"Goodbye, John."
"No. Don't-"
Sherlock let his arm fall to his side; he tossed the phone away. It didn't matter, none of it mattered. Not when he was about to leave everything behind. I'm so sorry. It will all be over soon. He shut his eyes. The wind bit into the wet trails on his face. One foot forward-and then nothing. His eyes snapped open wide again. His arms and legs involuntarily flailed searching for something, anything, to grab hold of. His hair tickled his ears as it danced—just like it used to when he leaned his head out of the car window as a young boy.
"Keep your head in the car Sherlock" laughed his father. Sherlock inhaled deeply. He could smell the damp trees as they drove through the forest. His hair whipped his cheeks and sunlight warmed his face. He looked to the seat beside him and saw his brother; their father's umbrella clutched tightly in his hand. Mycroft was always frightened when Father took them for a drive on the narrow road in the woods behind their house.
The memory faded and Sherlock entered reality again with a soft thud. Soft, sour: the first two words his still-reeling brain registered as he lay in the laundry truck. He watched the edges of tree branches peek over the side of the truck as it made its way toward the arranged location. What was John doing at this moment? Was he still standing in the spot where he'd received the phone call—frozen in shock? Was he weeping over Sherlock's corpse?
He felt his stomach grow hard and knotted as the distance between him and St. Bart's grew larger. His mind raced with thoughts of John meeting a nice woman, getting married, having children, moving on. Would he be forgotten? Would he be hated? He saw John's face adorned with that warm smile that Sherlock had come to love. There was no doubt about it; it was love. Sherlock knew it would never be reciprocated, but for him, friendship was enough. But he could never quite extinguish that one flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe…
He thought he knew what alone was before this, but he was wrong. All of his friends, all of his family, were gone. Sherlock Holmes was dead; all of his humanity had gone with him. The luxury of being human was gone now. Where he was going, what he would have to do, would require the loss of his conscience and morality. He had a job to do, and he would to whatever it takes to keep John safe, even if that meant letting him down.
The truck slowed to a stop and the back of the truck was creaked open. He scrambled over the piles of foul-smelling laundry. He sprinted into the back of a black van parked a few feet away. Next stop would be the office of a plastic surgeon that owed Sherlock a favor. There, he would pick up half a dozen prosthetics designed to fit a cast made of his face several days ago.
Sherlock tried to ignore the pain that the prosthetic nose was causing him. The cheap wool of his new clothes scratched at his skin. From the side door of the clinic—designed for more famous clients to leave in anonymity—he stepped into the back of a silver Jaguar. As he slid into a seat, a feminine voice said:
"The nose doesn't suite you, but it will have to do."
Sherlock drew his gun from his new-suit pocket. The handgun was small, and not anywhere near the firepower that John's Browning had. The dark figure in the seat across from him didn't flinch, and responded with,
"You'd do well not to shoot one of the few allies you have left, Mr. Holmes."
She leaned forward into the light and revealed herself as Mycroft's assistant.
"Impossible!" Sherlock barked, not lowering his gun.
Sherlock had made sure that Mycroft was unaware of his brother's plans. He'd taken every possible precaution to ensure his brother never came looking for him. The young woman-as if reading his mind-said:
"Relax, I'm not here on Mycroft's behalf. This is much larger than him."
She crossed her legs and tapped on the car door window. The car began moving with a jerk. Sherlock was relieved that he was still being taken to the airport. Days of planning would have been ruined if he missed his flight. The aristocratic assistant wore a black suit, and her hair was pulled back into a neat bun; much more plain than the previous occasions Sherlock had seen her.
"You're above Mycroft's pay grade, then?" he said, clicking on the handgun safety and returning it to his jacket pocket.
"I was planted to keep an eye on Mycroft; to make sure he didn't overstep his bounds on your behalf. The Holmes family has a knack for attracting the government's attention." She pulled a thick manila envelope from a black leather purse to her right.
"I think you far underestimate my brother's love for Queen and Country." Sherlock scoffed.
"You would think so, but we're holding him back right now. It's taking every ounce of control he has not to declare all-out war on Moriarty's associates."
Sherlock tried to imagine Mycroft losing his composure, but the image failed to form. To Sherlock, he seemed unshakable. He was conflicted: one part was rather sad he wasn't there to witness Mycroft fall apart; the other half felt guilty for causing it.
A small beep went off, and Mycroft's faux-assistant picked a phone out of her pocket. She raised her eyebrows as she read the incoming message.
"Scratch that last statement. He's just authorized the practice of some torture methods that we haven't put to use in a very long time."
"Why are you here?" Sherlock snapped.
She gave an insincere smile and switched her crossed legs.
"We know what you're planning, and we know you can't do it alone; regardless of what your ego may think. Moriarty's web is far larger than you could imagine, and his allies lie in very high places. Places unreachable to someone like yourself."
"And what, exactly, are you offering?"
"A boost." she smirked.
"I don't need any of what you have to give." he snarled.
"We covered your tracks, you know. Swept quite a few things under the rug; prevented a few CCTV feeds from reaching your brother's eyes. It would be a shame if all of that we to suddenly be uncovered. Hard to stop your brother when he's looking for something I'd imagine." she said, looking over the lacquer on her nails.
"I see." It made sense; they wouldn't come to him without leverage. He had no choice but to except if he wanted his being alive kept secret.
"I've been assigned to work with you throughout this operation."
"Are you any good with a gun?"
"Very good."
"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."
"Yes."
"Any good?"
"Very good."
The manila envelope fell in his lap.
"Our first order of business is this man." she said, motioning for him to open the envelope.
Sherlock pulled out several blurry photographs of a wealthy man in his late thirties. Security surrounds him on all sides, and a young woman is on his arm.
"How do you feel about India, Mr. Holmes?"