He had spent a long time deciding whether or not to say goodbye.
He knew, logically, he shouldn't. John had no significant memory of him and would therefore not benefit from a goodbye at all, and it would be unwise to make an even more memorable impression upon him before leaving for good.
Logically, of course.
In reality, it came down to the age old scenario. Head vs. heart, isn't it? Of course it is. Always, always, the final battle is always head vs. heart, always between two of the most significant and contradictory traits of humanity: sentiment and logic.
But Sherlock knew he need not fight this battle. He had no enemy. Logic wins by default because there is no head vs. heart without heart.
He had been wrong, though. Before.
A long time ago.
Before the fall, before everything, he had had a heart.
And he knew it. Somehow, he had always known, subtly, underneath the clutter and bustle of his mind...it was there. He knew it and he was ashamed of it and he liked to pretend that it wasn't true.
And how good at pretending he was. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when Sherlock Holmes became a specialist in crime. He convinced himself it was true, convinced himself so well that it became true. The mask he wore was not just ostensible. It was a part of who he was.
But he never felt his heart, never really felt it, until it was on flames, until it was burning with black acrid smoke that weighed him down and polluted his mind. He did not feel his heart until Moriarty did it for him, proved to him that he everyone has their pressure points and so does Sherlock. That was Sherlock's defeat, that was what Moriarty had wanted to do all along and that's what he accomplished.
Proving to Sherlock what he had always been afraid of: that he is only human.
But it didn't particularly matter much anymore.
Nothing really did, he supposed. Everything that had happened, since that day...it was like some sort of strange fever dream. It was the past now. Done. Over. Fading from memory day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.
How fragile memory is. How utterly fragile.
What heart he ever had had been lost...everything had been lost.
Well, not everything. It was just John that was gone. Sherlock could still go on. He could still live at 221b and solve cases and use nicotine patches and do experiments.
He would just be alone. But it would be fine, it would be just like before he met John.
But not really. Nothing would ever be the same. Never.
He would not say goodbye, then. That was fine, of course, he did not want any farewells. His departure would be clean and swift and effortless, just like everything he did, and goodbyes would only prolong it.
It was entirely unnecessary.
He had already said goodbye three years ago, anyway. Up on the rooftop, stepping on the ledge ever so cautiously, so careful not to lose his balance. Even at the end, there was a part of him that did not want to die. A part of him that was scared.
But he knew he wouldn't die, not if he did this right. He knew this, and it nearly killed him that John didn't, that John couldn't know.
And falling...Moriarty was right, it was like flying. And he had been afraid, just for one second he had been afraid, that he would hit the ground. But he didn't. He had had a plan and, unsurprisingly, it worked.
He wished, though, that he could have had that last conversation with John face-to-face. It would have been nice to be close to him one last time. To see his face and sense his warmth and to simply feel his presence. To know that he was not alone.
But he knew it wouldn't be enough. He would have always wished for more. More time, more truth, more...more life, he supposed.
He did die that day. Some part of him, something important inside of him died the day he fell, and the rest of him died the day John uttered the words, "Who are you?"
He was just a husk now. An empty shell. And everything was dark inside...except for his mind, which shone as brightly as ever among the dimness of ordinary people.
But it wasn't enough. It never had been.
His key still worked. Mrs. Hudson had rented out 221b to other tenants, obviously, from the state of the doorknob, but had never changed the lock.
He wondered whether she had hoped.
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. Whoever those tenants had been, they were long gone. The room was bare and harsh and unfamiliar. Dust floated through the rays of sunlight that spilled from the window and outlined the darkness. The windows hadn't been washed and he could see Baker Street, distorted by grime, through the dirty glass.
This was not his home. It had been, once.
The wallpaper had not been changed. This felt important to him. He looked up and saw the yellow, bullet-pocked face smiling at him, and he couldn't decide whether he felt like smiling back or shooting it.
Like meeting an old friend, he thought fleetingly.
And he walked up to the wall slowly and traced the fleur-de-lis pattern and he said goodbye.
It wasn't enough, though. It never would be.
Trafalgar Square and St. Bart's and Montague Street and Charing Cross and Scotland Yard and Covent Garden and every place he had ever been and every case he had ever worked on here in London, his home, the only home he had ever had…
And he had to leave it. Three years ago, he had to leave it, every street of it that he had memorized like the pale lines of his palm, and now he had come back to London just to leave it again.
He closed his eyes. He should not have come here. It was a waste of time and energy, and all because of a little sentiment.
It hurt, too. Goodbyes.
And the goodbye three years ago had hurt him enough for a lifetime. He wouldn't-he couldn't-do it again. He knew this with an unfathomable intensity and he refused to penetrate the thought any further. He knew it and only it and not the reasons why and he did not want to know why because then that would find proof that he is human and he certainly did not want to entertain that notion.
He opened his eyes and closed his sight to the room. He did not want to see it anymore. He was busy and he had to leave in order to catch the flight Mycroft arranged for Berlin and that was all he needed right now.
It would be alright, he thought. Germany is nice. Plenty of crime in Germany. Plenty of opportunities to brush up on the language, not that he needed brushing up.
He would, of course, be alone again. But it would be alright. He would be alright.
Sherlock brushed the dust off his coat and left his home again; this time without any intention of returning. And he pretended that he would be alright, pretended so well that he almost believed it.
Almost.
The door slammed behind him and shuddered from age. He did not look back.
