Everything had gone according to plan. He wished that was something he could celebrate. He lay motionless on the stretcher, the weight of the last few minutes falling on him by degrees. He wondered how long it would take his mind to process what had happened and collapse under the weight of it all.
They reached the basement and he rolled off the stretcher, making his way to the waiting car without a second thought. The driver didn't bother to greet him, instead putting the car into gear and heading for the entrance of the garage as if the world hadn't just ended. Neither of them spoke. He watched the familiar streets fly past his tinted window. He folded his coat and placed it carefully on the seat beside him.
Everything had gone according to plan. And now he was alone again. He refused to think of John's face at the sight of his crumpled body, of the crack in his voice as he begged the mass of strangers to allow him to pass. Those things weren't important now. There would be plenty of time to think about that once the trick was complete.
The thought made him sick.
He didn't know how long it took them to reach the border. Any other day he would have counted the kilometres, noting every rock and shrub they passed. There would be so much to remember, new facts to record. It didn't matter anymore. The driver steered them onto a ramp and into a private ferry. It took no time at all for them to pull away from the shore.
He resisted the urge to turn and watch as England disappeared into the distance. He could pretend a little longer. Surely it wouldn't be that long of a trip.
'You okay, sir?' the driver asked. 'Only you could sleep a little if you like.'
'Thank you, no. I'm perfectly alright.'
And he was.
He had to be.
He told the driver to drop him off a few miles from shore, refusing the polite offer to escort him to his next destination. It would be better if Mycroft didn't know his exact whereabouts, and he could only assume that the man would be obliged to tell him. He opened the boot and pulled the long-prepared pack from its depths, shouldering it before he headed off into the setting sun. After a time, he heard the car retreating, back to the city he longed to be in once more.
He walked for several hours. It didn't matter how long. His thoughts turned to the postcard he had sent so many days ago when he first suspected Moriarty's eventual plan. He hoped it had been received. He wasn't sure what he would do if it hadn't reached its destination.
In the distance, there was a cottage. Smoke rose from the teetering chimney.
He realised he was running.
The door of the cottage opened at his slightest touch, sending flaking paint and swirling dust across the threshold. His eyes fell upon a face so much like his own, pipe in hand and reading Camus. He closed the door and latched it. His pack fell to the floor.
Sherrinford met his eyes. Something ruptured in his chest.
He dropped to his knees.
Long arms pulled him against a thin, sturdy chest. He shook and sobbed and clung to him, hands weak and desperate, his words turning to dust before they ever reached his lips. Sherrinford held him close as bitter, helpless tears soaked through the wool of his waistcoat.
The first night of many. He didn't know if he would survive.