Sherlock replayed the scene of Magnussen's murder probably the hundredth time in his head. Ninety-seventh, to be precise. There was nothing he would have done different. He didn't regret it. He had made a mistake. Not when he pulled the trigger but when he underestimated him. He was so occupied with his own brilliance when that bastard was just playing with him. He made a horribly big mistake and he knew he would have to pay for it. Apparently with his own life, sooner or later.

He had been in custody for two days when Mycroft finally came to him with an offer. He couldn't decline it this time. Going to prison would have either meant the end of him by criminals he had put there or if he survived somehow, boredom would do the job and he would definitely lost his mind. So his brother's idea, despite common opinion, was quite merciful. There was only one last thing had to be arranged. One last favour to ask Mycroft.

Sherlock was sitting on the toloused bed in his almost empty cell. His elbows on his knees, his head hanging between his shoulders, his feet drumming on the grey concrete floor. A cigarette was spinning among his fingers, his last one. He didn't want to waist it. It would be needed when Mycroft told him that he was not allowed out on his last night spent in England. Now he was waiting.

As the plain steel door opened he sprang up impatiently. Mycroft stepped in and slowly closed the door behind himself. He sighed massaging his temple before he spoke.

'Four guards will accompany you. They will watch every possible way out of the flat.' He stopped to watch his brother who already grabbed his coat and scarf. 'A car will wait for you at 6am. If you don't appear the guards will break in and will search for you. If you are not there Molly Hooper will be arrested for helping you. Is that clear?'

'You don't think I am that dumb that I try to escape, do you?'

'No, of course not, dear brother. I only interpret the council's decision. Personally I know you won't. There's no point.'

Sherlock only nodded while standing in front of Mycroft. His impatience was clear from the rhythmical clenching of his fists. The elder Holmes sighed and rolled his eyes before opening the door and let Sherlock out before himself.

The ride was too slow for Sherlock's taste. He was just looking out the window during the whole time, drumming on his knees impatiently. He was deep in his thoughts as the city's lights passed in front of his eyes and he really didn't see them. He was constantly repeating to himself what and how to say when he arrived. He had to see her for one last time. He needed it. And he didn't give a shit if it seemed sentimental.

'Are you sure it is a good idea?' Mycroft broke the silence.

Sherlock only nodded with a hum not facing him.

'What do you expect from her?'. The elder Holmes pushed.

'Nothing.' Sherlock mildly shook his head but his eyes were still on the busy street outside.

'Don't you think it would be best for everyone if...?' Mycroft continued but was interrupted by his brother.

'No. Stop this. You don't know anything about it.' He stopped frowning. 'It's about sentiment. How would you understand it?' Sherlock turned and tilted his head smiling mockingly.

Mycroft straightened himself; he sat his jaw and with his chin up looked in front of himself stiffly. Silence took its place between them once again.

'Thank you, Mycroft.' Sherlock's grave voice made him turn his head. 'Seriously, for everything. I know I've always been a charge on you. Thank you for what you've done for me.' Sherlock looked deep into his brother's eyes.

'There were good days...' Mycroft swallowed hard, his grip tightened on his umbrella, his fingers became white.

'Yes, there were.' Sherlock smiled shortly. The car drew aside and the brothers felt it to stop.

A guard opened the door for Sherlock and after a last glance at his brother he got out of the car and headed to the building where Molly was peacefully napping in her armchair not knowing anything about murders, media moguls and exiles.