sky within us

Sherlock steps off the edge of the building and loses himself.

There is only one goal now. Eliminate the last of Moriarty's web; finish this.

He kills someone, a bullet straight through the heart; he always knew that those autopsies would come in handy one day. Mercy is what he can give, even to these criminals. John wouldn't appreciate if he let them suffer.

Through it all, there is one thing clear in his mind: John.

Mycroft knows, and of course Mycroft knows, he's always known Sherlock better than anyone. They think on similar wave-lengths, even if not quite the same. He calls Sherlock on the burner phone, woefully archaic in technology. He says, "Come home."

He says, "Don't do this alone. You don't have to do this alone."

Sherlock throws the phone into the Thames out of spite. (He always works alone.)

Irene knows, too, which is a delightful surprise. Unpredictability is exciting, a change from being able to expect exactly what will happen next. She tracks him down in Russia, and takes him out drinking after she catches him slicing open an assassins throat. (She gets blood on the collar of her blouse and makes him promise to buy her a new one.)

They drink good vodka and Irene slips something into the fifth or sixth shot. Sherlock lets her; he doesn't trust her, but knows that she isn't out to kill him.

He stops thinking after that.

(He woke up in a motel room the next morning, the previous night too clear in his mind. Irene was sitting on the edge of the bed next to him with paracetemol and a glass of water.

The look that she gave him was pitying, and she brushed his hair out of his face with a gentle hand. "I hadn't thought that it went both ways for you two," she murmured, tilting her head curiously. "I thought that sociopaths weren't capable of compassion."

Sherlock smirked, pulled callous insincerity over his face like a mask. "We both know I'm not compassionate."

"Oh, sweetie." She leaned forward, pressed her forehead against his. "Do you really believe that?"

They go out and kill people together; Irene giving him leads where she can.

"That phone was never my protection," she tells him, once, "my protection was always knowledge."

He takes up smoking again. The patches don't seem to be working anymore, and sometimes he needs something to do with his hands to keep from jumping up and screaming.

It's comforting, familiar. The pull of rich, smooth smoke into his lungs, then out again in a stream of white like breath in winter air.

"I'm not sure how much longer you think that you can leave this," Irene says one day over cheap gas station coffee somewhere in Tennessee.

"There's still people left," Sherlock snaps back, and hunches into himself, pulling his cup closer. "I need to finish this."

"And then what do you do when the last Moriarty's web has been cleared away? Do you stay in hiding forever?" Irene's eyes are too knowing, sharp and calculating, and Sherlock was telling the truth when he said that he thought she was clever enough to figure it out.

"Then I go home. That's why I'm doing it, remember? So I can go home."

Irene frowns, and her fingers twitch like she wants to reach out and pet him like a cat. She says, softly, "John Watson will not wait for you forever."

Sherlock breathes out smoke, says, "I know."

a/n- feedback is, as always, much appreciated. thank you for reading.