A/N: Hello, everyone. This is the final chapter of Thicker Than Water. It could be called an epilogue, I guess.
Please enjoy and review! :)
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or anything else you may recognize.
It had been a month since May received the text message that made her decide it was no longer safe for anyone involved to stay in the company of Sherlock Holmes any longer. Every day at exactly the same time, she received a similar message from Moriarty. It made shivers run the length of her spine, goosebumps popping up on her arms.
She knew it was unwise to remain for as long as she did after getting the text, but her reasons for doing so were twofold. The first was that her ankle was still in a cast and she required crutches to get around. If she left right then, she wouldn't be able to maneuver herself or Charlie very well, making life in general quite difficult. The second was a rather selfish reason in her opinion, but there it stood. She wanted Charlie to have at least a little time to experience having two parents, even if he wouldn't remember it. And, if she were being honest, she wanted to see how Sherlock would react to being a parent. He also deserved to know his son, if only for a short time.
While he wasn't one of the parents who constantly gushed over their child and fussed over them all the time, he was surprisingly good at all the activities included in parenthood. Often, she would wake to the sensation of him sliding out of the bed they now shared and the sound of Charlie whimpering. By the time she managed to get to her crutches and hopped over to the bassinet, the noise had all but ceased. Sherlock would be holding his son close to his chest, gently swaying back and forth. A small smile would cross her face and she would go back to bed, the sensation of his warm arm around her waist soon reappearing once the baby had settled enough and gone back to sleep.
It was one of those such nights when May decided she had to leave that next day or she would never be able to leave the flat. The thought made tears burn the corners of her eyes, but she managed to say sleepily, "Sherlock, you're a wonderful father to him."
He didn't answer for a moment, pulling her flush against his chest gently, avoiding the walking boot which had replaced the plaster cast at last. "I'm glad," he said at last. "I was a bit... concerned I wouldn't be. I haven't any real experience with children and..."
"—You've been doing brilliantly," she finished for him, sighing and closing her eyes, giving in at last to the gentle waves of sleep. How she wished she could just stay like that forever, playing happy families and forgetting about the troubles of the world around them. How kind life would be if that were possible.
The next morning, May's phone went off right as scheduled. With a groan, she pulled it off the night table and stared at it, preparing to delete the message as soon as she read it. Who knew darling Sherlock was such a lovely daddy? It's a shame good things end so soon. -JM
She narrowly kept in a snarl of helplessness. God damn him, she thought furiously, deleting the message. God damn him. Sherlock stirred soon after. He hadn't gotten in until two or three that morning and it was seven in the morning now.
"Another one of your mysterious text messages?" he inquired, sitting up and peeking over her shoulder only to find her home screen. An annoyed huff tickled the back of her ear. "I wish you'd let me look into it."
May rolled her eyes a little, getting out of bed carefully and going over to the bassinet to get Charlie up. "I've told you, Sherlock. It's nothing to worry about." Frankly, she was astounded she'd been able to keep it from him for this long.
A pair of warm hands massaged her shoulders lightly as she held her son in her arms, stroking the soft, downy hair on his head. "And I've told you I don't believe it for a moment. What has someone been saying to you that you don't even feel comfortable telling me about? They're threatening you, aren't they." It was not a question. Dark tones infiltrated his voice.
She turned in his arms and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Please, just forget about it. I'm handling it and it's not a big deal." The lies slipped past her lips easily. Too easily. She hated lying to him. It should not have been that easy to lie to the man she cared about.
A grumble indicating temporary acceptance of defeat issued from him unwillingly. "Why don't we see if John's managed to improve upon his breakfast making skills since yesterday," he suggested, pulling his blue robe around his shoulders loosely.
"Well, I hope he has," May laughed. "When taking into consideration the state of yesterday's eggs..."
"Were they really eggs?" Sherlock chuckled, opening the door and stepping into the hallway. "I was under the apparent delusion that they were cleverly disguised bits of rubber."
An annoyed voice shouted from the kitchen, "oi! I sense the besmirching of the good name of my cooking!" John poked his head out the door to the kitchen, eyebrows furrowed in a mockingly angry stare.
Sherlock meandered casually into the sitting room, lowering himself into the black leather chair that no one else was evidently allowed to sit in. "John," he drawled, lanky limbs splayed every which way, "surely there was no good name to besmirch in the first place?"
A towel came flying from within the kitchen, attaching itself to Sherlock's face before he had a chance to defend himself. Growling, he ripped it off and sent it back into the kitchen as a crumpled up ball. May sat down in John's plaid armchair and belly-laughed until there were tears rolling down her cheeks. Suddenly, she stopped, looking down at Charlie. Was he laughing? She tickled his stomach experimentally and he let out a small giggle. He was laughing for the first time May had ever heard.
Even though there was a big grin on her face at the miraculous little noise, she felt tears welling up. They were a combination of sad and happy tears. Happy because Sherlock, who was at that moment getting up to kneel next to the chair she was sitting in to see if he could get his son to laugh again, got to witness at least one milestone in Charlie's life. The sadness came from the knowledge that it was probably the only milestone he would be able to see. He wouldn't see him sit up, he wouldn't see him crawl, he wouldn't be able to watch as he took his first tottering steps, and he wouldn't hear the first word he ever said. All because of Moriarty. A flame of anger kindled in the pit of her stomach.
"Breakfast's ready," John called out. "It took me bloody ages to figure this out, so no snide remarks from any of you." A spatula aided him in accentuating his point through a threatening jab in Sherlock's general direction. The consulting detective was of course the very picture of innocence at that moment.
He held up his hands in defeat. "Don't worry John, I'll be on my best behavior. It's little Charles over there you'll be wanting to keep an eye on."
"Yes," May added in, smirking. "He's inherited the Holmes' troublemaking abilities, I'm afraid."
"I think his particular brand of mischief comes more from the Harrison side," Sherlock retorted as he sat down, one eyebrow raising smugly.
"And I think it's a mix of both," John interjected, dishing out plates of something steaming hot that actually smelled and looked like food. "God help the poor thing."
"Cheeky," said May, grinning and pushing into the farthest recesses of her mind that it was their last breakfast together as a somewhat unconventional family. She took a bite of the breakfast in front of her and was pleasantly greeted by the taste of one of her favorite dishes; Spanish tortillas. "Oh John, massive improvements from yesterday. This is fantastic!" she exclaimed.
"To my credit, it wasn't exactly my fault breakfast turned out the way it did," he said, beaming proudly at the praise. "The eggs were almost done and someone from the surgery rang me with a question. I told Mister So-Much-More-Clever to keep an eye on them while I took the call. Less than ten minutes later, I smell smoke coming from the kitchen."
"You didn't happen to think the eggs weren't done, get impatient, and turn up the heat all the way, did you Sherlock?" May inquired, smothering a chuckle.
Sherlock responded by busying himself with a large bite of his breakfast. Roughly ten minutes went by in companionable silence before Sherlock's phone started ringing. He groaned, tapping the answer button. "Sherlock Holmes," he grumbled, making it crystal clear to the person on the other end he was in no mood to be disturbed. "... Where?" His mood changed drastically, he sat up and May could almost hear his brain whirring into action. Someone had a case for him and it had grabbed his attention sharply. "... Now? Oh, all right. This had better be as fascinating as you're making it sound, Detective Inspector."
He pocketed his mobile phone with lightning speed, springing up from his seat. "New case. Three victims all within close proximity to each other, no clear cause of death, no signs of a struggle," he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a torrent. A grin tugged at his mouth. "Could be awhile, might not be back all day."
Before he darted from the room to change out of his pajamas, he kissed May on the cheek, gently kissed Charlie's forehead, and was gone in the blink of an eye. She watched him go in mild amusement, free hand straying up to her cheek. Her fingertips brushed against the place where she could still feel his lips on her skin. Leaving was going to take every ounce of physical and emotional strength she possessed.
"So," John's voice broke into her thoughts. "What's with the luggage you bought the other day?"
She froze, her breath catching in her throat. How could he possibly know? They'd both been gone when she came home with two small suitcases designed to pack only the essentials of her possessions. Slowly, she turned to face him, fighting against her treacherous emotions. "Sorry?" she managed to sound at least mildly nonchalant.
"I saw it in your closet two days ago when I went in there to get my laptop back from where Sherlock had left it," he explained, a hard, questioning look painting over his face. "Any particular reason you're planning to up and go without intending to tell either of us, mainly Sherlock?"
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it for a moment before she responded. "I can't stay here any longer, John," she said, hating that her voice quivered. "It's not safe."
"Why?" he questioned obstinately, arms crossed in front of his chest. "That's a bit of a rubbish answer, considering you've got Sherlock Holmes living under the same roof as you. He'd die before he let anything happen to you."
Tears filled her eyes. "That's exactly why it's not safe."
"What are you talking about?"
"Think for a moment, John. Think."
Realization crossed his face. "Is this about Moriarty again? Because Sherlock reckons he's got to make a better plan and it'll be a good long while before he tries anything again—"
"—He's been texting me obscurely threatening messages every morning for a month," she interrupted him. "He may not be acting on them now, but he's not idle by any means."
"All the more reason for you to stay here," he said, crossing the room to her. "We can protect both of you, make sure you're safe—"
For the second time in about a minute May cut across John's statement, this time with a cry of exasperation. "Don't you see though, John? It's not me or Charlie he's after, it's Sherlock. And if we stay here, he could use me or our son to get to him. And while I don't give a damn what happens to me, I will not see either one of them hurt." Tears clung to her eyelashes. "I can't."
"Surely we could think of some way to avoid this?" John inquired, the way his hands gestured helplessly to her indicating a last-ditch plea. "There's got to be a way around you leaving. I've never seen Sherlock like this before. He actually eats somewhat regularly and acts like a human being more often. I get the feeling that's all going to go away if you leave."
May shook her head, a single tear escaping and tracing the length of her cheek. "There isn't. John, please promise me you won't tell him any of this. Don't even tell him you saw me leave. Tell him you went out to get some groceries and when you came back, I was gone."
"You want me to lie."
"Yes, I'm sorry. I can't have him come looking for me," she said, looking John dead in the eye so he could see just how much she meant what she was saying. "Because if he finds me, I won't be able to leave him again."
There was a roiling boil of internal turmoil in the doctor, and for a long moment he remained motionless. Finally, his head bobbed up and down in a stiff nod. "... Okay," he murmured. "I'll help you pack."
For the next hour, the pair dug through the belongings in May's closet, electing that some items stay behind as it would not all fit in the two small suitcases. When John was getting them some tea, she discreetly packed the green satin dress in the bottom of one of the suitcases. Sentiment, Sherlock's voice chided her from the recesses of her mind. She knew it was, but it reminded her too much of him to leave it behind. They tried to stretch out the time it took to pack her things as much as they could without taking too much time. They both knew it would be vital to get her out of the flat long before Sherlock would return.
"That's the last of it, then," John finally said with a bit of a grunt as he forced the last suitcase closed. His brow wrinkled and she could see how much he didn't want her to go. The feeling was very much mutual. The flat with the funny wallpaper and the yellow smiley face in the corner on the wall had grown to be one of her favorite places in the world, but she suspected it had something to do with its inhabitants more than anything.
"Thanks for helping me," she said, at a loss for what else to say.
"Of course," he waved her off. "I suppose you should probably be leaving now?" She agreed and they stood the suitcases up on the ground, pulling the handles up. Suddenly, May couldn't stand it any longer and launched herself into John's arms, hugging him tightly.
"I'm going to miss you both so much," she whispered, shutting her eyes tightly against the fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. John returned the embrace, patting her shoulder.
"I don't think I'll miss you half as much as he will," he murmured in reply, neither of them daring to say Sherlock's name. Charlie waved his arms out of the small baby carrier she'd bought for him, sensing the sad feeling in the air. When the hug ended, May picked up the carrier, John insisting on carrying the cases for her.
Out on the street, she hailed a cab and hugged John one last time before getting into the cab. As she let go, she pressed a folded piece of paper into his hand. "Make sure he finds this," she instructed him quietly. "And be careful, always be on the lookout for Moriarty."
"I will," he said. "Take care of yourself, of both you and Charlie."
The cabbie loaded the cases into the trunk and May told him the address she wanted to go to. It was her mother's house, the one place she ever truly felt safe. In the cab, she slouched down in the seat and kissed Charlie's sleeping forehead. Once they began to drive, she watched 221B. Baker Street disappear into the distance. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes, she thought. I promise you, when Moriarty is finally brought down, I will find you again. Even if I have to go to the ends of the Earth to do it.
The cabbie chose that moment to switch on the radio. "I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston had just started to play on the station he was listening to. Even the radio stations wouldn't let her forget what she was doing. Closing her eyes slowly, she leaned her head against the cool window and allowed memories to play in her mind.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
John went and picked up a few groceries to line up with the story about May's mysterious disappearance and returned back to 221B. to engage in one of the most painful activities known to mankind. Waiting. Plodding around the flat, making tea, reading the novel he'd been unsuccessfully trying to finish for months, and watching the telly did little to make the time pass any faster.
At last, Sherlock came bounding through the door, face alight with the glow of solving a particularly difficult case. "It was the delivery man who had been there earlier that day, May," he called, not bothering to look around the flat just yet. Hearing her name made John's stomach clench unpleasantly. "No one could match the boot prints up with anything... May?" He looked around, searching for her. "John, has May gone out for something?"
John forced himself to keep a straight face. "No, Sherlock. I... I think she's gone." The words felt ugly on his tongue.
His face fell just enough to discern a difference in facial expression. "Gone? Where would she go?"
He shook his head, trying desperately not to break his composure. "I don't know, Sherlock. I went out to get some groceries and when I got back, she was gone. There's something in your chair though. I didn't touch it; I figured it was for you."
As though he were moving in a dream, he walked toward the chair and picked up the folded piece of paper. With surgical precision, he opened it and scanned the words on the paper. A smaller bit of paper had tumbled out and was held tightly between the fingers of his left hand. John might have been imagining it, but he could swear he heard a long, shuddering sigh escaping from the detective's lips. Abruptly, he straightened up and turned around, sinking down in his plush armchair, the letter clasped between his hands, which were steepled beneath his chin as they usually were when he was thinking deeply about something.
John lingered in the living room for a few moments more, but when it became apparent Sherlock was, as ever, not in the mood to share what was going on within the confines of his mind, he retreated to his bedroom. Cracking open a random book from his shelf, he tried to focus on the words on the page, but to no avail. He couldn't decide whether he was angry at Moriarty or sad about May's flight. There was a definite mix of both going on.
He had just about decided to try and close his eyes for awhile when the strains of Sherlock's violin reached him. It was a song he'd played many times before and John knew it was a slightly melancholy piece, but the rendition he was doing now sounded doubly so. There was a reflective, mournful tone to it, no doubt due to the present circumstances.
Quietly, he crept down the steps and peered around the doorway. Sherlock stood before the window, swaying gently with the pulse of the music. His head was tipped back slightly as though in thought and one dress shoe clad foot kept time against the floor. Without a fault in his playing, he said, "Chopin's Waltz in A Flat Major, Op. 69. One of the last pieces he ever wrote before his death. Also called the Farewell Waltz, as it was written for his fiancée, but he died before they were married." His voice was the flat tone associated with the sort people use when they're trying to distance themselves from an emotionally compromising event.
John said nothing, leaning against the doorframe and listening to the strains of the bittersweet music fill the air. On Sherlock's chair sat a photograph lying on top of the note from May. He craned his neck to see it and found himself swallowing a lump in his throat with great difficulty when he saw the subject of the picture.
It was the picture John had slyly snapped before their dinner with Mycroft. Their first family photograph, he remembered saying. Now it was their only family photograph.
The Farewell Waltz indeed.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
When the cab came to a halt in front of her mother's house, May had a story fully formulated for her to put off any prying questions she might have. It was simple, mostly detailed, left no room for discussion, and was completely untrue.
"Your luggage, ma'am," the cabbie said, opening the door for her.
"Thank you," she said, stepping out and taking Charlie out with her. She handed him a sum far greater than what her ride was worth and when he looked at her questioningly, ready to tell her it was far too much and he'd have to count out her change she waved him off saying, "keep the change. I don't need it." He grinned as though Christmas had come early and grasped her hand tightly.
Before gathering her things to enter her mother's house, May turned and looked up at the sky. Storm clouds had been brewing all day and now they cut loose with full force, dropping full, fat droplets of rain onto her upturned face in a regular pattern.
And as the rain mingled with her tears, she closed her eyes and smiled. Sherlock's voice was in her head again, chiding her for her sentimentality.
It's a chemical defect found in the losing side.
Well then, I guess we're all on the losing side, aren't we?
A/N: This story has taken me just over a year to write. I know most fanfiction writers would be able to crank out a ten chapter story in much less time, but taking into consideration the fact that I was also writing four other stories, I guess it's not too bad.
I hope you enjoyed reading this story. I suppose there is room for a sequel, but I'm not planning on writing one unless someone prompts me with the general idea they might like to see. My plan at the moment is to finish writing the fanfics I have that are unfinished, and not write any more unless someone sends me a prompt for a one-shot or a multi-chapter. I'm trying to write an original story that I will eventually try to get published and I want to be able to direct more of my attention to it than I currently am.
Thank you for reading this story and sticking with me to the end. :)
