let a few pesky emotions pop up every now and then".

"That's your place," he said, actually making it sound like a compliment, "You do the emotional deductions, I do the logical, and John picks up the pieces".

She smiled softly, "You make us sound like a very complimentary mix".

"Of course. How else would we have managed to get this far without picking up on each other's shortcomings?"

"You know, Sherlock, you really should show this side of you more often, I rather like it".

"I could say the same about you," Sherlock remarked, casting his eyes over her dark blue jeans, black socks, and pale blue jumper. She wasn't even wearing any makeup and her hair looked as if she had only brushed it and allowed it to dry naturally into waves. There wasn't a single designer label in sight; in fact she looked like a completely ordinary woman, though she was still wearing contact lenses. Personally, he thought that this simple look suited her better, she didn't need the designer clothing or jewellery to be impressive, she already was just simply due to who she was.

She shrugged slightly, giving him a pointed look, "We all wear our masks," she said quietly. She glanced down at the watch on his wrist and sighed heavily, "You have to leave, don't you?"

"Yes," he confirmed, not even glancing at his watch, not needing to.

She nodded and smiled sadly, looking back up to his face. She hesitated slightly, as if she was thinking very hard and fast about something, before she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his. He had seen it coming, had felt her heart rate begin to rise, but he hadn't made the slightest move to try and stop her and, instead, he found his eyes slipping shut as he felt her lips lightly pressing against his in a rather chaste kiss.

She was rather surprised to find that it was him who deepened the kiss as he brought his right hand up to rest on her waist and, feeling slightly braver by the gesture, she let go of his hand to bring her right hand up to tangle in his hair at the base of his neck. The kiss lasted only for a minute, but it still left them both rather breathless as Amelia was the one to pull away first, their faces still inches apart. She felt rather pleased with herself to see that she had managed to have an effect on Sherlock, his pupils were dilated and she could feel his pulse racing in his neck and there was a pinkish hue high in his pale cheeks.

"I couldn't let you go before doing that," she murmured, a smirk playing on her tingling lips, "That has been coming since Baskerville".

"You were the one who pulled away the first time," Sherlock reminded her, speaking just as softly, his hand still resting on her waist.

"We work together," she shrugged, "Romance and work relations never end well, and the past eighteen months of working with you has been the best of my life. I didn't want to ruin it," her smirk widened, "But, technically, we're no longer colleagues, it seemed a shame to let such a chance slip away. Think of it as my going away present".

"And you call me arrogant".

"Oh, Holmes, we're both terribly arrogant and at times even a little narcissistic. That's a part of our charm".

Sherlock's mouth twitched in amusement, "You are aware that this safe house has several cameras scattered throughout it," he pointed out, still having made no move to let go of her, "Mycroft will undoubtedly know of this".

"I know," Amelia grinned, not in the slightest bit concerned. She was well aware, in fact the only room in the entire house that didn't have a camera was the bathroom, "And I frankly don't care what your big brother has to say about it. A kiss between two consenting, none-attached adults is perfectly acceptable, and I doubt Mycroft will be very surprised, do you?"

"I don't think Mycroft is surprised by very much," he remarked, letting go of her waist.

She let her hand fall from his neck and shifted back slightly as she watched him stand, stepping back over to where his hoddie was still hanging over the drying rack. It was still damp, but he pulled it on anyway and, with a small sigh, Amelia also rose to her feet and began to walk him back to the front door. They paused as they reached it, looking at each other.

"I'm going to miss you, Holmes," she told him, suddenly feeling the urge to cry.

"I know".

She laughed, rolling her eyes fondly, "You could at least pretend to miss me, too".

He gave her a slightly annoyed look, "Must I really say it?"

"No," she shook her head, smiling softly, "Some things don't need to be said, this is one of them," she stood on tip-toe and reached up, pulling his hood back over his head before dropping her hands back to her side and letting herself stand normally again, "I don't suppose you can tell me where you're going?"

"No. It's better the less people who know".

Amelia nodded, not the slightest bit surprised by his response. She knew that it wasn't anything personal, it was just a part of security, just as she wouldn't be learning where she would be sent into hiding until the morning that she would be moved, "Well, where ever that might be," she began, feeling her eyes starting to water again, much to her embarrassment, "Just remember that you have friends who miss you and are thinking about you, and who very dearly can't wait to see you again".

Sherlock sighed and looked away from her, "Amelia…" he said in a slightly wary tone, clearly not feeling overly comfortable with how emotional she was getting.

"I know, I know, emotions aren't your area, but I can't help it. Just come back safely, okay?"

"Safe is boring".

"So is death," she retorted straight away, her eyes fixed on him, a very serious expression on her face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, finally looking back to her, "I'll do my best," he said dryly, only humouring her, "But this isn't goodbye," he continued, growing serious as he grabbed the doorhandle, pushing it open onto the still raining street. She gave him a puzzled look as he paused in the doorway to look back at her from beneath his hood, "We still have one last person to see".

And before she could even open her mouth, he had already spun back around and stepped out into the rain, shutting the door behind him.

…

It had taken weeks for John to even consider making the trip to the cemetery that Sherlock had been buried in. Amelia…or as the rest of the world was now calling her, Rachel Brook had had a small memorial service shortly after Sherlock's small funeral had been held. John hadn't been able to bring himself to go to it, knowing in his heart that it wasn't her, that it was a lie, that Amelia Wilson was real and that Moriarty had killed her. Still, no body had been found in the car that she had supposedly been in, so he still kept hope that she had managed to survive, somehow, that they both had somehow done the impossible and survived.

He watched as the city passed by the windows of the cab that he and Mrs Hudson were sitting in as they drove to the cemetery for the first time since Sherlock's burial, a bunch of flowers resting in Mrs Hudson's lap with a separate, single red rose amongst the lilies. Roses had been Amelia's favourite flower and red her favourite colour. It had been his idea to leave one at Sherlock's grave as their own little memorial to the woman that they had known, not the façade of Rachel Brook that the world now believed in.

The trip seemed to take no time at all, most of it spent in sober silence, and before long the cab was pulling up outside the front doors of a small stone church. They climbed out and began to make their way through the large graveyard that surrounded the church until they reached a black marble headstone that was sitting beneath the canopy of a large tree. There was no date of birth or death, no little picture or line from a poem, just simply his name: Sherlock Holmes. John couldn't help but think that it was exactly the type of thing that Sherlock would have wanted, something straight forward and to the point, with very little information about the man the stone belonged to.

Mrs Hudson stepped forward and placed the bunch of lilies in front of the stone, while she carefully placed the rose on top of the smooth surface of the headstone. She moved back to stand beside John, clasping her hands together as she looked back at the stone, "There's all the stuff, all the science equipment," she sighed sadly, "I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school," she looked across to John, who was still staring back at the headstone. She hesitated slightly, "Would you…?" she asked, trailing off.

John shook his head, his eyes still glued to the stone, "I can't go back to the flat again, not at the moment," he told her. She nodded sympathetically and took his arm, seeing how hard he was trying to keep his composer, "I'm angry," he admitted, taking a deep breath through his nose, looking down.

She pattered his arm comfortingly, "It's okay, John," she tried to console him, "There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel," she looked back across the headstone, "All the marks on my table, and the noise," she shook her head, "Firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Yeah," he nodded, lowering his head again, releasing another heavy breath.

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes," he muttered, closing his mouth tightly.

"And the fighting!" she continued, her voice breaking slightly as she began to get more and more worked up, "Drove me up the wall with all of their carrying-on!" she sniffed.

"Yeah, listen," John cut in, turning to her, "I'm…I'm not actually that angry, okay?"

"Sorry," she nodded, her voice soft, "Okay," she began to turn away, letting go of his arm, "I'll leave you alone to, erm…" her voice broke again and she briefly pressed her finger against her lips, "…you know," she sniffed tearfully and began walking back through the graveyard to where they had left the cab waiting for them in front of the church, crying quietly as she reached into her handbag for a tissue.

John looked back to the grave and took a deep breath, before glancing back behind him to Mrs Hudson's retreating figure, checking to make sure she was out of earshot. Once he was sure, he turned back to the grave, "Um…hmm," he hummed thoughtfully, trying to gather his thoughts to say what he needed to say, "You…you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm…there were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you…both of you this…" he shifted slightly, clearing his throat, "You were the best man and, er…woman, and the most human…human beings that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so…there," he released a shuddering breath and walked over to the headstone, resting his hand on top of it and the rose, "I was so alone, and I owe you both so much. Okay," he took a tearful breath, swallowing hard as he tried hard not to just completely break down. He turned and started to walk away, when he stopped and spun back around, "No, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing…one more miracle, Sherlock, Amelia, for me. Don't…be…" his voice broke, tears filling his eyes, "…dead. Would you do…" he gasped for breath, his voice tearful as he struggled to get the words out, "…Just for me, just stop it," he gestured to the grave and shook his head, "Stop this".

He sighed heavily and lowered his head, covering his eyes as he broke down, crying quietly to himself before he forced himself to wipe his tears away and straightened. He stared back down at the grave and gave it one final nod, before turning on his heel and walking away.

However, standing only a short distance away beneath a tree, half obscured from view by a large headstone, stood a curly dark haired man in a large coat while a slightly shorter woman with a pair of glasses on stood beside him, the pair watching as John walked back up through the graveyard. Sherlock and Amelia watched sadly as their friend tried so hard to stay strong, to keep his head held high and his tears from slipping down his face as he made his way back up to join Mrs Hudson.

"Until we meet again," Amelia murmured, watching him go.

And just as Amelia said, the next story will be called, 'Until We Meet Again,' so keep an eye out for that to be posted in the next few hours. So we've finally got a kiss! I said there would be one before the end of this story, but this doesn't mean that their together. It's going to be just a little bit longer before that happens, I'm afraid. I know that Sherlock was a bit out of character throughout this chapter, but that's how I intended it to be.

I would like to say a massive thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourite, and alerted this story and stuck with it throughout my usual long absence of updating it. The next story will be up soon, so stay tuned and thank you all again :)