Author Note: Before you read this, please note that it is a follow-up to Mysterylover17's amazing fic, "De Temps en Temps." You should read and review that first for three reason: 1) this story won't make any sense if you don't. 2) It's a great story, and deserves the praise! And 3) without it, this wouldn't have been possible. Mac and Becky are OCs created by Mysterylover17 and used by me with her permission. Thanks again, Kelley! So without further ado, Éternellement (which means 'forever' or 'eternity' in French)

Éternellement

Mac:

Death was quick. One moment, I was listening to Becky read to me from my notebook and the next; I was engulfed in a bright white light. It was almost like I'd stepped out of a dark movie theater and into the sun. I barely had time to think about it. Damn, Mac, you're dead! I'd thought the realization would scare me, but I'd wished for it so much in the past couple years that I hardly cared. I was wondering, however, where I went from there. Wherever I was, it was nothingness. There's no other way to explain it. I was somewhere, and yet nowhere at the same time. Whether I closed my eyes or kept them open, it remained the same: pure white nothingness.

"Hello!" I called out, because certainly I couldn't be the only person here. And the instant the words left my lips, I was surrounded by people. Most were old, but some were younger like me, most likely victims of disease or accidents. And then, to my shock, they began to dissolve. They obviously know something I don't, I thought to myself, and hurried to approach one who was still there. "Excuse me, but can you tell me what I'm supposed to do?" The man I'd asked didn't so much as look at me, and it became clear that although we could see each other, we couldn't hear one another. That worried me for an instant; after all, I'd spent years entertaining the notion that I'd spend eternity with him.

But then again, I'd always been taught that when you died, the entrance to Heaven was a pearly gate manned by Saint Peter. Well… where was it? Did it even exist? Honestly, I'd never liked that idea much. I mean, packing every dead soul (other than the souls that went the opposite direction, of course) in one place, even if it was a place as large as Heaven… It seemed to me that it'd be a bit like living in China. I decided that as I clearly hadn't reached Paradise yet, I could safely assume that I was in a sort of limbo at the moment, and that was why we couldn't talk to each other.

But seriously, as I stood there in that white stretch of land, (though I wasn't standing on anything, so I'm not sure I could call it 'land') I thought about what my ideal Heaven would be like: everyone would go where they would be happiest. And that's when it occurred to me what I was supposed to do, and it was so evident, I was almost embarrassed to have had to think about it. Hmm… Wherever you're happiest, Mac. Well, it's pretty damn easy to choose! I closed my eyes and visualized his handsome face: his shining grey eyes, his high forehead and cheekbones, his hawk-like nose, and his dark raven hair. I remembered how it had used to fall in his face, and that it had done so the first time I met him. He'd pushed it back with chemical stained hands. I wondered if even in death, he tampered with experimentation. The thought brought a smile to my face.

Next I pictured my good friend, Dr. John H. Watson: his green eyes, and reddish-brown hair and mustache; I thought about his face, and his lips normally curved in a smile. I heard his usual laughter in the back of my mind. Yes, there was no doubt about it. Them, I thought. Wherever Holmes and Watson are, that's where I want to be. I was visibly aware of first my hands dissipating, and then my feet. I closed my eyes for a moment, and suddenly found my vision clouded behind my eyelids; tiny rays of light made their way in, as they do when you try to sleep in a bright room.

I opened my eyes slowly to find myself in an old-fashioned entry way with a relatively high ceiling, and a set of wooden stairs. A hallway running alongside the staircase led back to a kitchen, though it was barely perceptible to my eyes. There was a door behind me- I might just have closed it behind me. A window beside said door showed me the cobblestone streets outside. Hansom cabs drove by, and pedestrians walked the streets, each and every one of them dressed in Victorian garb. If I hadn't known for certain I was dead, I would have thought I'd simply been transported back in time again.

A voice outside the window caused me to open the door, because I could hear these people. Any fear I'd previously had left quickly disappeared as I approached the short red-haired man who was wearing a newsboy cap, and waving around what looked like a dictionary, calling "Paper! Get your paper here!" A squat (and sufficiently round) gentleman passed by me, and the newspaper man jumped at the chance to [sell?] a paper. "Paper, gov'?" he asked eagerly. The gentleman sighed, and snatched the heavy book from the man's hand. Flipping through it, he stopped for a moment on a page that said, on further inspection by me, 'Murder in London.'

"Hmm, these modern crimes," the man muttered to himself in disgust. "Holmes would have a field day with this one. Pity it's happened about one-hundred years too late." He chortled loudly, but at the name Holmes, he had my attention. The man began to walk away with the paper, which I assumed was a collection of news stories from the land of the living, (That would be totally weird to read for the rest of my existence!) but I stopped him, nearly running over a pair of children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.

"Sir! Please wait a moment!" The man halted, and turned to face me, looking a bit annoyed at my interruption of what was probably his daily walk. But the instant his eyes fell on my attire, which I hadn't noticed until then, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"What are you doing here?" Yeah, I suppose it wasn't everyday a girl from the 21st century chose to spend eternity in Victorian London. I probably looked horribly immoral, as I was dressed in my favorite outfit: jeans and a t-shirt, complete with a pair of sneakers.

"It's a long story," I said in reply, "and one that I don't particularly want to tell right now. You mentioned Sherlock Holmes. Do you know where he is?" Now, it should have been obvious to me from the get-go where I'd been transported, but seeing as I'd spent all of my time with Holmes and Watson in Paris, I hadn't made the connection.

"Who wants to know?" he asked, his eyes narrowed. "And no funny business. I'll have you know that I'm Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and-." He was cut off by my ringing his hand enthusiastically. I nearly laughed out loud at the dumbfounded look on his face, as he once again asked me, in a stammer, who I was.

"I'm Mackenzie Sterling," I said by way of introduction. "I'm a friend of Holmes'. But I've heard a lot about you, Inspector, and it's a real pleasure to meet you." I was reminded of how giddy I'd felt when I'd first met Holmes and Watson, and I could have kept rambling for ages if I hadn't noticed the expression on his face when I'd given my name.

"Oh," said Lestrade. "I know who you are now." Apparently, Watson had told him about me- I doubted Holmes had ever brought me up again. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach at the thought of seeing him again. After all, I'd died (and yet hadn't died) in his arms. I'd watched him sobbing before I returned to my own time. The memory of seeing him hunched over my body, looking as though his heart was breaking, nearly tore me in two. Lestrade didn't seem to notice a change. "You obviously aren't as observant as him," he commented dryly, "if you didn't notice that." He pointed back to the door from which I'd come, and I saw its plaque for the first time:

221B Baker St.

The sick feeling disappeared at once, as I realized that the man I loved was just through that door and up the stairs. Without as much as a word of thanks to Lestrade, (I would apologize for that later) I turned the knob and hurried up the stairs with an energy I hadn't had in a long time. I could hear voices coming from behind a closed door at the foot of the landing, and I froze, afraid to go further. I was afraid that I'd fall apart completely when I saw him. I felt much like how I had long ago when I'd thought Becky had betrayed my secret to Holmes- and how I'd felt when I found out I'd been wrong, and had ended up telling him myself. (Accidentally of course.)

It was Watson's voice that reached my ears first. "Well, I must be going, old boy. Mary is expecting me home early today. Something about her father visiting." There was a heavy sound as he stood up from his chair, but to my surprise, I couldn't hear a cane hitting the wooden floors, nor the telltale signs of his limp. Did death cure those kinds of things? Come to think of it, I no longer had the purple lesions that had plagued me for the past few months. I was glad- at least Holmes wouldn't have to see me like that.

"Oh well, Mother Hen, if you must," came Holmes' voice, and my heart nearly stopped. Come on Mac, your heart has already stopped! I'd forgotten how much he sounded like Jeremy Brett, and though I couldn't see him through the door, I knew that he was flashing Watson one of those small smiles of which I was particularly fond. I heard something being sat down, and then Watson said "There's the paper, Holmes. And please, don't pull out the cocaine after you read the obituaries, alright old fellow?"

He responded with a conceding sigh. I stepped away from the door, as I didn't want Holmes to see me when Watson opened it. I had to think through how I was going to do this. I'd hoped that by standing in an obscure corner of the landing, I would escape Watson's eyes as well, but this wasn't the case. The instant he left the apartment and shut the door behind him, his gaze fell on me and I had to nearly tackle the poor guy to stop him from shouting and alerting Holmes to my presence.

"Mackenzie, you're here!" He looked as if he were about to faint, (though the very idea of a dead person fainting almost made me laugh at that very un-funny situation) and I had to cover his mouth to halt his words.

"Shh, Doc!" I said hurriedly. "Not so loud!" When I was sure he had calmed down, I cautiously took my hand away and smiled gently at him. "Sorry for the shock, Watson. I didn't want you to see me at all."

"Well, you could have chosen a better hiding spot," he shot back irritably, before returning my smile and embracing me tenderly. "You don't know what this will mean to him," he said softly, patting the top of my head like he was so used to doing.

"How should I do this?" I asked, voicing my worry. "Talk to him, I mean? What do I say?" He opened his mouth to offer me some reassurance when we heard a gasp of disbelief issue from within the apartment, and the sound of a heavy book falling to the floor.

"Watson! Watson, old boy, her name is there! She's-." The door was flung open, and his shouting ceased as his eyes fell on me. Sherlock Holmes stood, staring at me with a mixture of joy, sorrow, anger, and fear in his expression. I looked back, rendered speechless by how simply beautiful he was. I hadn't yet figured out how death affected age, but he looked no older than he'd been last time I'd seen him. I was amazed at how, even now, he stirred emotions in me that no one else could. Get a hold of yourself, Mac! Your face is flushing! Neither of us spoke; we merely watched one another, waiting for the other to make the first move.

Watson coughed to break the eerie silence, and I knew he was feeling totally awkward. If I was in his place, I would have too. "Well, old boy, I really must be going. Mackenzie, it was very nice to see you again. I'll be back tomorrow." He started down the stairs. Think, Mac! Stall him for a moment while you think of what to say to Holmes!

"Hey, Doc!" He glanced back at me, while I pleaded with my eyes for him to take the hint and hang around a bit longer. "If you happen to see Inspector Lestrade, would you apologize to him for me?" At his questioning glance, I blushed and explained what had happened. I didn't dare look at Holmes, because I wasn't sure what emotion would show itself in his face if I did. "I had a difficult time figuring out how to get out of that weird expanse of white nothingness," I admitted. "But it was all worth it once I finally got here. You should have seen the look on Lestrade's face when he saw what I was wearing!"

Watson and I had a good laugh over it, for I knew that he took great pleasure in making jokes at the inspector's expense. No sound came from Holmes, but the look on Watson's face when he glanced at his friend told me that he didn't look at all happy. "Miss Sterling," said Holmes, speaking for the first time, "I should have thought that merely seeing Watson and I," (there was emphasis on the I), "would have made your "difficult time" worth it." I was hurt by the cold way he said my name. What happened to Mackenzie? When had I become 'Miss Sterling' once again?

Seeing my discomfort, and Holmes' obvious annoyance, Watson took his leave for good. Gee, thanks Doc! Thanks for leaving me without a clue what to say! I looked at Holmes, straining my brain to think of something, anything, to say to him. I was saddened to see a rapid change in him. Where a second ago, his gaze had been hard and his stance proud; he was now little more than a shadow. He looked absolutely miserable. "Would you come in, Miss Sterling?" he asked me quietly, gesturing to the apartment. I nodded, feeling the lump in my throat grow larger, and entered ahead of him.

The rooms were just as I'd always imagined them. Holmes' divan sat near the mantle place, upon which sat his Persian slipper where he kept the tobacco. Two armchairs sat nearby, along with a sofa. A hallway leading off the sitting room obviously led to the bedrooms. But I didn't have much time to look around, as Holmes ushered me to the sofa and made a point of me sitting down. He didn't join me. Instead, he stood with his back to me, staring out of the window, his hands locked behind him. He seemed to be in deep thought, and I didn't dare disturb him. It was slowly occurring to me that after my "death," he had gone back to his old ways. He was once again hiding his heart behind a mask of stoicism. I felt tears brim my eyes, but I managed to keep from crying. Mac, keep yourself together!

"You may be interested to know what happened after we left the opera house that night," he said softly, still facing away from me. "After you…" He paused for a moment to take in a gulp of air, "left, I ordered Christine to choose between Erik and the Vicomte. I'm assuming you can guess whom she chose?"

"You always told me never to guess," I said gently in reply. "So I am going to assume she chose Raoul." I had been hoping to gain some kind of reaction from him that my comment, but he made no sign of amusement. I lowered my eyes, blinking away the tears that were beginning to fall.

"Yes. I pitied Erik, for I then knew how it felt to lose… someone I cared for deeply." He glanced over his shoulder at me, prepared, I'm sure to make a snide remark. But the moment his eyes met mine, his brow creased in concern and all previous feelings forgotten, he approached me. "My dear Miss Sterling, whatever is the matter?" He sat down beside me on the sofa, and took my hands in his long, slender ones.

I didn't look at him, but instead stared at my hands. I then realized for the first time that I was wearing the engagement ring he'd given me. But I'd taken it off when I'd entered the hospital. How did it…? My inner voice answered my question. Good old Becky… I managed to smile, especially when I noticed the pendent with the cameo hanging from my neck and bouncing against my chest. She'd known I'd have wanted them. Unbidden, the tears came to my eyes again, this time in thanks to my best friend. She'd stood by me, even through all of the crap I'd put her through.

I then recalled that Holmes had asked me a question, and I wondered how to answer it. I couldn't completely blame him for his behavior. After all, I'd left him so soon… It was no surprise that he'd closed himself off again. And how many countless years had he sat in this room, waiting for me to join him? I remembered what I'd heard Watson say earlier. Don't pull out the cocaine after you read the obituaries. Had he read that paper for all of these years, hoping to see my name and being continually disappointed? Even death hadn't been enough to stop his horrid addiction to the cocaine.

"You aren't the same Sherlock Holmes I left behind four years ago," I finally said in response. This time the hurt that flickered in his gaze didn't go away. His eyes had fallen on the pendent, and with a shaky hand, he reached out to touch it. The anger that had previously lay in his expression had vanished, and been replaced by a tortuous pain. "Holmes, please don't look at me like that!" I begged, but to no avail. He gazed at his lap, where my hands still sat, and he noticed the ring. I wondered how hard he had been focusing on maintaining his composure, for it seemed odd that he wouldn't have seen the jewelry before then.

"You kept them," he said quietly, more as a question that a statement. He didn't seem to believe his eyes. I opened my mouth to ask why I wouldn't have kept them, when I was startled by a sudden embrace. He pulled me to him, so that my head was buried in his chest and that his lay perched on my shoulder. He still smelled like tobacco smoke… It felt so right to be in his arms again, his hands caught in my hair. I was vaguely reminded of a similar scene, which had taken place in the cellars of the Paris Opera House, in which he had called me a dolt and made up for it by holding me and repeatedly saying he was sorry.

Now, although his voice was muffled, pressed against my neck, I could make out the words: "Mackenzie… I'm so sorry, so sorry…" Before I could tell him that he had nothing to be sorry for, he had dissolved in a fit of sobs. I pulled back as gently as I could, and lightly smoothed his hair out of his eyes. I had thought that I would be the first to break down, but the fact that he had comforted me. The Sherlock I'd known hadn't been as far gone as I'd thought at first glimpse.

"Shh, Sherlock, calm down. It's alright, I'm here," I whispered soothingly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "What are you sorry for?"

"I was… angry…at you," he murmured, his voice hiccuped from crying, though he had managed to settle down enough to speak. "Because I… mourned you for… nearly twenty-five years. I buried you myself… I had your body… sent to London. I died… prepared to see you again… and you weren't here. And I realized… you had gone home." He looked at me through red-rimmed eyes, and said in a small voice. "I thought you would have forgotten me."

"Never!" I said vigorously. "How could you even think that? I wished I was dead- I would have rather been dead than live without you! But I did… for four years, and believe me… that was long enough." At the number four, his head had jerked up and he looked troubled. At my questioning glance, he asked me how old I was. "Twenty-two," I said softly.

"How?" was all he asked in response. We both knew the unspoken query: how did you die? I pondered how to tell him. Did I even want him to know what had happened to me, after all that his father had done to him? Yes, because I knew he would understand. But no, because I didn't want to cause him any more unnecessary pain. I'd certainly given him too much of that already. But I knew that he would never let this go. I was too young to die, at least in his mind.

"After me and Becky got back to our time," I began slowly, "she spent countless hours trying to make me forget you." I smiled faintly when I thought of my best friend, and hoped that she wasn't too distraught. I'd asked her to give my eulogy- I could only imagine the speech she would give. It was sure to be unethical. "She took me to a party one night, and one of the guys there hooked me up with someone."

"Hooked you up?" Holmes asked with a raised eyebrow. I'd almost forgotten that he didn't understand modern slang.

"Uh, he paired me up with another boy. Like a date." I added sort of under my breath. "Anyway, it didn't go well." How was I going to word this? If I tried to sugarcoat it with slang, I'd still end up having to explain myself. "Holmes, do you really want to know what happened?" He nodded, though his face had already paled, as if he knew what was coming. "What your father did to you, that boy did to me." His breath hitched, and at the look that came over his face, I wished I hadn't told him. I hurriedly ended my account. "Then about six months ago, I contracted AIDS. It's a disease that broke out in the 1980s, that affects your immune system, and as you can probably assume, it's fatal."

He had taken my hand again, as I quietly added, "If it makes you feel any better, I never stopped thinking about you. Even when I died, Becky was reading to me from my notebook. I'd written everything down there… everything about us." Tears filled my eyes, and I was aware of my body beginning to shake. "You don't know how much I wished I could have gone to London and married you," I sobbed. And all at once, I began to ramble about what had happened that night in the cellars, after I'd followed the white hand away from Holmes: how I'd watched his reaction to my apparent death, and how I'd wept at the sight of Jeremy Brett on the BBC as I lay in the hospital bed.

It was Holmes' turn to shush me. "But you're here now, darling," he said softly in my ear. "That's all that matters." I tried to remember if he'd ever called me that before, but I wasn't certain. Oh well, I liked how it sounded. "Nothing can take you away from me again…" I wasn't sure if that last sentence was more for himself or for me, but it was a comfort nonetheless.

A few moments later, when I'd calmed down and Holmes had finally relaxed, he lay back beside me, draping a languid arm around my shoulders, and reached for his tobacco with the other. "Cigarette?" he asked lazily, although he knew the answer.

"No thanks. Not even death is going to make me take up that horrible habit," I teased. "But I'm sure when Becky shows up, she'll be glad to take you up on your offer."

He looked alarmed. "She won't be joining us anytime soon, will she?" I giggled. I was well aware of his disdain for my "sister."

"I hope not," I said sincerely, "but you never know with her." I sighed, and lay back against his arm. Deciding to make conversation, I asked him casually, "So seeing as there aren't any murders for you to solve, what do you do around here? Have many cases?"

"Well, actually, there are quite a number of trifling problems that occur. For instance…" I spaced out for a moment, while he kept talking. Yes, I could get used to this. We no longer had to worry about time. I interrupted him with a kiss. He seemed taken aback, but when the shock faded, he kissed me back. It was just like I remembered it, and the old spark of desire flowed through me. "I love you," I told him, as if he didn't know.

"I love you, Mackenzie." Nope, we didn't have to worry about anything anymore. There was no chance of death or illness separating us now. It would just be me and Holmes, (and Doc, of course!) and we'd be together for eternity.

Baby, you're all that I want

When you're lying here in my arms

Finding it hard to believe we're in Heaven

And love is all that I need

And I found it there in your heart

It isn't too hard to see we're in Heaven

-Heaven by Bryan Adams

A/N: So, how did I do? This is actually my first Sherlock Holmes fic all together, so any tips would be appreciated. The lyrics at the end served as my inspiration. I must have played that song for hours as I wrote this- longest one-shot I've ever done, by the way. Other songs, I listened to include: "Far Away" by Nickelback, "The Wings," which is the theme to Brokeback Mountain, and "Here Without You" by 3 Doors Down. Thanks for reading, and please review!