A/N: A songfic prompt fill for "Let Her Go" by Passenger. :) x

Go

Sherlock was seated in Mycroft's leather armchair at one of his secret offices hidden in the belly of London. The detective let his legs dangle from one end of the armrest while he leaned back against the other. Staring up at the ceiling, he tossed an apple into the air, caught it, then tossed it again.

"You won't regret this?" asked his older brother, not looking up from his documents.
"No. Why would I? I'm going to die in six months." Sherlock replied, continuing to spin the apple into the air.
"Nevertheless—"
"Since when did you you get so sentimental?" asked Sherlock, sitting up abruptly, swinging his legs back onto the floor.
"I'm merely being practical." said Mycroft, smirking.
"How is this being practical?" Sherlock scoffed, throwing the apple at his brother.

Mycroft caught the apple with one hand then placed it neatly on his desk. He sighed and leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

"Don't pretend she isn't important to you, Sherlock," Mycroft remarked, eyeing his brother seriously.
"I've let her go. And that's that." replied the detective stoically.

Sherlock picked his coat off the coat rack and was about to leave the room when his brother spoke again.

"Would you like me to tell her that?" asked Mycroft coolly.

There was a pause and Sherlock's lip twitched slightly at his brother's words. He sucked in a sharp breath and reached for the doorknob.

"Yes. If you could." uttered the detective, before exiting his brother's office and slamming the door behind him.

It was his last morning in London and Sherlock was up early. He took his last coffee at Baker Street and stole one last crumpet from Mrs Hudson's cake tin, leaving her a little note to say thank you and goodbye. The Watsons would have received their letter by now. It was better this way. Farewells were always strained and awkward.

Soon, he was out of the place, not turning to look back once. He got into the car his brother had readied for him and headed to the private airfield where he was to depart.

Mycroft had already arrived and was standing next to his own car parked next to the private plane that was to take Sherlock away.

"Is everything ready?" asked the detective.
"Yes." his brother answered swiftly, "Are you?"
"I have to be, don't I?" Sherlock replied with a quick, wry smile.
"Just one thing, Sherlock."
"What now?" asked Sherlock impatiently. He was in no mood for Mycroft's dramatic antics.

Mycroft reached into his pocket and brought a phone out. He swiped at its screen and tapped at a few things before handing the phone to Sherlock.

"What's this?" asked Sherlock, frowning at his brother.
"Tell Molly yourself," said Mycroft, before walking away.

The screen of the phone blinked with her name as the faint sounds of ringing reached the detective's ears. His reaction should have been to automatically end the call and to hand the phone back to his brother. Instead, he put the phone to his ear and shut his eyes. His jaw clenched without him knowing as he inhaled a sharp, frustrated breath.

"Hello?" came her voice.
"Molly, it's me." he said.
"Sherlock, hi."
"So, today is the day…"
"The day for what?"
"That I leave London. And I want you to go live a good life—"
"Sherlock, what are you talking about—"
"Goodbye, Molly," he interrupted, taking a deep breath, "Go, and…be safe. Take care."

The line went dead and the detective had to take a moment to gather his wits about himself. He was going to get on that plane to get to a mission which would kill him. He had told everyone - the Watsons, Mrs Hudson and even Greg - but the one who had saved him from the very beginning was the one soul he could not tell.

You won't regret it?

His brother's words rang in his head. No, he would not let himself regret it. Sherlock returned the phone to his brother, gave him a stoic handshake and a nod goodbye. Steeling himself, Sherlock shrugged his coat even tighter around himself and boarded the plane.

One of the two flight attendants attending to his flight greeted him, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Where is my seat?" he asked brusquely.
"It's through there, Mr Holmes," the attendant said, "Past the maroon curtain."
"Thank you," muttered the detective, as he made his way forward.

He parted the curtain hastily, as though it would accelerate time. There were only four luxurious leather seats in this tiny plane and to his surprise, one was already occupied.

"Molly…" he said, his eyes wide with surprise.

The pathologist smiled and got up from her seat. She walked up to the detective, stopping just a few inches from him.

"You were just going to go…to your death, and not tell me?" she asked quietly.
"Why are you here? How —"
"Answer my question, Sherlock Holmes." she interrupted with a fierce glint in her eyes.
"I just wanted you to live your life. Solely yours," he said, "Not one embroiled with all my shenanigans…"

His words made her laugh and he eyed her curiously.

"So, now that you know that I know, do you still want me to go…live my life?" Molly asked, reaching to dust off an imaginary piece of lint off his collar.
"Yes, yes of course," he muttered, still in shock that she was here on the plane.
"Fine," she said, taking a step back from him.

Molly walked away from the detective, but returned to where she had been sitting and settled herself comfortably. She reached down into her bag and pulled out a book and her iPod. She was just about to put the earphones in when Sherlock sat down beside her and stopped her.

"I don't understand." he whispered, his jaw was tight.

Gently, Molly removed his hand from around her wrist and leaned over to kiss him.

"You tell me to go live my life," she said, leaning back against her seat, "That's exactly what I'll do."
"No, you're not coming with me—"
"Try and stop me, Sherlock Holmes," she said, turning to stare at him with determined, bright eyes.
"I'm going to die, Molly," he said, "I really am this time,"
"Your brother isn't always right, you know," she said with a chuckle.
"Well, I'm afraid he is and you will just be wasting your ti—"
"Sherlock Holmes," she exclaimed, cutting him off.

He stared at her, his pale eyes shining but perplexed.

"You've just told me to go live my life." she said, taking his hand. "So stop telling me what to do."

The detective looked down at the firm hand that held his, then looked up at her. Molly seemed so unfazed, gazing calmly back at him.

"Even if it's for six months," she whispered, wrapping her fingers tightly around his hand, "I will not let you die alone, Sherlock."
"Maybe I won't have to," he said, his former spark returning to his eyes.
"That's the spirit," she said, chuckling as he leaned in to kiss her.

When their faces parted, he leaned forward and popped another quick kiss on her forehead.

"So, shall we go?" he asked, smiling at her.
"What are we waiting for?" Molly answered, smiling confidently in return.