Sherlock pressed his shaking hand against his mouth, desperately trying to stop the onslaught of tears as he watched England grow smaller below them. John… He was never going to see John again because of what he did.

And yet, despite that thought, he didn't regret it. He couldn't have John, but Mary did. Now, John could live a fulfilling life without him, and never worry about losing Mary. They could be a happy family… That thought didn't squash all his regret, but he could try to pretend that it did.

When England had completely vanished from his view, Sherlock's desperate hopes for some kind of miracle did too. He leaned away from the window, and let his eyes drift shut. He decided to get some rest, knowing that it may be his last time asleep without fearing for his safety.

As he fell asleep, a nostalgic memory filled his mind, and he realized what he had been forced to say once again.

Goodbye, John..

BOOM!

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, tumbling from his seat as the plane thrashed against the violent winds. He quickly forced himself to his feet grabbing the side of the suddenly wet seats and desperately trying to understand what was happening.

"There was no storm on the radar!"

"I don't know if she can handle it!"

Sherlock heard a violent clap, and he was slammed against the other side of the plane, heat suddenly surrounding his body. His wide blue eyes looked over to where he had just been sitting. The jet engine was consumed by flames, there was a loud beeping, people were screaming.

Everything suddenly tipped, the plane was spinning. Sherlock could hear his heart in his lungs as things began to beep, people began to scream.

"WE'RE GOING DOWN!"

A huge boom seemed to deafen them, and Sherlock was thrown into a tumble once more. The cold water against his skin suddenly enveloped him. It took several moments for Sherlock to realize he was drowning.

Frantic noises escaped him as he thrashed his limbs, desperately trying to reach the orange light he saw above him.

His head breached the surface, gasping for the sweet air his lungs desired. His limbs burned, and Sherlock almost felt himself slip below the surface once more. His hands reached out, finally managing to wrap around something floating nearby.

Sherlock blinked the water from his eyes, gulping down air he desperately needed. He turned his head, and discovered that the orange light he had followed was not the sun, but the flaming bits of the plane still left behind… Along with the body of the pilot (what was left of it) floating nearby.

The detective's heart sank, his adrenaline fading away as he finally registered exactly what happened to him. His hands wrapped around the piece of debris as tightly as he could, unable to force energy into anything else.

The vicious waves sent him farther away from the wreck, the cold rain like needs on his skin. Sherlock instantly realized that the storm would stop anyone from coming to save him. Even if he survived the wrath of it, the waves would most likely send him far away… If hypothermia didn't kill him first.

Despite his best efforts, a frantic whimper rose up in his throat. He was helpless. All he could do was hold on for dear life as the ocean pulled him further away from his only chance at rescue.

Mycroft didn't hear the news until the next day.

It had been the first time he had actually been able to sit down since Sherlock had been sent away. He had been very busy trying to make sure everyone was appeased in the aftermath. He slumped back in his office, allowing his shoulders to slump in relief.

His relief, however, faded merely minutes later when Anthea walked in, her face downcast. Mycroft was so tired he honestly didn't notice at first, and simply asked her if his little brother's mission had begun.

It was then that he discovered that Sherlock's plane never made it to their destination.

The instant he discovered it, and listened to the horrifying messages the pilot tried to send them, he sent out men to find his brother. Surely Sherlock had a plan, he couldn't have been killed so easily, right? Right?!

"Did you search the water?" He demanded,"Did you find his body at least?"

Athena's usually guarded eyes filled with sadness as she gently said,"By the the storm was over, and our men were able to go out and check, the plane had completely sunk. We couldn't recover any bodies."

Mycroft's heart sunk, his blood running cold. No… No there had to be something else. Something she wasn't telling him!

"Were there any islands nearby? Maybe they were there able to get there and are waiting for rescue. Did you search?" He questioned, unable to hide the anxiety crawling up his voice. His little brother couldn't be dead!

Athena didn't reply at first, before softly whispering,"Their plane was taking the long route that the pilot said might be safer when they landed in Eastern Europe. It was over the Indian ocean when it crashed, the only islands were over ten miles away. I'm sorry sir… Sherlock is dead."

The woman's phone suddenly began ringing. She looked down at it regretfully, sad eyes looking back at her boss. He numbly waved his hand, giving her permission to keep working. She hesitated again, before whipping around and exiting the room as silently as a mouse.

The government official watched her go, waiting until the footsteps faded away before even daring to completely lower his shields. He brought his hands up,

In all honestly, Mycroft had hoped his brother would manage to avoid death once more, or even escape his suicide mission... It all seemed like a cruel joke, and yet an act of kindness at the same time. His brother was dead, but at least he had died quickly.

That thought comforted him much less than he desired, and he felt his heart burn with sadness. He leaned forward on his desk, placing his hands over his face, and finally let his tears fall.

For the first time in his life, he had no idea what he was going to do.