A/N: I wrote this after the second viewing of the movie, I couldn't help but wonder what could have been going through his mind and when he let go of the handkerchief, i knew i had to write something. This was partly inspired by the movie, and by another amazing story called 'Everyone's Weakness,' which is from Irene's POV as she dies. I know it's nowhere near as beautiful and tragic, but I hope you like it.
The moment he stepped inside Professor Moriarty's office, he felt a chill pass over his skin. Like the phrase went, "Someone walking over one's grave," Except, for once, that thought seemed very real.
After a brief chat with the man, Sherlock discovered though he was capable of pure evil, it seemed Moriarty did not acknowledge that what he did was as wrong as society saw it was. Sherlock was almost in awe of the man's insanity, until the Professor pulled out a white handkerchief, which held a smattering of blood. It took a minute before he recognized the embroidered 'A' on the corner, and then his own blood in his veins turned to ice, and for a few seconds, he felt as if his heart had ground to a halt inside his chest. Then, with a rush of understanding, it began again with a groan. He let no emotion show on his face, but inside, his mind was reeling.
Thoughts rushed around, and one at the forefront, 'She had not been late to their dinner meeting. She had been unable to make it at all. Irene would never be late.'
He put on a smile, that resembled a grimace more than an expression of joy, and continued his banter with Moriarty, all the while wondering how long he could make it before he cracked. Before the emotions broke through the solid iron dam inside his soul.
It wasn't until after the mad scramble on board the train to Brighton, as he was somehow wheedling Watson into joining him in solving this final mystery, of enormous proportions that he realized the heavy truth. John was now his last true friend and companion.
Irene was not coming back. She would never again be by his side, as they ran from dangerous pursuers, as they shared witty repartee or even a kiss during a quiet moment.
Their final kiss had not even been real. It had been her last, most desperate attempt to secure her safety. He wished to God that he had let her take the letter, followed her, and done his utmost to keep her safe. Only he could have done that.
Instead, he had let her go alone, sent her to slaughter with no means of defense.
For that, he would be eternally sorry.
On the ferry, during the last leg of travel to the Gypsy camp, when John pulled the handkerchief out of his briefcase, Sherlock spared him only a glance, before snatching it out of his hands.
He strode over to the railing, pulled the scrap of fabric to his nose, inhaling with all his might, hoping for one last scent of Irene's lilac perfume, and as tears stung at his eyes, he reached out his hand, and dropped it. It went with the wind for a few moments, before falling into the water, and disappearing from his sight.
He said nothing. He made no facial expression. For a moment, he stood completely still. Gripping tightly to the memory of her face, framed with dark brown hair, bright blue eyes surrounded by creamy pale skin, and smirking pink lips. He had to let her go. She would only distract him, and he needed his full mental capacity to outsmart Moriarty.
'Farewell Irene. You were my favorite mystery. My greatest match. Goodbye my love.'
With that, she was gone. He inhaled deeply, and returned to sit beside Watson, completely ignoring the puzzling looks he was shot. He had to think about how they would go about finding a way to talk to Madame Simza. The game was afoot…
END