A large cumulonimbus engulfed Heathrow Airport with its shadow.
John stood there, unblinking, simply staring at his best man- his best friend. He could simply not believe it. Sure, he'd killed a lot of people. Serving in the army had its disadvantages... even if, for the most part, John had been a docor. He'd shot that cabbie, hadn't he? Shame he couldn't include that in the post... He wouldn't deny it, no. But thanks to a consulting detective and a red shock blanket, he'd avoided the court case. After that, they went to a Chinese, as if nothing big had just happened. 'A Study in Pink,' he'd called that case. Of course, his 'flatmate' just had to comment on his capitalization for the word 'pink' in the title, and the necessity of that word. John had simply told him that the use of the adjective was necessary, seeing as Jenny (the dead woman) had been clad in a frankly alarming shade of pink.
Oh, the memories made tears spring to John's eyes, which settled their stormy gaze on the small private jet that was to take the world's only consulting detective into exile, on a six-month mission- a one-way ticket without a promising return. Deep inside, the doctor was fighting a losing battle against human nature. He was also battling the impulse to punch his friend in the face and to hug him at the same time.
An image of Magnussen's blood decorating the front porch of Appledore flashed through his mind. He pushed it away and focused on the man who stood, an irritating head higher, in front of him.
Sherlock's face was relaxed, an unreadable expression of beyond-calmness. His watery, light-blue eyes that usually reflected a childish and mischievous attitude seemed off-putting, somehow... as if something were slightly wrong about that gaze- it was like the vacant a piercing stare of an abandoned marionette. What was it that he saw within those azure irises? Regret? Most likely not, knowing Sherlock. Sadness? Anger? Annoyance, relief? It was impossible to tell.
From the airport runway, the pilot yelled over at them that they had five minutes left to say goodbye. John barely heard him- but his previous flat mate, of course, with his bloodhound-like senses, heard. "Well then." For once, it seemed to John as if words were failing Sherlock.
"Well What?" If only Sherlock were being the same bastard he had been in the bomb incident under Westminster Abbey. If only it were all a joke.
Sherlock cleared his throat, his expression unchanged, as if he were a block of painted alabaster, and someone had etched in that unnerving, calm look that only appeared on Sherlock's high-cheekboned face.
"It's a girl. We took the test two days ago," John continued, attempting at making conversation.
"I know."
"No you don't," John replied, and felt a sudden warmth spread through him.
"Now I do," Sherlock said, and John was somewhat relieved to see the detective's mouth curl up at the corners. Dr. Watson had nothing to say to that. "You see, it is simple grammar. Had I said, I knew, as opposed to I know, you would have correctly assumed that I didn't know beforehand, therefore implicating tha-"
"Sherlock, shut up." John was on the brink of laughing. It felt like this whole exile-for-six-moths drama was really just a joke.
Sherlock Holmes adjusted the scarf around his neck as a current of Londonian, autumn air passed through them. "Oh yes, and before I forget- Sherlock is actually a girl's name," he added, a familiar tone of fibbing smugness in his voice.
John snorted loudly. "Oh no. There is no way we are naming our daughter after you."
Sherlock chuckled, the skin around his face crinkling up like it did when he smiled broadly, then extended a hand. His countenance turned serious. John took the ofered hand and shook it- without a word- for none was needed. And that was that.
John stayed standing there as he watched the jet ascend into the sky. That could make a good blog post. Emptiness, he thought. What would it mean, though? How could he- put it into words? To go for six months or more, without seeing that sleuth? Without going on a case? Without playing cluedo? No more smiley faces on Mrs Hudson's walls, no more hearing Sherlock playing the violin in 221B Baker Street, no more heads in the fridge or eyeballs in tea. It would mean more visits to Ella's. Their last appointment, however, hadn't gone terribly well.
"I am so sorry, darling. I know how hard it must be for you." Mary lay a gentle hand on his arm. John didn't waste his breath trying to convince her he was alright, because in truth, he wasn't. Dr Watson did not respond. He just watched the jet grow smaller, the casket of metal that carried the second person he loved the most in the world.
A vibration in his pocket startled John out of his thoughts. He flipped open the mobile phone, the engraving of To Harry from Clara xxx still detectable under his fingers.
"Oh, the BASTARD." John muttered furiously, and he was unsure whether he ought to smile or not as he felt his heart flutter.
"Nᴇᴡ Mᴇssᴀɢᴇ 1:
Rᴏʙᴇʀᴛ Bʀᴏᴏᴋᴇ ɪs ʙᴀᴄᴋ. Bᴀᴋᴇʀ Sᴛ. Nᴏᴡ.
SH"
And John watched incredulously as the Jet turned around in mid-air and started its descent back on the runway of Heathrow airport.