Turned away from John and Mary's flat (not Mary's, not anymore), Sherlock walked numbly home. John's letter, delivered by an abject Molly, hung from his left hand. His curiosity and dread overcame him just as he reached the doorstep of 221B. Sinking onto the low wall along the pavement, Sherlock opened the letter and began to read.
Sherlock:
I know that Mary's death wasn't your fault. Not entirely, anyway. It wasn't fair of me to say that you'd failed in your vow, when keeping Mary safe from all harm was never within your power to do.
But I've talked to Lestrade and I know what happened before I arrived, before Mary…you just couldn't resist, could you? You had to poke the bear, to show off by tearing into the bad guy's deepest secrets and vulnerabilities. Only this bad guy was holding a gun.
It was Mrs. Norbury's fault. Mary too—in her need to be a hero, she forgot that Rosie and I needed her. But you fired that bullet just as surely as if your finger helped to pull the trigger.
Your damn voice. Love the sound of it, don't you? I used to love it too—how you'd weave whole cloth from the thinnest of threads, tiny bits of disparate information leading to a big reveal. You truly are a genius and the way your mind works still fascinates me.
Here's the thing, though, Sherlock: a great big brain isn't worth much without a moral compass to guide it. You have a heart, I know that and so do you. God knows I've seen you use it and not just recently—you picked up a stray dog of a broken-down Army medic years ago and saved his life. I'm grateful and always will be. Yet in a way, the big gestures are the easy ones. Where risk is great and the reward potentially huge, the way forward is obvious (your favorite word).
It's the little things, though. You miss them so often I have to believe it's deliberate. It's not that you don't know they exist but that little things, like feelings, just aren't important enough for you to care about. Feelings like the desperation of a lonely, overlooked woman who just happened to have a loaded gun in her hand. You knew how she felt—you dug at her fears like an emotional archeologist. Brought her feelings to the surface and made her feel petty, all to make you feel clever.
It's a game to you, one you're good at. Ordinarily, the ends justify your means. If I can't participate in your attitude, I can usually appreciate its outcome.
But not this time. This time, you weren't just playing with someone's feelings. It was a life, and not even your own (although I'm glad the bullet didn't hit you, really I am). My wife, my partner, the mother of my child, was standing in the line of fire you drew.
You didn't have to keep Mary safe. But you did make a vow and that should have been good enough not to put her at risk just to make yourself feel good. To make our child grow up without her mother for the sake of your superiority.
I know you feel bad about it now, Sherlock, but I can't forgive you for it, I just can't. I need you to be out of my life, and Rosie's, so go away and stay gone this time.
John
The sun sank and the air chilled before Sherlock finally roused himself to go inside. 221B remained dark all through the night and the days which followed as he sat staring at a space which his best friend would never again fill.
~Fin~