Shape of My Heart, a Sherlock + Avengers Crossover fanfic

A Note: The thing about pain

TFiOS reference, anyone?

Okay. So, this fic. Same as the other one (Codename: Redbeard), it was inspired by experiences in the Role Play forum 'The Convergence' and the lovely GraceW (who read this before everyone else and suggested a major scene, but I won't say which one because SPOILERS). However, it was also inspired by a gif set found on Tumblr (shertasha, if you're interested) and I need to credit that too, because it's fair.

Anyways, on to important things. This fic is not a sequel to Codename: Redbeard and it's set sometime just before, during and after 'His Last Vow'. It changes the story, naturally, but I don't want to give anything away. Flashbacks and the ending are in italics, everything else is what's happening in the present.

I will say… this turned out sadder than I expected. I mean, it was always going to be sad, but I may have gone overboard. Still, hope it's okay.

I hope you enjoy it, and reviews are always welcome. :)

Happy reading!

Oh! And one more thing. Shape of my Heart is a beautiful song by Sting written for the movie The Professional. This is one of my favorite songs, and I decided to incorporate it whole because I really didn't want to leave any of it out. Like I said, it's just a beautiful song.

Shape of my Heart

He deals the cards as a meditation
And those he plays never suspect
He doesn't play for the money he wins
He don't play for respect

He deals the cards to find the answer
The sacred geometry of chance
The hidden law of a probable outcome
The numbers lead a dance

I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart

He may play the Jack of diamonds
He may lay the Queen of spades
He may conceal a King in his hand
While the memory of it fades

I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart
That's not the shape, the shape of my heart

And if I told you that I loved you
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one

But those who speak know nothing
And find out to their cost
Like those who curse their luck in too many places
And those who fear a loss

Natasha placed her hands against the dark stained wooden table and fixed her eyes on the stubborn man sitting on the other side. "I still don't understand why you have to do this one on your own."

"Like I said. Not worth your time." Sherlock didn't bother looking up at her when he answered. He was cleaning out his guns, black topper spread out on the table to protect the surface from the inevitable mess that accompanied such a task. Years of work had rendered his collection of firearms into one that was vast and varied. Just like hers'.

"We haven't worked a mission separately in years." Natasha pressed. "Something's different about Appledore."

"Is this worry?" He finally looked up, his hands pausing as they rested on the table, barrel and brush still in hand.

"It's concern." She countered. "I've got your back and you've got mine, that's what we agreed to, and I can't have your back if you don't let me in on the details."

Sherlock gave her a look before lowering his eyes and resuming the task he'd set out for himself. "This one's for John, and for Mary. It's not your battle, it's mine."

"That never stopped us before." Natasha replied quickly. He ignored her, his inky black curls bouncing lightly as he scrubbed the barrel with more force than was necessary. Finally he let it clatter to the table and ruffled his hair with both hands.

"He may have information that could hurt you." He still wasn't looking up, but he crossed his arms over his chest before he continued. "I'm not putting you at risk."

This wasn't something Natasha took lightly. Sherlock wasn't a man given to irrational outbursts of concern, and he knew her skillset; knew the things she could protect herself from, and the things she couldn't. If he was asking her to sit this one out, then he likely had a valid reason. That didn't mean she had to like it.

"Fine." Natasha straightened, and he nodded once. Nothing else needed to be said. "I will be monitoring you from the outside."

Mycroft Holmes stood in front of the full-length mirror in a dark, wool blend suit. There was nothing noteworthy about this, save for the fact that it was accompanied by brand new lines along his brow, and dark shadows beneath his eyes. It had been only days, but he'd aged years in that short span of time, or so it seemed. His shoulders were slumped as he fixed his tie and his hands shook as he tucked his watch into his vest pocket.

"It's been fifteen minutes." Natasha said finally, meeting the elder Holmes' eyes in the mirror and holding them. She was dressed in a simple black suit herself, white knuckled hands braced against the desk while she waited for his answer.

"Miss Romanoff—" He began, and Natasha lowered her head, letting out a quiet, frustrated sigh. There was a short pause before he spoke again, his voice lower and a hint warmer than his usual icy tone. "Natasha."

"Yes?" She replied, calling on all her training to keep the professional composure that the situation called for. Neither of them was the emotional sort, but in that moment they were just two people wounded by the same dagger.

Sentiment. It was an unusually sharp blade.

"My brother's pursuit of this matter is what brought him to this end." He sighed, a heavy sound that made Natasha's insides clench and her eyes close. It was the sound of a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but was having a hard time finding the strength to do so. "May I be so bold as to ask you not to go down that road as well?"

Natasha raised her head and fixed him with a blank, green-eyed stare. He knew the answer to that question already. Mycroft turned away from the mirror, eyeing her briefly before walking over to his desk and pulling out a thick, dark brown folder. His long fingers traced the cover for several more minutes before he drew in a sharp breath and looked at her.

"Everything you need to know is in here." He placed the dossier on the neat surface of his desk and slid it towards her.

Without the slightest show of hesitation, Natasha picked up the file and turned to leave the office. Breathing was becoming difficult, and the signs of an impending headache were making themselves known.

"Will you be at the funeral?" The voice behind her was quiet, and Natasha turned her head to the side, fully intending to reply. No words were forthcoming.

Going to the funeral meant that she was ready to accept what had happened as a reality, and that simply wasn't true. She was rebelling against it; fighting it with all she had. A world without Sherlock Holmes was not a world she wanted to be a part of. Was she going to the funeral? The answer was a mystery, even to her. Not bothering with a reply, Natasha turned the metal doorknob and quickly disappeared down the hallway, leaving a grave looking Mycroft Holmes behind.

The corridors at St. Bartholomew's Hospital were half deserted and quiet as Natasha silently made her way down to Sherlock's room. It was late, but visiting him during the day was too risky. As a matter of fact, visiting him at all was risky, but that was irrelevant. She thrived when danger was not just a possibility, but a certainty. They both did. It was likely why they were so good at their job.

There was that, of course, and there was also the need to confirm what she'd been told.

Told, yes, because she hadn't been there herself, as she should've been. Mycroft had assured her that he was stable and John had given her a complete rundown of his medical condition, but neither of those things had been enough to put her at ease.

She had to see him with her own eyes.

Sherlock was awake and sitting on the edge of his bed when she finally found his room. He looked pale, in pain, and barely able to move, but he appeared, for the entire world, like he was about to attempt an escape. Natasha leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms over her chest. "You know, I always thought that if I was going to visit you at the hospital it was because I was going to put you there myself."

"You shouldn't be here." He replied, breathing heavily as he reached for his shirt, carefully slipping his arms into the narrow sleeves.

"Funny you should say that, because neither should you." Sherlock looked up at her dry tone and she fixed him with an icy look. It was true; he wouldn't be here if he'd just taken her along with him, as was their usual. "Mary?"

"That's not her real name." He sighed, briefly closing his eyes before making an attempt to close his shirt and fasten the buttons.

"I know." Natasha replied, pushing herself off the doorframe and walking over to the bed. She moved his hands out of the way before taking over the task herself.

"Red Room?" Sherlock asked. He let his hands fall limp at his sides, resting them on the bed while he carefully studied her face. Natasha met his eyes, and nodded once.

"Then she could've killed me, but didn't. Interesting." Sherlock muttered, running his eyes over her face once she was finished. "I thought you were in Moscow."

"Something came up." Natasha said coolly, her gaze unwavering beneath the scrutiny. She'd already seen him, and he was fine, for the most part. Alive, at least, which should've been enough to send her packing back to her mission. For some reason, it wasn't. She needed something else. "You will call me if there are further complications."

"We've talked about this." Sherlock stood, clutching at his chest and reaching for his coat, neatly folded over one of the hospital chairs. "You agreed."

"That was before. This is now. Promise me." Natasha continued, taking a step toward him with the last statement. He lifted a brow, donning his coat and scarf with carefully controlled movements. He was still in pain, but he was leaving. Both clear signs that he was about to do something insane. "I've got your back and you've got mine, remember?"

"I remember." He hesitated, but finally nodded his assent and walked over to stand directly in front of her. "I will call you if I need you."

"Good." Natasha should've realized it then, but there was a loophole in that statement. Instead, in an uncharacteristic show of emotion, Natasha cupped his face with both hands and fixed him with a steely look. He held it for a few seconds, his eyes searching her face in his usual calculating way before he finally let out a breath and closed his eyes. "And don't get shot."

"I won't."

There were more people at the cemetery than she'd initially anticipated, but Natasha was careful to stay out of sight. She didn't want, or need, to participate in this particular grieving ritual, of course. She was above all of this. There was nothing practical about it, as far as she was concerned, especially when seeing his body at the morgue, courtesy of Mycroft Holmes, had been more than enough to confirm that Sherlock was, in fact, dead.

Dead.

The thought left her breathless and bracing herself against the nearest surface in a way that was fast becoming her new normal. Her eyes closed, her breathing picked up, and an uncomfortable pressure settled inside her chest. She wasn't entirely sure what these physical markers meant, but she could not, for the life of her, get rid of them.

In spite of this reaction, and in spite of the pointlessness of attending this sort of ceremony, Natasha found herself drawn to this place, on this particular date, nonetheless.

The first thing she noticed was the blood. It was dark, and thick, and it was gathering in pool beneath his body. Spreading, undeterred, and falling into cracks and grooves among the tiles.

Natasha's green eyes, usually focused and laser sharp, darted over the scene with wild, disorganized movements.

He's too pale. There's too much blood. Eyes still open. It's slipping into the cracks. Arms spread out. Soaking into his coat. Gun thrown to the side. Oh, God, there's so much blood. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

Her knees connected with the floor, and all noises were dulled as a ringing started in her ears. Somewhere in the back of her mind, along with all logical thought and sense of preservation, Natasha knew that Mycroft's men were close behind, at her request, but she couldn't move.

Sherlock had called her. Why hadn't he called her sooner? And she'd known instantly. Something was wrong. He was going to die, and he knew it. Why hadn't he called her sooner? Why? Why? Why?

"Do something for me?"

"Tell me what's wrong. Where do I go?"

"Nothing. Nowhere. I need you to get something for me. Remember the place I told you about?"

"Sherlock, if you don't tell me, I swear—"

"Don't be so melodramatic, Natasha, nothing is wrong. Just get it for me." Pause. "I'll see you soon."

And he'd hung up, but Natasha was already moving, calling Mycroft, tracking his phone, getting into her car, speeding down the highway, strategizing...

Panicking.

She'd crawled closer to the body, taken hold of his shoulders and shaken him. Forcefully. Willing him to blink. Breathe. Move. Anything, to let her now he was still alive. Because he had to be. He had to be, because there was no scenario where his death made sense to her. No outcome where she'd even considered the possibility. They were two pieces of the same puzzle, what purpose would they serve if they didn't have the other?

Her hands found his face, leaving bloody smears wherever they touched it. When had she gotten her hands bloody? The pool of blood. Right. His blood. And so much of it.

Oh, God.

"Sherlock, wake up." Her vision was blurry. Unusual. She sniffed. "Sherlock, you bastard, look at me!"

He wasn't moving, but he had to. It was impossible to think otherwise.

Firm hands gripped her shoulders. Mycroft. He was shaking, but he was here. When had the room become so crowded? When had her senses slipped that she hadn't noticed?

Clear drops fell onto his face and she frowned, fighting against the iron grip pulling her away. When had she started crying?

He wasn't moving.

Impossible!

He wasn't breathing.

He had to!

And so much blood.

Too much, too much, too much.

Oh, God!

Her hands weakened and she lost her grip as her body gave over to the crippling sobs she'd been holding at bay. Mycroft pulled her up, dragged her away, shoved her into a car, and threw himself in there with her, but all of that was secondary. Unimportant. Irrelevant. Trivial.

Because her mind, so used to cold logic and carefully thought out strategy was spinning out of control. Nothing, absolutely nothing, made any sense to her. Why hadn't he called her sooner? Why hadn't he told her? Why, why, why, had she let him do those things? Why hadn't she insisted? Forced? Manipulated? Threatened?

But the answer was clear, and it was a mistake. A major flaw, in an otherwise perfectly symmetrical two-sided creation.

It was impossible to imagine a life where he was no longer part of it. Improbable to imagine a scenario he could not conquer. Unlikely that there would ever be a foe he couldn't overcome. In her emotionally-tinted perception—always emotion, the chink in the armor—Sherlock was a constant. Unshakeable. Immovable. Unwaveringly continuous.

Even now.

Even now he was a fixed point, for her. A landmark, of sorts. And yes, worth repeating, a constant.

Everything else, no matter how real or persistent, was transport.

But she no longer felt the need to travel.

Things happened in a blur. There was a short service—something Sherlock would've scoffed at, but that was likely helpful for some of the members within the grieving party—and then there were a few words by friends and family before everyone dispersed. Natasha remained rooted to the spot, taking it all in while she flipped the unopened cream-colored envelope with both hands. It was from him, but she'd been reluctant to open it for reasons that were both painfully obvious, and beyond her understanding.

Finally, when the last person had hurried off to their car and driven away, Natasha walked over to the simple marble headstone and crouched in front of it. In moments such as these, she'd observed that people usually talked, or cried, or perhaps both. Talking was illogical, obviously, and Natasha found herself smiling at what would've been Sherlock's reaction to such an idea. Fine for other people, yes, but not for someone like her. Not for people like them.

A large sigh escaped her lips, and she sunk fully to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the ground, not really caring that her brand new, thousand-dollar suit was about to become just another item fit for the trash. These things didn't matter, not to her and not now.

Flipping the envelope over one last time, Natasha steeled herself to open it. Two pieces of paper were neatly doubled inside. She pulled them both out, unfolding them with shaking hands before she scanned the familiar handwriting once. She'd been right, of course, but holding this remnant of him in her hands now, she was hit with a new wave of grief.

He was gone.

Gone.

Years of fighting, laughing, sparring, planning and saving each other... and these two pages were all she had to show for it. Her eyes misted over and she clenched her jaw as she searched for the first word among many. It was her name... and she began to read.

Natasha,

You've always said I have the heart of a romantic, and I suppose than in writing this letter I am proving you right. You always were right about most things, though there's really no point in admitting that now, is there?

I am a ridiculous man, blind to most things in this world, but these words are some of my last... and I am leaving them with you.

I know. Sentiment. Human error. A chink in the armor... It's almost laughable that in this, my last hour, I find myself completely corroded with it. Apparently I am not as immune as I thought I was... there's always something.

Of all people, you know I am not generally prone to bouts of sentimentality or nostalgia, but I find myself in the awkward position of conveying several things to you, in light of the circumstances.

I need to ask some favors of you.

I am leaving several people in my wake, all of which might still be in danger merely from coming into contact with my person. John has Mary, whom you know by another name from your days at the Red Room Facility, and although he will suffer a large emotional blow, I am confident he will thrive. I'll admit to you now, his marriage gives me some peace of mind in that respect. Yet another surprise for me, I suppose.

I also ask you to keep an eye on Mycroft whenever possible. His heart, like mine, is more susceptible to sentiment than he lets on. I know this because only sentiment would drive a man, categorized by most as a block of ice, to continuously peel me off the floor of alley after alley and force me into rehab in the hopes that perhaps it would be the last time; that maybe I'd get clean; that he would finally stop fearing that phone call in the middle of the night, telling him I'm dead. I've let him down in many ways—especially now, considering—so this is the least I can do. I know I can count on you to keep him safe.

And Molly. You were right about her, of course, even though I didn't want to admit it at the time. I've left a letter for her as well, but I need you... need you... to look after her. This is perhaps my most important request. Do you remember that time you texted me during one of your missions? I told you I was in Greece interrogating a minor player, but I wasn't.

You knew that, though, didn't you?

Like I said, you were right about most things.

I don't need to explain my feelings to you on this matter. They are evident. Keep her safe, at whatever cost. She is what matters most to me in this world and I am entrusting her to your capable hands.

Finally, Natasha... I come down to you. You and I are alike in many ways, are we not? Driven by the game; rarely indulgent of the more sentimental side of human nature; ambitious, and cunning... prepared to put it all on the line for the right ends, with little to no regard for the means.

It is also the same reason we should both prepared for the entirely imminent possibility of losing the other. Should.

'All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage'.

How very true of my brother, and we've lived by this simple motto for several years now. It's been sword and shield on different occasions, and yet, I believe we've both faltered in this respect.

An example comes to mind. Volgograd. Two years after our first mission. I was hurt and loosing blood, a bullet to my right shoulder that scars my skin, even today. We were hiding out, biding our time before we could make our escape, but it wasn't looking very good. We both thought I was going to die. I didn't, obviously, but there was a moment... do you remember? I tucked it away in my Mind Palace and never forgot it, because I knew then, like I know now, that I'd walk into hell itself if you agreed to do it with me.

It's never been just about trust, and you've never been just my partner... you've never been just my friend... I never told you this, and I know now that it was a foolish thing to do... because now I am out of time and we are out of missions. I trust that in the same way we've managed to recognize in each other all the things that go unspoken... you've managed to recognize this too.

I am no longer afraid to admit that I have learned many things about love through all these people that have managed to find their way into my life, and amongst these things, there is the certainty that there are many kinds of love... and that it grows in the unlikeliest of places.

If I were to ask anyone to keep you safe, it would be you. Funny how that works, but I rely on the fact that you will look after yourself, now that I will no longer be there to watch your back.

You remember that too, don't you? 'I've got your back and you've got mine'.

I never once had to worry, and even now, I know I'm leaving all these people who mean so much to me in the safest of hands.

That, of course, includes you.

Goodbye, Natasha... and thank you for the adventure.

Love always,

Sherlock Holmes