When Sherlock tells John that perhaps they should leave the country for a while, the doctor's initial reaction is one of surprise and confusion. It is a quiet, relatively normal evening – relatively being the operative word, which means that there is a pot of stomach acid simmering on the stove, fingers in the freezer (actual human fingers, of course), and blood samples lined up like soldiers in a regiment in test tubes on the kitchen counter.
"What d'you mean,'go away'?" he asks dubiously, looking up from his laptop to eye the taller man, lips pursed slightly. "Like, on vacation?"
Sherlock pauses, and it's as if a thousand voices are clamouring for attention in his mind, shouting at him to stop, to go, to think, to act, to trust John, to keep him safe, to realise how things could play out if they went wrong, to rely on things going right, to never rely on chance, to ask Mycroft for help, but he could never ask Mycroft for help, and anyway what help could Mycroft be against things like this?
And so he simply nods and says, "Yes. Like a vacation."
John continues to gaze at him for a moment, and Sherlock feels himself stiffen involuntarily under his scrutiny. John's eyes are the only ones that could ever faze him, Sherlock knows; anyone else looking at him like that and he would stare right back unblinkingly, or stride off to do something more interesting. But John is different, because John knows Sherlock, and trusts Sherlock, and what's more, Sherlock trusts John. So he stays still and watches John, and John watches Sherlock, and one of John's eyebrows is slightly lower than the other as he thinks. Then, quite suddenly, his face breaks into a sunny smile that penetrates the dusky coolness of 221B, and Sherlock's stomach does a funny, uncomfortable sort of flip in his abdomen, because he knows that John, even with all his careful concentration and analysis, is missing information that he can't know, information that would wipe the smile off his face if he did.
"Okay," says John, and he's still smiling. "That sounds nice, Sherlock." And Sherlock smiles back.
Sherlock had crawled into their flat that morning through the window in John's room, dropping to the floor in the early hours when it was still dark outside and the streetlights cast their yellowish glow upon the streets. John had sat up in bed immediately, his senses honed from years of practise and necessity, and perceived his friend crouched in the shadows, angular features only just highlighted by the dim glow coming through the window (London is never really dark, after all, even at two in the morning). Sherlock had looked up at him, then raised a long hand in a gesture that clearly meant stay put, his eyes trained on John through the gloom. John had nodded infinitesimally, and watched in cautious silence as Sherlock remained still for a moment longer, hunched up in an almost predatory way near the foot of his bed, but looking up at the window now; then, very suddenly, he sprang up and pulled the blind down over the window, and then the curtains next, with an energy that seemed to almost rip them down from the window altogether. This done, he had turned around to face John, a carefully casual expression masking his face, but John could see a tenseness in his friend's shoulders and in the lines around his mouth that belied his ostensible composure.
When neither man made to say anything, Sherlock had finally broken the silence with a slightly ironic, "You may speak now, John."
"Okay," John's voice had been low and scratchy from sleep, but he had ploughed on, attempting to sound admonishing anyway, "why the hell did you just climb into my bedroom window? Sherlock? What's going on?"
Sherlock had scoffed and shrugged his shoulders, turning away from John to look back at the closed window. From his attitude, one would think that it was nothing; that he'd been bored, as he so often was, and had decided to climb in through John's window on a whim. But John noticed the way Sherlock didn't provide an immediate answer.
"It was necessary," the detective had finally said, still not facing John. "Coming in through the front had the potentiality of being dangerous."
John had frowned in the dark at Sherlock's back. Sherlock must have felt it, because he had finally turned back to the bed, eyes a bit softer now. "It's nothing, John. Just the usual occupational hazards."
"And I suppose you excuse your busted knuckles as the product of 'occupational hazard' as well, do you?" John had exclaimed in return, as he caught sight of Sherlock's right hand; it was smeared with blood, long digits quivering slightly.
Sherlock had looked down at the hand in question with an emotion akin to disdain. "This? Got shut in a door by mistake; nothing to worry about."
"At least let me clean and bandage it."
"Oh, very well," Sherlock had consented, and John had accordingly slid out of bed, pulling a jumper on over his rumpled pyjama shirt and leading Sherlock by his elbow into the bathroom, where he flipped the lid down over the toilet and sat Sherlock down before turning on the lights and hunting around for his medical supplies.
In that light, John had been able to see just how strung-out Sherlock looked; if possible, he was even thinner than he had been a month ago, and paler, with almost a sickly cast to his skin. Dark shadows bruised the area around his eyes. His eyes themselves were as alert as ever, but there was a sort of fire burning within them that John couldn't understand.
"I've upset you," Sherlock had stated calmly, eyes never leaving John as the doctor cleaned his wound with antiseptic wash. John couldn't deny it. "I did not intend to."
"It's all right, Sherlock," John had sighed, moving on to wrapping Sherlock's hand in a clean white bandage, noting that the contrast between the gauze of the dressing and Sherlock's own skin was less obvious than it should have been. "It's fine. It's just…well, you could be a little more careful sometimes, you know? Running around London without the slightest regard for your own safety…you'll get yourself killed one day."
Sherlock had laughed then; but John, who knew him better, had heard how the sound rang false and bitter in the too-bright room.
"I mean it, Sherlock," he had said, in an attempt to discover the truth behind this early-morning disturbance. "You need to keep yourself alive somehow."
"I'm planning to," Sherlock had sniffed, as if he was quite miffed that John could even doubt such a thing. "However, things do happen" – he made a vague wave of his hand, causing John to make a 'tch' of disapproval, as he was still bandaging it – "and I can't always prevent them from happening."
"I know."
"But I'm fine, now."
"I know."
"Thank you for this." John had finally released Sherlock's hand, deeming it adequately clean and bound, and Sherlock waved it again, to demonstrate what 'this' meant.
"It's no problem. It's what I do best."
Sherlock had tilted his head slightly to the left then, regarding John with more equanimity than John had seen from him all morning. "Oh, not quite. I wouldn't say that."
"Sorry, what?"
Sherlock had made a dismissive noise, standing to move out of the bathroom. "I need to go out again for a time; I'll be back before noon."
"What?"
"Just a brief excursion, have a few things to take care of. Oh, don't worry," Sherlock had added, turning around to look over his shoulder from where he stood in the dusk beyond the glow emanating from the bathroom lights, "it won't be any trouble. I only need to see a few people."
"What for?"
"What for? Well, a case, obviously."
"So you are in the middle of a case, then."
Sherlock had paused. "You could say it like that, yes."
"But you won't tell me what it's about?"
But Sherlock hadn't seemed to have heard him; he was already bounding back to John's room, saying something about it being necessary for him to leave through the window as well. By the time John caught up with him, he already had one leg through the window, fingers clutching either side of the windowpane.
"Don't leave the house. I may need you when I return." Sherlock had rattled off at top speed. "Tell Mrs Hudson not to leave, either, though then again the likelihood of her going anywhere today is relatively low. If anyone rings the doorbell, don't answer it. Keep the curtains pulled, and don't turn on more lights than you absolutely need to. I've got my mobile with me, but don't call me. If you absolutely must reach me, text, but I may not respond. Keep your mobile on you, though the chances of my contacting you are also low."
"Sherlock, what is going on? Why all this?"
"Don't raise your voice, either, John," Sherlock had frowned reprovingly. "Now, ta." And he had slipped over the edge of the window and out of sight. When John had surged to the window and strained his vision downwards, Sherlock had already reached the street and was slinking off like a creature of the shadows, black coat flapping behind him. John had stood and watched until Sherlock had disappeared in the dark.
A ding! had sounded from behind him, and John had crossed to his nightstand where his mobile phone lay, screen lit up with the recent text message: "CLOSE THE WINDOW! SH"
"All right, all right, Sherlock," John had muttered. "OK" he texted back, then accordingly crossed back to the window, pulled it shut, and drew the curtains. Then he had sat on the edge of the bed, holding his mobile, waiting to see if Sherlock would respond. He never did.
Eventually, John had crawled back under the covers, still wearing his jumper, because the open window had let in the night air and now it was chilly. He hadn't fallen back asleep until the cracks of early morning light were making their way through the edges of his curtains.
"So," John asks, "where in Switzerland are we going?"
Sherlock turns his head just enough to see John's reflection in the darkened window of their train car. "Meiringen."
There is a brief pause, quite possibly because the word means nothing to John. Then, "Why Switzerland, Sherlock?"
Sherlock shrugs. "I thought, nice place, good air, interesting terrain. Change of scenery, could be stimulating. We can walk a bit, if you'd like. Besides, I went to Switzerland once."
"Did you?"
"As a child."
"Oh. With your mum and dad and Mycroft, you mean?"
"No, just my mother." Another pause, during which John is doubtless waiting for Sherlock to elaborate, and Sherlock never does. His right hand is still bandaged from yesterday morning, and although his knuckles have doubtless healed sufficiently by now, he does not remove the gauze. He flexes the fingers on the wounded hand slightly as they lay in his lap, and John notices and changes topics.
"Is your hand feeling any better?"
"Quite recovered, I think," Sherlock replies evenly. And now he does turn around enough in his seat to see John properly. John meets his eyes and smiles, open and honest. Sherlock suddenly feels like his ribs have shrunken a few sizes too small, because his breath hitches imperceptibly and his heart seems to struggle to beat for a few moments.
"Good. That's good." John heaves a great sigh and leans back a bit in his seat, laying aside the crossword he had half-heartedly been attending to. "How much longer, d'you reckon?"
Without glancing at his watch, Sherlock answers, "Half an hour before Calais, and then we're on land. This train stops at Paris."
"Paris!" John sounds awed.
"No time to stop. From there, we take another train, this one to Bern."
"Ah. Well, then, Switzerland, at least. Do we stay in Bern?"
Suddenly, Sherlock slides across the seat until he is directly across from John. He leans forward, palms resting on John's knees. "John, tell me, do you trust me?"
Something flickers in John's eyes, and he nods, brow furrowed slightly. "Absolutely, Sherlock, I trust you."
There it is again, that tightening feeling in his chest. Sherlock pauses a moment until his breathing is normal again, then says, "Then we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now" – he withdraws his hands and straightens back up, and all that sudden, fierce energy seems to have vanished – "are you hungry? We could go to the dining car, if you like."
John pauses for a heartbeat – an agonising one, for Sherlock – then nods. "Yeah. I could do with some food. But why, are you going to eat too?"
"Oh, I could do with some tea." Sherlock stands, bending backward slightly to stretch. "Let's go, then."
At the Gare du Nord, they disembark and, at John's insistence, come outside for the short walk to the Gare de l'Est, from whence their train to Bern will depart. The Boulevard de Denain is tree-lined and quaint, and as they set off down the street, John closes his eyes and breathes in deeply.
"French air, that. I've got to say, Sherlock, this is nice."
"Is it?" Sherlock sounds uninterested, but John ploughs on ahead anyway.
"Yeah. It's lovely here. I mean, I know we're not staying, but it's worth coming back for, yeah? Maybe some other time, when we haven't got another train to catch."
Sherlock doesn't answer, only walks a bit faster, one end of his scarf blowing over his left shoulder as he walks into the slight headwind blustering up the boulevard. John thinks that, although Paris is very different from London (from what he's seen so far), a lot is similar, too, and Sherlock looks like he belongs in both places. It's as if he's been walking the streets of Paris his whole life. Sherlock had said once that he had French blood from his mother, but beyond that John doesn't know whether Sherlock's been here before, or how many times, or when, or why.
They turn left onto the Boulevard de Magenta and continue walking, John falling into step beside Sherlock's longer strides. He can't figure out what Sherlock's thinking – the taller man's gaze darts left and right, doubtless cataloguing every building, every person, every streetlamp. If he could, John knows he'd hear the whirring gears of Sherlock's brain, if he got close enough to those dark unruly curls.
For most of the time, they walk in silence, broken only by John pointing out a café here and a covered market there, and Sherlock's eyes flicker in the direction of John's pointing hand every time – proof that he is paying attention. It's not much, but it's something, and John feels just a little bit warmer in the snippy air, like the sun just got a little bit closer.
"What's that?" asks John some minutes later, as they near a large, Gothic-looking building, crouched at one side of a square at the junction between streets. "Looks like a cathedral or something."
"Not a cathedral, just a church," Sherlock says, and John notes that it's the first response he's gotten out of him for the majority of the walk. "The Église de Saint-Laurent; look, it says there."
"Oh. Wow. Must be – what, five hundred years old? Six hundred?"
"Gothic, certainly." Sherlock takes a step towards the church, and John follows suit, approaching the great building with a slight sense of awe. It's so old. There are old buildings in London, too, of course, and lots of them at that, but this – this is different, because this is from another world, too. This is from across an ocean. And yet, though the men who built it may have been so very unlike him, they weren't that vastly either different, either. They'd built the church with their own two hands. Hands just like his own, John thinks, as he lays one against the cool exterior of one of the walls. The building is stained and timeworn, and John feels, somehow, as if he's touching history. And while he's never been a particularly religious man, and though history never held more than a casual appeal to him, it's still special.
He turns his head to the side, prepared to comment over his shoulder to Sherlock, when he realises that Sherlock isn't there at all. He starts to worry for a moment, panic rising in his gut, until he sees the distinctive, lanky figure of his friend, crossing from across the square. He starts walking quickly in that direction, and he and Sherlock meet at the curb.
"Seriously, Sherlock, where the hell did you just disappear to? You were there, and then – you weren't." John squints up at Sherlock's face; the sun in the sky is behind the taller man's head, framing it with a glowing sort of halo. But then Sherlock takes another step forward, effectively blocking the sun from John's view, so John can see properly again.
"I got these," Sherlock offers by way of reply, gesturing slightly with his arms, and only then does John look at what Sherlock is holding in both hands.
"You got…crêpes?"
Sherlock nods.
John feels a squirming knot in his gut, spreading warmly up to his heart. "Oh. Oh. Sherlock, you – you shouldn't have done – that's – thank you." And he takes the proffered crêpe from Sherlock's outstretched hand, and bites into it. It's warm, pleasantly warm, and sweet, and John tastes something fruity. "What's in it?" he asks, chewing and swallowing.
"Fruit preserves. Strawberry; I thought you'd like it. It's strawberry jam you like, isn't it?" There's a slight furrow in Sherlock's brow, and John can't stop the grin from spreading across his face.
"Yeah, Sherlock, I love it. I really, really love it. Thank you." He waits until Sherlock smiles back, that special, slightly lopsided grin that only John ever gets to see, and then he asks, "What's in yours, then?"
"Oh," Sherlock says rather quickly, looking back down at his own crêpe, "Nutella."
"Really? Nutella?"
"Mmm. Why, want to try some?"
"Yeah, sure, if you don't mind."
"Not at all." Sherlock holds out his crêpe, and John rips off a bit of the edge and bites into it.
"Oh, Nutella's good."
"It's not half-bad," Sherlock agrees mildly.
"Want to try some of mine, too? It's only fair."
"Oh, no" Sherlock begins, "that's really not necessary." But John is frowning, and Sherlock looks at him for a long second, and then says, "Oh, all right, fine." And John, smiling now, tears off a bit of his own crêpe and hands it to Sherlock, who tentatively puts it in his mouth, chews, and swallows.
"Good. It's good."
"Good." John grins wider, and Sherlock grins back.
The remainder of the journey flashes by. From Paris, they go to Bern, and from Bern, Sherlock leads them on a smaller railway to Interlaken. They disembark at that station, carrying the few bags they have, and once they're outside Sherlock cranes his neck to look up at the sun.
"Say, John," he says, still squinting into the light, "what do you say to a little walking?"
"Fine, Sherlock. Why?"
"Because we're walking to Meiringen from here."
"Oh." John regards Sherlock for a second, most likely trying to assess what's going on next – an admirable attempt, but futile nonetheless, as Sherlock has very deliberately kept him in the dark about as much as possible. "And how far's that?"
"At least twenty-five kilometres. Possibly more."
"Oh." Again, John just looks at him, and Sherlock almost – almost – squirms under his earnest gaze. "Well, I s'pose being a soldier comes in handy occasionally. I can walk that."
"You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure." John turns away and picks up his bag. "Which way, Sherlock?"
It is amazing, how quick John is to trust him. Amazing how readily he places all his faith in a single man, amazing how blindly he will follow him. Would John follow him anywhere? Yes, says the voice in his head, yes, he would, because he cares. And Sherlock knows it's true, but he can't think that, not now. There's so much he could say, so much he almost wants to say, and yet -
"This way," he says instead, picking up his own things and turning his back on John to begin walking. He knows John will follow.
The footsteps behind him are far more reassuring than they should be.
Switzerland, John soon concludes, is absolutely and utterly, completely and breathtakingly beautiful.
There's something in the graceful slope of the mountains and valleys surrounding them that's almost surreal, dreamlike; the fatal beauty of the steep plunges and rugged cliffs strikes deeply and leaves a strong impression. The sun is shining above them through a thin veil of clouds and glances off the rock faces, slanting downwards like rays of light from some heaven on the other side of the sky. High above them, snow dusts the peaks where the sun is too cold to melt winter's vestiges, but around them, the air is warm with a snappy chill such as is only ever found in the mountains – the sun is warm and reassuring on their backs, the grass underfoot is green and soft, and the trees sway in a fine breeze.
It's a bit odd seeing Sherlock in surroundings like these. On the train to Interlaken, Sherlock had changed out of his customary black attire and coat and instead donned an anorak, jumper, and dark jeans. It's not something John's ever seen him in before, and now walking alongside him, it's almost as if he's accompanying a completely different man – almost, but not quite, because he still knows it's Sherlock, because it's always been Sherlock, and it'll never be anyone else. He's bare-headed in the sunlight – the tips of his curls appear auburn – striding easily over the uneven ground, all wiry strength and lithe balance. There's something in the set of his shoulders that John reads as tenseness, uneasiness, maybe even anxiety, but there's no way to ask Sherlock what he's feeling, because he never answers. Because he's Sherlock bloody Holmes, and he can never bear to be normal and admit when he's worried.
He is worried, though. John knows he is. He knows Sherlock well enough to find the hidden emotion in the darting glances the taller man sends behind them every so often, in the way he walks without speaking - and, as they achieve the apex of yet another hill and the sun lights Sherlock's pocket at just the right angle, when John recognises the outline and realises Sherlock is carrying his revolver. Something isn't right. Sherlock Holmes doesn't just leave the country. Sherlock Holmes doesn't just go on holiday. He's been bored plenty of times and been perfectly content (relatively speaking) to lounge about the flat and shoot the wall or raid the morgue for more unwanted body parts; travelling to Switzerland on the fly isn't at all on par with his usual behaviour.
But then Sherlock turns his head sideways and his pale gaze falls upon John, eyes made unbelievably intense by the sunlight. The ring around his iris has darkened relative to the area inside and his pupils have contracted in the brightness, and for a moment before the eye contact registers he regards John with such a faraway expression that he looks unearthly, ethereal. And John realises that it doesn't matter, that if Sherlock is worried then so is he, but he's not going to question anything because it's Sherlock Holmes, and he trusts Sherlock Holmes, and there's nothing more for it.
"All right, Sherlock?"
He nods, abstractedly. His anorak is partially unzipped, and the collar has fallen to the left, giving his shoulders a slightly lopsided appearance, as if he's standing contrapposto.
"About how far off are we?"
Sherlock comes back down to earth then from whatever he's been thinking about, blinking once to refocus his gaze on John. "A few hours. We should be there before nightfall."
"Okay. That's good."
"You hungry?"
The question takes John by surprise. "Sorry, what?"
"I said, are you hungry." Sherlock's expression is unreadable, but John sees something change in his eyes and in the set of his mouth.
"Oh. Not horribly, Sherlock, it's fine."
"I only ask," says Sherlock slowly, reaching into his bag with one hand, still with his eyes on John, "because I've got this" - he pulls out an apple and tosses it to John, who catches it out of automatic reflex, and reaches back in to pull out a sandwich – "in case."
John gapes at him for a moment. "Sherlock! How on earth do you get these things without me noticing?"
"Simple matters," replies Sherlock smugly, and now he is smiling. "You're never paying attention that much."
"I was a soldier!"
"And a good one, no doubt. Still, you miss the most obvious things."
"So when did you get these, then?" John takes the half of the sandwich that Sherlock hands him and bites into it. It's good.
"Paris."
"When?" John demands. It's too much.
"At the Gare de l'Est, when you were in queue to board the train."
"But you were in queue with me!"
"Or you thought I was. And I was, most of the time," Sherlock adds, "but I did get these, too."
"Can't take my eyes off you for a second without you vanishing off to somewhere," grumbles John, shaking his head. "Bloody fantastic friend I am. One of these days you'll wander off the edge of a cliff and I won't even notice."
Sherlock laughs. The sound echoes around them and John can't help but laugh, too, just because it sounds so nice. "I think you underestimate your own value, John."
John can't think of anything clever to say back to that. Coming from Sherlock, it's too honest to joke about. So he simply says, "Thank you," and Sherlock's smile in return is enough.
The sun has never felt so warm.
They check in at the small, local inn just as night is falling on the town of Meiringen . One room, two beds, and a view out the window that they're assured by the man who hands them the keys will be charming as soon as they see it in proper daylight.
Sherlock dumps his bag on one of the beds as they enter their room and watches John's back in the shadows as he closes the door behind them. "I imagine you must be tired."
John shrugs and purses his lips. "Not really. It's nice here."
"That it is."
"Why, you tired?"
Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise and sits on the bed beside his bag, pulling out his mobile to check for Wi-Fi. "Are you hungry? We could go and find something for dinner if you like."
"Yeah, that might be good."
"Okay." Sherlock is aware of John watching him, so after another moment he slips the phone back in his pocket and rises from the bed. "Let's go. There's probably a café open somewhere."
"Wait a second." John pulls out his own phone and glances down at the screen. "Sherlock, Mycroft texted me twice earlier today."
Sherlock glances away from the window and toward John. "When?"
"Ten-twenty, and again at eleven-thirty-seven. Why's he texting me now? You've got your phone with you, too."
"I told him to text you," mumbles Sherlock, reaching for John's phone. "What do they say?"
"Just usual Mycroft stuff – Sherlock, why did you tell him to text me?"
Sherlock looks down at the screen of John's mobile in lieu of answering him. Two messages from Mycroft from the last day show:
I trust you will inform me when you have arrived safely.
and
Have you arrived yet?
Sherlock deliberates over whether or not to send a reply, and finally decides to turn off the screen and hand the phone back to John. "We should hurry. If we're too late, most places will have closed."
"Okay, but Sherlock, really, why?"
"Why what?" says Sherlock distractedly, as if he's not paying attention. He can't answer John directly. He'd told Mycroft to reach him via John if contact was absolutely necessary, because John was more low-key and less likely to be bugged. But that's not the sort of thing he's about to tell John himself.
For his part, the smaller man seems to reconcile himself with the fact that Sherlock's not paying him enough mind to properly answer his question, and so he contents himself with following Sherlock out of the building and into the street. They walk in silence for a time; Sherlock is aware of John tilting his head upwards to look at the stars above them, more visible out in the mountains away from the light pollution of a big city. Sherlock remembers the time, long ago, when stars used to make him feel very small and helpless, a tiny little thing caught in a great whirling cycle of life and death and noise and sound. Ignorance breeds awe. With knowledge comes sense, and power. The universe still feels big, but not in the overwhelming and frightening way it used to; now the sense of hugeness is merely a scientific understanding, another fact of nature.
Still, as Sherlock glances upwards himself, he feels very small and helpless nonetheless.
"You okay, Sherlock?" sounds John's voice from somewhere near his right shoulder, and Sherlock looks down at him. "You look a bit…"
"What?" His voice comes out more demanding than he'd intended it to.
"Oh, I dunno, pensive. Distracted." John purses his lips as he joins Sherlock in gazing back upwards. "Beautiful, isn't it?" He's talking about the stars.
"It's just gas," scoffs Sherlock, but his voice is too soft to be harsh. "Gas, burning millions and billions of miles away. How is that beautiful?"
"Isn't it, though?" John laughs a little, low and husky, and his breath forms clouds in the night air. "Isn't that what makes it amazing?"
Sherlock tears his eyes away from the sky – and away from John – and continues walking. "Come on. If you want something to eat, you'll need to be faster than that."
John catches up with him in a few hurried paces, and they say nothing more.
He stands over John's bed before he goes to sleep that night, watching the even, steady rise and fall of the other man's chest. John's expression is peaceful, calm, worry lines smoothed over and made soft by the moonlight stealing in through the window, and Sherlock wonders, for a moment, whether he looks that untroubled in sleep, as well. Not recently, he knows; recently, he's been plagued by bad dreams. Foolish fantasies and nothing more, and he scorns himself for falling prey to things conjured by his imagination, but they keep him on edge nonetheless.
John turns over in his sleep and sighs, deeply, and Sherlock doesn't bother to stay his hand before it rises of its own accord to readjust the blankets from where they've fallen so they're once again up around John's shoulders. It's cold tonight. Sherlock sinks down onto his own bed, slowly so as not to make too much noise, and lays on his back for a moment above the blankets, fingers interlaced and resting on his abdomen. He closes his eyes, but sleep won't come.
He sits back up and sits cross-legged on the bed, abstractedly studying the play of light and shadow from the moonlight outside and the patterns it's sent sprawling over the floor and walls of their room. He doesn't know what time it is and he doesn't bother checking; time is irrelevant. It stretches on forever, and yet there is never enough.
He watches John in silence until sunrise.
They set out the next morning for a walk to hike up to Reichenbach Falls, just a relatively short distance on foot from Meiringen. The journey there is pleasant, and even Sherlock seems to be at ease, talking more freely than the day before and even favouring John with the occasional smile. He's wearing much the same thing as yesterday, and already John's used to it. After all, it's still Sherlock – the man could be wearing a sheet and he'd still cut the same impressive, astounding figure.
John's brought binoculars with him, and every so often he pauses to survey the view around them as Sherlock strides ahead, pace slowed just enough for John to know that he's trying to be considerate and not walk on alone. When they walk in silence, the calm is pleasant; when they speak, the conversation is light and comforting. Sherlock's voice is less harsh out amongst the sky and mountains and trees, whether it's because he realises he doesn't have to raise his voice as much to be heard or because he's awed by the nature around them as well.
They make toward the falls in part just by following the thundering sound of the water falling to the rocks below. A narrow footpath winding upwards carries them to a spot so close that the spray from the falls almost reaches them. The sheer drop below is at once awesome and terrifying. He and Sherlock stand side by side, gazing down into the mist of the chasm beneath. Neither speaks, and the tremendous booming echoes in their ears like a never-ending cry.
John is only aware he's received the text because he's pulled out his mobile to check the time. He moves back a few paces, farther away from the spray and the sound, and reads the message. "Sherlock."
The taller man doesn't hear him, head still inclined downwards, watching the descent of the water to the rocks below.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock turns his head and joins John. "What?" He's shouting to make himself heard over the sound of the waterfall, and John does the same.
"Got a text. Apparently there's a sick woman over at the inn. Says they need my help." John gestures with the hand holding his phone, and Sherlock's eyes flicker to follow the screen for an instant before resuming their focus on John. John thinks he sees a hint of emotion flash across Sherlock's impassive face, but it's gone before he can take much stock of it. Was it worry, perhaps? Funny; Sherlock isn't the sort to worry about the well-being of an unknown woman – or anyone else, for that matter. Still, the workings of his friend's mind aren't the most important thing at the moment. "I should probably go, Sherlock."
"Yes," replies Sherlock, drawing out the word decisively, "you definitely should. They need a doctor, don't they?"
"Yeah, reckon so."
"Go, then, John. We'll meet back here when you're done."
"You sure?"
"Yes. I'll be fine. Go."
John turns and begins walking back down the path, going at as brisk a pace as he considers safe given the terrain. When he glances over his shoulder, Sherlock is standing in the same place, hands in his pockets, watching him.
He doesn't look back again until he's a decent distance off. The lone, dark figure by the falls is still unmoving, and around him nature looks very big, and he very small. It's like someone's painted a canvas of the mountains and decided after the paintbrush had carefully rendered every stroke of nature that there needed to be human life, too, and painted in a tiny one, dwarfed by Reichenbach Falls, half-hidden by mist and trees, inclined to slip out of sight at any second, but there just the same for whatever fleeting time he was allowed.
He turns around and hurries towards the inn.
He comes up the path slowly, the grin on his face made more ominous by the shadows cast by the jagged rocks in the path of the sun. He is wearing a pristine suit, as always – Westwood – looking positively immaculate and violently at odds with the peaceful surroundings.
They draw up to each other, slowly. Time slows down.
They talk.
"What do you mean, there's no sick woman?"
John's mouth feels very dry. His heart is beating faster than it probably should be, but he can't shake the feeling that something's gone wrong, something ranking decidedly above a miscommunication. "There is no sick woman here, sir," repeats the man he'd seen and gone to first. He works with the management of the inn, and speaks good enough English to be clear. "No sick people, even." He looks completely baffled.
"But you sent me a –" And that's when it hits. Dull horror settles in the pit of his stomach. "I – you don't even have my mobile number, do you?"
The man raises his eyebrows in bewildered surprise. "No, sir, of course not."
John's turned around and running back from where he came before the man can even finish speaking. His heartbeat pounds in his ears. His breathing is jagged. Suddenly, the sun is too bright, the light hostile. The wind roars like the waterfall.
Faster.
Sherlock sets his mobile down on a rock just off the path, but far enough from the edge and the spray to be kept safe. He has been allowed to leave a single thing behind. For John.
The grinning face loses its thin façade of composure and contorts into something darker. The tension between them breaks and they rush towards each other. Each is ready.
Both will not live.
John trips over a rock sticking out of the ground and falls, rolling sideways up the hill with his momentum before slowing. He allows himself but a second to assess damage before jumping back up and continuing. One of his hands is bleeding slightly from where he'd thrown it out to break his fall, and his foot is sore, but it's all irrelevant. Everything is irrelevant except Sherlock.
The world has never felt bigger, or smaller, than it does now.
He watches the dark-clad figure vanish into the mist and spray. The body disappears before he can see it hit the rocks, but the echoing cry cuts off abruptly and that is enough.
His chest rises and falls in jagged breaths, and he feels sweat bead his brow. His legs suddenly feel alarmingly shaky, so much that he has to stumble away from the edge of the path and lean against a rock to regain his composure. James Moriarty is dead.
And yet, even as his breath returns, he realises with great conviction that he cannot let it be known that he has survived. This chance will never come again. He will be unseen, presumed dead, and there will he have his advantage, there will he have the element of surprise, there will luck turn in his favour. For as long as he is suspected dead, he is free. As long as he remains in disguise – a painfully easy task – he will be able to wander as he pleases, corner and crush the rest of Moriarty's intricate web of criminals. No one will expect him, so no one will be wary of him. He will be like a jaguar, a dragon, waiting to pounce, waiting to gain the upper hand, and when the time is right –
But, he knows almost instantly, this means he won't be able to let John know he's alive, either. The secret must be absolutely safe; furthermore, John knowing would only jeopardise him, as well. No, he can't know. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes must vanish. It will be…painful…but necessary.
Mycroft will arrange all required things, Sherlock knows, if he asks him to. He will arrange for a funeral service – a body won't be necessary – he will arrange for the Baker Street rooms and all his possessions to be kept in good order. He will arrange for his violin to be sent to him.
Also, Mycroft will arrange for him to receive a new mobile phone. The old one must remain, so John will find it, and arrive at the intended conclusion. Sherlock Holmes will be mourned; Sherlock Holmes will be forgotten.
Now there is only one way to go. Sherlock turns to the rock face, finds a handhold, and begins climbing up.
The falls roar as John reaches the edge of the path, the last place he saw Sherlock. No one is there. The place is deserted.
He casts about wildly, looking for something, anything – a footprint, a sign, any indicator that might tell where Sherlock has gone. He sees nothing. The edges of his vision are blurred as he gazes over the edge and down into the thundering of the water on the rocks below. He can't think – but –
He calls Sherlock's name, again and again. The words echo around him, and nothing's ever sounded so desolate. The falls continue to pound. There is no other sound but the water, and Sherlock's name, dying away as the echoes fade and there is no answer.
He can't stand, can't think, and so he collapses against a nearby rock, elbows leaning heavily against the cool stone, breath hitching uncontrollably. Sherlock is gone. He's never felt more alone in his life.
The text had been a hoax – of course it had been. He had been stupid not to see it before. Stupid, stupid John Watson. Sherlock had probably known. Of course he'd known, he was Sherlock Holmes and he knew everything. He'd known, as he told John to go, that he would never –
His elbow knocks against something. Startled, John looks down and sees, lying against a patch of moss on the rock, Sherlock's mobile phone.
He picks it up clumsily and almost drops it because his hands are shaking so badly. His breath comes in short gasps. The phone is locked. He doesn't know Sherlock's password. And he's not Sherlock, so he can't guess at it, either.
Think. There must be some way. Sherlock knew. He knew John would find it – he meant for him to find it – or it wouldn't be here. John runs trembling fingers over the keypad. Must be something. Must be something. If only he weren't so dull, so ordinary, so incapable of thinking in the way Sherlock's brilliant mind could –
You underestimate your own value, says the Sherlock in his head. Of course there's a Sherlock in his head. He's always been there, even before John knew him. I think you underestimate your own value, John. And he smiles.
The passcode is four blanks long. Just enough room.
It's J-O-H-N.
An unsent message.
He reads it.
The world closes in, and all that's left is the gaping hole made by what's no longer there.
Sherlock watches John from above. Watches him cry his name, watches him find the phone, watches him realise what has happened – what he thinks has happened – watches him break, watches him fall to his knees. He has never done anything so difficult in his entire life. Never has he felt more repulsed by himself than right now.
But it has to be done – he knows this is the only way, the best way. This way, when he comes back, they'll both be safe. Moriarty is gone, and the rest of his web will be, too.
Sherlock will be back. John will suffer, he knows, but before long they'll once again join paths. Their story is left unfinished, the ink not yet dried. There are many pages yet to be filled. Time rotates ever onwards, and soon it will draw them together again.
And if Sherlock feels like his heart is a little bit broken, that's Okay, because John is safe – John, John with his hesitant smiles and easy laughter and silly jumpers and tousled hair and bravery and loyalty and something so much more, will be out of harm's way.
And that is Good.