When Sherlock opens his eyes he's standing in a lush, vibrant, ubiquitous field and his range of view is wild, emerald grass and the cerulean blue sky. The fresh, clean air is positively invigorating.
He suspects he's not in London anymore.
The sweet, soft wind kisses his left, then his right cheek exactly like his long-passed mother used to. It's so real that he can almost feel the wetness of her lips, the pressure of her mouth and the sweet smell of her favourite perfume. He inhales so deeply, so engrossingly, that he nearly forgets to let out his breath. If only he could capture that smell, and store it a chamber of his lungs.
The sun is tantalizing. Its rays caress his alabaster skin rather than burn it. Then it coats him, swaddling his body with its warmth.
He wants to run aimlessly across the field like a naive, playful child and fully enjoy the experience. No. Now he feels ashamed for thinking such primitive thoughts. But he still wants to run forever, indifferent to a destination.
But he can't move. He's grounded to the soil. The Earth is pulling him down.
He struggles to free himself, but begins to hear music and he stiffens. It's a beautiful melody. Quite possibly the most beautiful, poignant melody he has ever heard.
Someone appears in front of him out of thin air, bowed with an arm extended. It's a woman, her hair dark brown, braided. She sneaks a peak at Sherlock from beneath her bangs and then Sherlock realizes— it's Molly. What is she doing here? How did she get here? She smiles when she sees the recognition and confusion splay across his face.
Sherlock takes her hand without even realizing what he's doing.
One moment he's stuck and immobile, the next Molly is leading him in a waltz. They are stepping in tandem with the music, which has gotten more complex, turning from a solo into an accompaniment. He's not even controlling his feet or legs, and is moving effortlessly. He is holding himself ramrod straight, shoulders back. His arms are locked into the proper position. It is a spectacular feat, since he never been skilled in the art of dance.
His movements are controlling him rather than him controlling his movements…and it's absolutely fascinating.
As they dance across the field, Molly's mousy voice tells him, "I knew that you were using me for your own benefit."
Sherlock opens his mouth to retaliate, tries to speak, but no sound is released.
One, two, three, one, two, three…
She continues, eye-contact wavering, "But I was so wrapped up in your genius, your strange charm, and your beauty. I was starry-eyed. I really couldn't see past my love, I guess, for you. It set up a barrier. But, you know what? I understand that it's just the way you are. You don't care about people. That's your personality. And, um, I want to let you know that I forgive you for your rudeness toward me, even though you can't and probably wouldn't apologize. You kept things interesting and fun. So, uh, I'd like to end on good terms. No hard feelings from me. I will really miss you, Sherlock."
Sherlock has so much to say in response, so many questions to ask but Molly is already gone. Sherlock is still waltzing, alone and helplessly. He looks a bit foolish, despite how beautifully he is dancing. The sun is his only companion, placing its eyes on him in appreciation, as his feet move along with the melody.
He spirals down the field, and takes one last spin until his hands are clasped with none other than Sergeant Sally Donovan. She leads him in dance, more fervent and controlling than Molly. Expected.
"Sherlock Holmes. Fancy meeting you here," she says bitingly.
Sherlock's throat closes up as he tries to speak yet again.
One, two, three, one, two, three…
"Six years. For six years I'd come under the misfortune of knowing you. Remember the first day we met you? You walked, no, strutted into Scotland Yard and caught the murderer in under an hour. It was a case we'd be working on for an entire week! You even tried to convince Lestrade that he shouldn't be in the police force, nor should Anderson or me because we 'obviously weren't competent enough.' You should have seen that disheartened expression on Lestrade's face. It didn't matter though, because the man always cared about you deeply and had pushed all your denouncements aside. I guess you felt you had a reason to be so arrogant and self-serving, right? You were the most intelligent man I knew and a...good, alright, great detective."
She smiles a pained, broken, pitiful smile. Sherlock is sure he has never seen Sally smile at him before, in any shape or form.
"But, really, who cares about who's more competent or who isn't? Why did I care so much about you being a prick? There is something so much more important underneath all of that rubbish, really. It's called doing the right thing and you, Sherlock Holmes, despite being an utter Freak, did a good for society. Justice will be just that much harder to conquer without you."
With that last sentiment, she is gone and Sherlock is by himself once again, dancing mindlessly.
So this is how it's going to be. How odd. What is Sherlock to make of these sappy stories? It's not like he's…
Back and forth, side to side his body sways languorously. He inhales sharply to take in the glory of the intoxicating fresh air and exhales, relief rolling over him. The sun is still beating down on him with a kindly hand, and he looks up to stare into it. It doesn't even sting his eyes. He feels indestructible.
When he looks down, Lestrade's hand is clasped into his own, and his other hand is placed on the man's shoulder. Perfect stance once again and they began their strange dance.
His voice is gruffer than usual as he begins to speak, "I don't think I have much time to say everything I want to, so here it goes..."
They were skating across the grass, and Sherlock is arching his back a bit more and elongating his neck. There is something different about this waltz. The song is now louder and more robust and he and his partner are more adept and graceful in their movements.
One, two, three, one, two, three…
Lestrade's mouth visibly tightens. "I'd like to thank you for helping us out, even though you were a pain in the arse most of the time. I learned so much from you and I think I will use whatever I learned to build myself into being a better detective. You were truly a gift to the world—especially London. London is going to miss you more than you can even believe. Actually, you probably can believe it. You're not one to be modest, eh? Anyway, more importantly, I'll miss you. God help me, I'll miss you so much. The next few months will be torture without you. Don't know if I'll bear it well enough, but life will have to go on."
Lestrade squeezes Sherlock's shoulder affectionately and smiles wearily.
"Blimey, I guess I should wrap this up. Kind of rambling right now. I'll end with this: I had always thought that one day you could be a good man, rather than a great one. Guess that never happened. Your greatness will live on (and not in vain, 'course). Take care, Sherlock."
Then he is gone, and Sherlock feels this horrible uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Should he stop dancing? No, he needs to do this. There is some unidentified force pushing him, urging him to continue his dance. But why? It couldn't be…though, it was rather improbable…
The sun is starting to set, a pinkish and orange hue adorning the once blue-coloured sky. There's cool wind nipping a bit at Sherlock's bare skin and rustling his hair. He isn't tired from dancing at all. How long had he been doing this, anyway? The sun has set, so obviously awhile. Oddly enough, he feels more awake then he's ever felt in his entire life.
So, he continues to plow through the grass because, apparently, he didn't have an agenda.
Sherlock's movements become more theatrical and just as he is really getting into it, his beloved landlady appears and it's her turn to cavort with him across the rapidly darkening field.
"My dear Sherlock," her sweet voice makes Sherlock want to smile. And he does. It is all he could do voluntarily anymore, anyway.
She is moving fast, but Sherlock is keeping up with ease.
One, two, three, one, two, three…
"I never knew what to do with you, but now I don't know what I'm going to do without you. It was a treat to have you as my tenant (and John too of course). Oh, John! I can't even imagine how the poor dear will be without you. I'll take good care of him though, don't you worry. I can't ever thank you enough for saving me from my wicked husband. That disgusting man deserved everything he got. You also made me happy and loved in a way I can't really explain even though you were hellish, ruined my flat, and made noise at ungodly hours of the night. I would give anything to have you continue doing those exact things once again. You were the closest thing to a son I ever had. My real sons never appreciated me like you did. Yes, I know you appreciate me more than you care to admit."
She kisses his cheek and he jerks. He hadn't been expecting the contact.
"I love you, darling Sherlock. Don't you ever forget it. Stay out of trouble up there, now."
Once again, his partner disappears into the sky like magic. There is no point questioning how anymore, or why. This is all too far beyond logic's capacity.
Sherlock can hear his heart beating arduously in the chambers of his chest. He wants to tear it out and finish this perpetual performance. But he can't. He needs to dance.
The sun has long ago set, and the sky is now speckled with twinkling stars, plenty of them at that, and a matching stunning full moon. The wind is stronger now and the vegetation violently flails. Sherlock closes his eyes to revel in the wind's mussing of his person.
Strange, why did the music sound somber underneath the strings and woodwinds all of a sudden? The music felt unsettled, stressed, anticipatory.
Quite like how Sherlock is feeling currently.
When he opens his eyes, his brother has joined him.
"This is an extremely unfortunate and solemn situation, Sherlock," Mycroft says coldly, distantly.
This waltz is the most powerful one yet. They are flying across the field weightlessly. They stretch their bodies slowly in pair with the crescendos and decrescendos.
One, two, three, one, two, three…
"I do find this whole process positively intriguing and mind-boggling, though. I don't know how it is possible for me to be speaking to you at this very moment, but I am quite thankful for it and will not question it further. I assume there is an allocated amount of time of speech so I'll stop prattling and begin. You are the one, singular person I care about in the world and you know I would have gone to great lengths to ensure your safety. I'm deeply, deeply sorry I have failed, but I suppose some things in life are unpreventable. Fate, if you will, seems to control our lives and it has apparently usurped yours. I can do almost anything, but I cannot alter Fate. Things will be difficult without you. I will cope, but I don't think I'll ever feel right again. We may have had friction between us, but it really was nothing more than a petty child's feud. What is that colloquialism? Ah, right, we had a 'love-hate relationship.' That defines our relationship throughout our entire lives, I would say. But, underneath our quarrels, was pure, unadulterated, familial love."
With a stoic expression, he kisses Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock shudders at the odd sign of affection from his brother, who is quite possibly the most unemotional man in the world.
"Despite popular belief, I loved you and will always have a special place in my heart for you. Don't forget to send my regards to Mummy. Be well and enjoy paradise, brother mine."
And with that sentiment, he is gone. The music has become louder; more instruments have been added to strengthen the melody. Sherlock is feeling crazed as he is now completely weightless and hovering above the ground, the soles of his shoes brushing the tips of the blades of grass. He sweeps the expanse with turns, steps and dips.
He is breathing rapidly, but still hadn't one ounce of fatigue. He admires the ebony sky and the starkly bright, white stars and moon burning against it. He wants to intermingle with the stars, become acquainted with them. Might as well, since he's so close to them.
He continues his dance and, after one gorgeous spin, John appears. They are moving uniformly to the not quite sweet and not quite sad melody.
"You've left me," he says, his face sincere and even more handsome by the light of the moon.
This waltz is even more robust and lovely than the previous one. The emotion is tense, cutting.
It is excruciating. Sherlock no longer feels like he did when he arrived. He feels pained.
One, two, three, one, two, three…
"So…you've up and left me, Sherlock. How could you? No, no I shouldn't say it like that, it's not your fault. Sorry. How am I supposed to live, now? I already feel dead inside (okay, sorry, that was uncalled for. I'm bad at these kinds of things) and you made me feel alive. Don't you see? You were the half to my whole. God, I'm so, so sorry I couldn't make it in time. I feel responsible for what happened to you. I vowed to myself I'd always protect you and, well, keep you alive, just like you did for me (without even lifting a finger). You are special to me, Sherlock. I loved living with you, talking to you, hearing you talk, watching you work, learning from you, and trying to figure out what made you tick even though sometimes I seemed like I hated it. You enraptured me, Sherlock Holmes. I've fallen for you hard, you beautiful, maddening creature and I can't think of any other way to describe it other than love. Weird and ridiculous to say this now, right? I know, I know. I'm an idiot for waiting until the moment after the last. You're an idiot too, though! You could have said something to me before all of this. I know you felt it too, deep down in that hidden mess of emotions and feelings you harboured. Right, okay. That's finished, now here's my parting gift."
Sherlock watches him with interest, watches his face move slowly toward his with lustful anticipation. John dips Sherlock and they share a kiss—a deep, passionate, vivid, hungering kiss on the lips. And Sherlock feels it. He feels it so completely that his heart stops for the second time.
"Bye, Sherlock. Who knows, maybe I'll see you soon."
Then, John fades away into the night air. The music stops. The wind disappears.
The silence is deafening.
Sherlock has stopped dancing.
That had been the Last Waltz.
He looks across the field and sees his dear mother's shining face over the threshold. She is waving to him, beaming and as beautiful as he last remembered her. He regains mobility of his body, and he removes his feet from the soil and runs.
Sherlock runs as fast as his legs can take him toward his mother and he doesn't look back. There's nothing left there, anyway.