One Last Farewell
Summary: Missing Scene – The Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock makes his preperations to leave London but there's just one last thing holding him back...
Warning: Possible spoilers for season 3
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters.
A/N: This was kind of a therapeutic writing exercise for me because it's been so long since I've written anything new and with the new episodes of Sherlock airing, I really want to write something Sherlock related. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!
The air was bitter that day. Sherlock didn't expect it to be any other way. It felt right; the sun hidden behind greying clouds and the breeze just enough to carry the chill that caused his cheeks to redden and his coat to billow out only slightly behind him. The funeral had brought few mourners, and now his graveside brought even fewer. Had it been anyone else, perhaps the skies would have wept on the day, but they hadn't. Nature had refused to mourn; perhaps because there was enough grief in that graveyard as it was, or perhaps because it knew the truth – that the coffin beneath the earth was empty and the headstone was a meaningless marker for a man who still drew breath as easily as any other.
Hands buried deep into the pockets of his coat, he stared out across the small distance that separated him from the gravestone bearing his own name. But it wasn't the grave he was watching. It was the man before it, the one who always managed to draw Sherlock's attention. The man with shoulders hunched over from the heavy weight of grief, and soft yet strong words that drifted toward Sherlock in a broken plea.
John Watson, a man unlike any other Sherlock had met before. A man who, after several moments longer, took a deep breath and pushed his shoulders back and held his head up high, who forced himself to turn away from the grave with the short, clipped movements of a soldier. Sherlock watched him go. His gaze followed him, through the graveyard and past the stone angels and trees, never wavering until finally, he could see John no more.
Footsteps crunched behind him, the owner making no attempt to hide their approach just as Sherlock made no attempt to acknowledge it. He knew who it was, even before he heard the soft and lazy drawl that could belong to only one person.
"It's time, little brother." There was no urgency to Mycroft's words, and the compassion outweighed the impatience, but even so, Sherlock could hear the imagined ticking of a clock that counted down the time until his departure.
He didn't respond. He didn't even turn to face Mycroft. He just continued to stare on ahead, at the spot he had last seen John. It made him feel oddly empty, like a hole had been carved out inside his chest and left hollow.
"I'm sure he'll grieve well for you, if that's what you're worried about," Mycroft continued on, referring to the hesitation that held Sherlock in his place and the doubt that gripped his mind. No matter how much he tried to hide it, no matter the mask he put in place, Mycroft could read Sherlock just as well as he could any other.
"You think I should stay," Sherlock said in return, but even though the statement was flat, there was questioning there.
Mycroft let go of a short bark of laughter that contained such little joy it could almost be mistaken for a cough. "On the contrary, little brother, there is little option but for you to leave."
And yet, Sherlock still hesitated; his gaze still locked ahead, the image of John still vivid in his mind's eye.
"He mustn't know, Sherlock," Mycroft pushed on. "He mustn't know you survived."
"Moriarty is dead," Sherlock found himself saying in answer, tone flat. But as empty as the words sounded, even he could hear the argument hidden beneath them – the plea.
"But his men are not," was Mycroft's response, a reprimand – the kind that could only come from Mycroft. "His spies still live, his network still thrives. Or have you forgotten?"
"Do you take me for an idiot, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped, the words coming out part bite, part growl. He turned his head to the side, just enough to regard his brother briefly. What angered him most, though, was not the implication of idiocy or wounded pride – it was the underlying and unspoken accusation and the ounce of truth beneath it.
Mycroft was unfazed, a tight and smarmy smile slipping onto his features. "Well, I am beginning to wonder. Why else would you risk exposing yourself like this?"
Sherlock had no answer for that. Even in his own mind he could make no sense of it, despite asking himself the same question. The world thought him dead, yet there he stood in the open graveyard for all to see. At least all who cared to look. If the wrong person were to glance his way... it would all be for nothing. All the same, he had found himself needing to be there – perhaps one last chance to try and fill the gaping hole inside his chest.
"I trust you've seen them," Mycroft went on to say, not needing to expand on who it was he was referring to. Sherlock knew well enough, and the answer, of course, was yes, but Mycroft didn't wait for him to speak it out loud. "They'll be watching him, Sherlock. Even now."
It wasn't a reassurance. It was a warning.
"Yes, thank you, Mycroft – I'm well aware of the fact." Impatience slipped into Sherlock's tone, impatience at the arrogance that filled Mycroft's.
"Your little magic trick was merely a catalyst. They still expect you to resurface. They expect you to contact him. If you are to disappear, it is his grief that will convince them you are truly dead. You have a job to do, Sherlock, and until you do it, they will always be watching."
"Oh please," Sherlock spat out, spinning on the spot to face Mycroft fully, gaze roaming over him in distaste, "don't act like you care what happens. You had Moriarty in your sights for years. If you had intervened earlier-"
"Then what, little brother?" Mycroft questioned, raising his head slightly, eyebrows lifting as his eyes widened just a little, a small tick tugging at the corner of his mouth that could have been a simple muscle twitch or the beginnings of a wry and humourless smirk. "You could have avoided all this mess? Are you really so naive, Sherlock?"
Jaw clenching and teeth grinding down against each other, Sherlock turned his gaze away from Mycroft. Before he could say anything further though, or disagree in the slightest, Mycroft was talking again.
"Use your brains, Sherlock, and think," Mycroft admonished, "If you wish for John Watson to continue living, then you must give him up. Sentiment, dear brother, will only drag us down in the end."
"Give him up?" Sherlock questioned, bitterness lining the words. Mycroft made it sound like John were a bad habit or a childhood safety blanket, something to be tossed to the side once you were done with it, once you had outgrown it. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, head tilting a touch to the side as he tried to get a read.
"Yes," Mycroft bit out, sharp and commanding, "give him up before it's the death of both of you."
"Haven't you heard, Mycroft? I'm already dead."
"Then you best start acting like the deadman you are, before somebody sees you and reports a walking corpse with an uncanny resemblance to the late Sherlock Holmes." But the harshness in the words didn't reflect in Mycroft's eyes and with a sigh that seemed to age him ten years, he dug a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. "Your train leaves at four. You can handle the rest, can't you? Or is that too much to ask?"
Sherlock took the envelope from Mycroft, ignoring the condescending tone lining the questions, and glanced inside. A few essentials to get him on his way, enough for him to leave London and cross the channel over into France. Enough to get him started.
"Where will you go first?"
"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock answered, his tone suggesting the opposite, the weeks following his 'death' and funeral having been used to gather information for the time of his departure, "I thought I'd visit an old friend in Austria and go from there. See where the game takes me."
"And John?" Mycroft questioned, only it wasn't a question at all. It was a reminder of his earlier statement.
Sherlock stiffened a moment before composing himself. "Watch over him for me..."
"I have a government to run, Sherlock. Do you really think I have th-"
"Don't play games with me, Mycroft."
Another twitch at the corner of Mycroft's mouth, his head lowering just a fraction. "Very well. I shall see what I can do, until your return at least." Eyes narrowing, his gaze wandered over Sherlock in thought. Even before he said his next words, Sherlock knew what they would be. "You do plan to return?"
And to that, Sherlock had no answer. As Mycroft had so kindly reminded him, Moriarty may be dead but his network still lived on in his absence. There would be those still loyal to his name and those eager to take control of his cause. Sherlock had to bring it all down, and the only way to do so would be to put his own life on the line.
He smiled, tight-lipped and thin, the creases around his eyes crinkling up, though his eyes themselves lacked mirth. "I believe I have a train to catch," he answered instead, holding up the envelope with the ticket inside before slipping it away into his jacket.
Mycroft said nothing in return. His silence said it all for him. It wasn't until Sherlock began to walk away that the elder Holmes spoke up, calling after him. "Do try not to get yourself killed, little brother. You know how Mummy gets."
But as Sherlock continued walking, his feet leading him away from the graveyard and to the world beyond, it wasn't Mycroft or their mother who played across his mind. He paused at the gateway and breathed in, not daring to look back but unable to more forward until he had said the words he had gone there to say. Though they would go unheard, Sherlock knew they needed to be said all the same or he'd forever be a ghost, haunting the graveside of a living man.
"Goodbye, John..."
Thank you for reading!