Thanks again Miz-Joely for the edits! You're a life saver!
The slam of the downstairs door, rattling the windows with its force, announced John's arrival.
Sherlock straightened in his chair with a sigh. He'd hoped the former army doctor wouldn't come, that he wouldn't think anything was amiss until it was too late to make a scene over it.
The detective had showered, and dressed in all black, from his button up, to his suit, to his shoes. The Belstaff lay on the couch, draped across a medium sized suitcase, along with Sherlock's favorite blue scarf. Next to it lay the smaller, identical one he'd purchased for Molly.
He looked down at his phone, checking the time.
Not long now.
John clattered up the stairs, breathlessly entering the flat at a run. He stopped short and eyed his best friend, glancing at the couch and taking in the baggage. His eyes widened at the confirmation of his fears and his jaw clenched in fury.
This time, he did punch Sherlock, who braced himself for the impact and didn't say a word, merely rubbing the abused area. A text alert lit up Sherlock's phone and both men froze, staring at each other; John with a bit of desperation and Sherlock with defeat.
Sherlock recovered first, walking to the couch slowly, with none of his usual manic energy. He took his time, running his fingers over the two scarves that lay on top of the luggage before asking.
"Who told you?" he asked, standing in front of his bag, looking down at it, and his hands, blankly.
John cleared his throat, and watched the detective carefully as he replied.
"Wiggins. He showed up at the house saying that you'd gone off your rocker and that I didn't have a lot of time to get over here and talk some sense into your stubborn arse."
It was obvious that John was quoting Wiggins verbatim and Sherlock snorted, somewhat amused, even amidst the depressing situation they faced.
"He would." The detective's mouth quirked up for a brief moment; Wiggins hadn't even been told what was going on. Sherlock had to admit; the man had the gift for deduction.
"You, you can't." John's voice broke. "You can't go. You don't have to now, you were pardoned for dealing with Moran." His tone was pleading, and he stared down at his hands which were entwined in front of him.
It was true; Sherlock had been fully pardoned for the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen following the events on Bart's rooftop. It hadn't really mattered to him in the face of everything else that had occurred though.
Sherlock turned, giving a shuddering sigh.
"What's the point in staying?" he asked, his voice weary and his eyes blank. "She's gone. She left me and I'll never get her back."
John's fists clenched. "No, no Sherlock, we need you. She needs you. She'll come back, just wait, just wait. She loves you. You know she does. Molly's loved you as long as I've known you, probably a lot longer."
Sherlock shook his head slowly and picked up his bag, along with the Belstaff and scarves, and moved towards the door, but John blocked his path.
"It's only six months, John." He kept his voice from wavering, protecting his friend from the truth. He didn't count on John's next words.
"Sherlock, don't. Don't throw everything you've built for yourself away." He looked down. "I know. I talked to Mycroft."
Sherlock's head shot up and his jaw clenched. He'd specifically told his older brother that he didn't want anyone to know what the inevitable outcome of his mission would be. He cursed inwardly. Now John would be almost impossible to get rid of.
"Mycroft is wrong," the detective replied, employing his best sincere face. John wasn't fooled so he tried another tactic.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, no one can kill me, remember? Not even your wife."
The joke fell flat and Sherlock gave up.
"Listen, John. I'm going. I can't stay here, I can't live without her. This is better for both of us. For all of us."
He brushed past John, leaving him paralyzed in the flat and clattered down the stairs, climbing into the waiting car and snapping the driver to go. They pulled away from the curb just as his best friend in the world burst through the door of 221 Baker Street, shouting for Sherlock to stop. The detective watched as John faded in the mirror as they left him behind.
"You don't have to."
Sherlock and Mycroft stood on the runway staring at the plane, both with a cigarette in one hand. Mycroft had his phone in the other and Sherlock held his bag and coat.
Sherlock merely raised a brow at his brother.
"Sentiment, dear brother? Hardly your area, is it?" Sherlock took another puff on his cigarette. "After all, I'd think you'd be even more firm in your convictions after seeing what happened when I let it creep into my life."
Mycroft sighed heavily and looked down to the ground.
"While I do not deny that I believe sentiment to be at best a distraction, and at worst, destruction, I do feel compelled to inform you that its effect on you was hardly a detrimental one."
Sherlock eyed him, and Mycroft's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Miss Hooper," he paused before correcting himself. "Doctor Hooper, is a strong woman, who for some reason I have been unable to fathom, loves you with everything she has within her."
"Not anymore," Sherlock muttered under his breath, causing Mycroft to shoot him a glare.
"As always you," he began, and Sherlock joined in, finishing the sentence with him.
"See but do not observe, yes Mycroft, thank you very much."
He put out his cigarette and shifted his bag to the other hand.
"Now, dear brother, you may observe me climbing into that plane and flying off to the devil only knows where to begin a suicide mission."
His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears and he cringed. Mycroft looked at him with a brotherly affection he'd only seen a couple of times in his life and it hurt Sherlock to know that he would be missed by Mycroft as well as John and the rest of Sherlock's small circle of friends.
He hoped that Molly would miss him as well.
He would miss her until his mission was complete.
Two weeks later, Sherlock huddled in a shelter, waiting on his informant to show while trying to escape a torrential downpour. It was futile; he was soaked to the bone, and his teeth were chattering.
He hugged his thin jacket around him, cursing the fact that his Belstaff had been so drenched with blood a few days before that he'd had to discard it, along with his favorite blue scarf. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, burying his fingers into the soft material of the other scarf he'd brought, his only reminder of Molly.
Sherlock cursed as a gunshot rang out and the sound of a bullet making contact with the wood not far from his head had him scrambling out of his shelter and taking off down the street, as far as his legs would carry him.
It was ironic, he thought as he ran, that Mycroft had thought he'd last six whole months. Of course, when his brother had made that deduction, Sherlock had had nothing hindering his own deductive abilities. Now, ever since Molly had left him, and his long-denied heart had shattered, Sherlock found himself missing things an alarming amount of the time. It was as if Molly had taken everything he was with her when she walked out of Baker Street, leaving a shell of the man behind her.
Oh well, it didn't matter now. He sprinted around the corner of a building, hearing shots uncomfortably close behind him and nearly ran directly into a black car. He skidded to a halt, his brow furrowing as he tried to figure out what it was doing there. His eyes flicked over it, taking mere seconds to examine it.
It was heavily armored, with bulletproof glass in the windows and heavy doors that Sherlock estimated each weighed the equivalent of a small adult. He glanced over his shoulder, turning to the side, ready to run again, but was stopped by the door flying open, a boot clad foot following it, then a small hand reaching out to clasp his wrist and yank him into the vehicle with surprising strength for such a tiny limb.
He grunted as he collapsed into the leather seat and the door slammed shut behind him, and again as the car peeled off, weaving amongst the crowded streets with a terrifying speed. He realized after a second that he was laying on someone and shifted, looking wide-eyed down into the face of a teary, but grinning, Molly Hooper.
Hehe, didn't see that coming, did ya?
