His words lingered in my mind long after they passed his lips, the memory refusing to fade. I could close my eyes and remember that day, remember his last day.
One word stayed with me. Spoken so softly, so gently.
"You."
He'd changed the tone, of course. Planning fiercely; commanding me on what to do; ordering me to stand in a corner so he could go to his mind palace. But he had said that one word so softly, so gently. And then, for the second time, he had leaned down, allowing his cold lips to brush against my flushed cheek for a fleeting instant.
Maybe that made up for all the things he'd done in the past. Maybe that would make up for what he was going to do.
It couldn't, of course. Nothing could.
His plan was brilliant, really, from the bits he divulged and the fragments I managed to understand. But then, he was Sherlock. That wasn't a surprise, not anymore.
I should have been flattered, excited, fluttering when he told me I was the one he needed. I would have. Until he told me. And then all I felt was … I don't know.
Hopelessness, maybe.
Despair.
Sadness.
But I went along with it. It was Sherlock, after all. How couldn't I?