14.

Late into the night, I awoke with the bitter taste of a nightmare still lingering on my tongue. I was freezing and stiff, shivering without a blanket. I couldn't remember what I had dreamt. I wasn't sure that I wanted to. There was no sign that Sherlock was awake, or even home. No music drifted from the living room. No pen scratched against the coffee table, correcting sheet music. I ran a hand across my face, trying to wipe the sleep away. As I came back to myself, I began running the numbers in my head. I probably had just enough saved from the month to buy a last-minute ticket to Seattle out of Heathrow. It was expensive to travel on a whim, but I could swing it.

I sat up and went over to the small desk that sat against the wall. I logged in to my laptop, still rubbing at my eyes, and bought my ticket. The cost was sickening, but I tried to ignore it. I would check a bag, probably, but I paid the carry-on fee just in case. As I went about my business, a sinking feeling settled over my stomach again. All I could do was carry on and try to convince myself that this was right. But it felt like the only. I tried to take my shot, or at least test the waters, and failed.

The timing was horrible anyway. It was good that I was getting out of London. Everything I said to my dad had been the truth. With each passing day, the fear that nagged at the back of my mind grew louder. Leaving was the safe thing to do. The smart thing.

Safe.

Smart.

I closed my laptop and stood up, stretching. It would take the rest of the night, but I planned to drag my suitcase down and start packing. My flight left the next afternoon. I would be in Seattle only three days before the new year. I texted Dana the flight information, knowing that she wouldn't see it until morning. It would give her enough time to go to work, ready her place for company, and pick me up at the airport.

I took one last look at my door, listening intently for any sign that Sherlock was around.

There was nothing.

xxx

0o0o0 Sherlock o0o0o0

I had never been one for a stroll. A waste of time, usually. This night was far different. I found the flat too confining, music too dull. Every thought was bent away from them and toward her. Katherine. Ridiculous, really. Infuriating. In the States before the New Year. Had to be leaving tomorrow or the day after, then. She would be packing soon. I thought back to her behavior in the kitchen. Nervousness. Fidgeting. Avoiding my gaze.

Not something she had dreamt up herself, then. Or there would be no reason for such guilt. If that had indeed been guilt. No. Impossible – no reason for anything else. Guilty. That was satisfactory enough. She was leaving me to look for her replacement, she should feel guilty.

I pulled the collar of my coat nearer to my neck, ducking against the late-night mist. In my stomach, there was something brewing I never had cared for. The anticipation of absence. Of change. First, it had been John. The fool who decided to enlist again, as I suspected he would. Went through months of moping. Telling me he didn't feel useful. That he needed to go somewhere he was appreciated.

John himself was not useless, never could have been. His emotions, however, were. Torturing himself over nothing. Over ghosts. He was a doctor – helped people every day, all day. An army doctor. My friend who had woken up one day, put on his uniform, and never come back.

And then his sister had come into my life. Turned it upside down with her whinging. All long hair and attitude. I wondered at that hair. And her demeanor was her own. Nothing like John, except in the eyes. Their eyes were the same.

If she decided to stay in Seattle, I would not see them anymore.

Katherine was leaving.

For the best, really. Mycroft had warned me of her. Of myself. She cared too much, I knew she did, and it was wrong. It was wrong because it was me. It was my life she was affecting. Getting me used to her, dependent on her company, only to disappear. It was changing me, and I didn't care for it. Taking her coat. Putting on the kettle. Wanting to ask her to stay.

Ridiculous.

I kept walking. Aware of the two mouth breathers from the Yard trailing behind me, but not bothered enough to stop them. Katherine wouldn't have it.

Katherine was leaving.

Katherine could do what she wanted. She was grown. A Watson. John had never listened to me either. Telling her to stay would be fruitless. A betrayal of principle. This did nothing to settle me. No matter how many times I muttered it under my breath. I kept walking.

And then I stopped.

The locks. Changed, but still vulnerable. Two men on me were two men less watching the flat. Watching her. I turned on my heel, heading back. Thoughtless of me, but easily rectified. I passed Lestrade's men with no consequence. I realized that if Katherine stayed, she would be forced to weather the coming storm. The east wind. Moriarty's game was far from over. It was better that she leave now. Smarter.

Safer.

John would expect more of me. Better behavior. At least a hint of an instinct to protect his sister. And I had it. More than a hint. An ache.

Thick in the head, John would have called me. Right, too. He also would never have allowed Katherine to move into my flat. The thought was nearly absurd. It was not within the realm of my imagination to think that anyone allowed Katherine to do anything.

I should have been grateful she'd arrived at the conclusion to leave London on her own.

What I felt was far from gratitude.

It was misery.

xxx

0o0o0 Katherine o0o0o0

I fell back asleep in dry clothes, under the covers, next to my overstuffed luggage. I'd checked the airline weight limits four times. I wasn't sure that I'd come in under the wire. I was definitely pushing it. When I regained consciousness, I bolted upright at once. I listened as hard as I could, eyes closed. There was still nothing to indicate that anyone else was home.

Whatever hope I'd awakened with deflated at once. I felt like a schoolgirl, waiting by the phone for a call that would never come. I dragged myself out of bed and ran through my check list. Ticket. Carry on. Purse.

Sherlock.

I shook my head in frustration and stomped off to take a shower. I couldn't let myself to begin to mope. If I did, the realization that this was a mistake would settle in. And I would be out hundreds of dollars for a plane ticket. It was too late. My wallet had bled. I was committed. And yet, all throughout my shower, I wondered if I hadn't acted prematurely. The shower was a terrible place to try to ignore worries. There always seemed to be all the time in the world, or at least all the hot water in the world, to stand there and dwell on everything I would rather ignore.

And when I thought of how flippant Sherlock had been about my leaving, I scrubbed my scalp until it stung. A good exfoliation technique, but wholly unnecessary. In my anger, I managed to douse my eyes with suds. And that proceeded to make everything worse. I started scrambling around, swearing as loudly as I could manage. Sight had never seemed more vital as I managed to knock over every bottle in the shower. The last of them landed on my foot and I started to howl in frustration and anger.

The door flew open. "Katherine?" Sherlock shouted. "What are you doing, making all of this noise?"

"I have shampoo in my eyes, you sod!" I screamed at him. He startled me so badly my knees began to shake and that somehow only made me angrier. "Get out!"

The door slammed. There was a beat of silence. "Are you alright?"

"NO." I shouted. "I am not. I can't bloody well see, now can I? And what are you doing here? I thought you were out."

"I was." He said calmly through the door. "I fell asleep in the living room early this morning."

Asleep. I should have checked the flat before I jumped in the shower. Now, here he was checking on me. Calm. Civil. Bloody infuriating. "You should have said something."

"Again, asleep." Sherlock said. I could hear the annoyance in his voice. I was glad of that, at least. "Until you started yowling and woke the whole street."

"Pardon me. If I bother you so, stop talking, please, and leave me the hell alone." I threw a sopping washcloth in what I thought was the direction of the bathroom door. If he heard it, he said nothing. A long-suffering sigh was my only answer. I wanted to hurl the whole tub at him. I imagined it happily though I knew it was well beyond impossible.

"I'm coming in."

"The hell you are." I snarled. "You stay out there and away from me, Sherlock, I'm in the shower."

"Katherine, I'm coming in." He said. The door creaked open and I heard his shuffling steps on the tile. I was frozen, aghast that he had ignored my right to privacy. "I'm picking up your towel. And I will then stick it through the curtain."

"Sure." I said, but I could feel my anger dissipating. I still couldn't see. What he was doing… I needed it. I never would have asked him. I would have stood in the shower trying to dig the shampoo out of my eyes until the water ran cold.

I reached forward. Sherlock stuck his hand in the shower, holding my towel. I took it from him as carefully as possible, trying to avoid touching his hand. I turned off the water, eyes still stinging, and wiped at my face with the towel without ever opening the curtain. "Thank you." I said stiffly. "Now, get out."

He didn't move. "Katherine…"

I stilled. Heart pounding, I swallowed the urge to stand there and listen to whatever it was he wanted to say. His voice sounded so different, so soft, that it frightened me. I wrapped the towel he'd handed me around my body and tried not to think about my eyes, still irritated and streaming with involuntary tears. "Can we maybe pick a more appropriate time to have this conversation?"

"You have a towel."

"Sherlock."

"I apologize." He said quickly. It sounded as though he were trying to get the words out before he thought better of them. I bit my tongue and let him. "If you are leaving because being here makes you… unhappy..." He sighed. "I recognize the fact that you must find my behavior odd. My manner inexcusable. If this is the reason you cannot make this place your home, I truly apologize."

Only when I was sure that he was done did I begin speaking. I did my best to squint, only just able to make out his silhouette beyond the shower curtain. "It isn't you." I said quietly. "I swear it isn't you."

The silence was deafening. He had humbled himself beyond belief to try and bridge the gap that was baffling him so. Sherlock was trying to understand my decision. He wasn't asking me to stay. Somehow, though, his effort lessened the sting I had dealt with since the night before. I could hear the unasked question lingering between us.

Then, why?

Finally, he cleared his throat. The gap between us yawned wider still. "Good."

Through the curtain, I saw him move as though he were turning on his heel. And within seconds, he had gone from the bathroom and closed the door behind him. I pulled the curtain back, mouth agape as I stared at the spot where he had been. There was no explanation for his behavior that ran through my mind that gave me any comfort. We were back to square one.

I wanted to kick myself. I should have tried to explain further. I should have made more of an effort, as he had. I couldn't do it now. I could feel the wall between us even from rooms away. He wouldn't be opening up anytime soon, if ever again. I kept making missteps I never anticipated. I couldn't. In order to anticipate them, I would need to be able to anticipate Sherlock. That, as always, was impossible.

I stepped out of the shower and defogged the mirror. I sighed and combed through my hair, drying it before I sneaked out of the bathroom to dress and haul my suitcase to the living room. Sherlock was pacing there, and I was surprised to find that he was in his pajamas and robe. He had changed when he'd come back to the flat so late. I fully expected to find him in his suit, wrinkled from a night on the sofa. When I walked in with my things, he paused.

"Going?"

I shrugged. "I need to run by, say goodbye to my dad. Probably will just call my mum."

He nodded. "Safe flight."

"Thanks."

Sherlock was facing me, his back to the windows. I stood near enough to the door that it might have taken me four steps to open it, but I couldn't seem to motivate myself to move. I wanted to say more, to leave it some other way between the two of us. I could think of nothing. The flat went quiet. Deathly still before the air itself seemed to suck in a breath… and the world exploded.

xxx

Everything smelled like smoke. I was aware of my name being called, but it sounded as if from somewhere far away. A place completely out of reach. When I opened my eyes, the air seemed to shimmer with the introduction and abrupt absence of flame. I coughed, gasping as I became aware of the sharp pain in my head and back. I'd been thrown against the door, the knob landing squarely in my spine.

I tried to move my head, to find my suitcase, but hands were suddenly on either side of it. Checking me over. My ears rang with the echo of a thousand fires and bells. The sound of my breath was louder in my own head than the sound of the outside world. It was as if I had stepped into a tunnel and it had cocooned itself around my aching body. I felt raw, isolated. I blinked heavily, trying to take in the form of the person whose hands fluttered around head.

Sherlock was bleeding from several cuts on his face and arms. I could see glass in his hair. The sun caught it strangely and threw fragmented rainbows around him. In my haze, he looked almost… divine. Even as he shimmered, he looked worse than I felt. I had the distinct image in my head of watching him be thrown toward me, as if he were nothing more than a ragdoll. "Katherine, try not to move." He said. "And do try to say something."

I closed my eyes. "Ouch."

He stilled, blinking as if in surprise and amusement. "Well. That was something."

There were police sirens in the distance, growing closer with each second. To my ears, sensitive and still ringing, it sounded as though they were screaming. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." He said and held up his hands to show me. "Scratched." One of his hands reached back behind me, inspecting the places that I could already feel beginning to bruise. I winced and he stilled. "Hurt?"

"Just a little." I said lamely. In all honesty, I was beginning to feel a curious numbness from the waist down. Swelling around my spine where I'd slammed into the doorknob. Undoubtedly, there was enormous pressure on my vertebrae. Only when the swelling went down would I be able to move around freely. I sighed heavily, aware that my vision was slipping. I was so tired. "Damn." I murmured.

"Katherine?"

"I'm going to miss my flight."

I fell over an edge I hadn't been aware I was standing on. I was awake and not. There were people all around me, even when I was totally alone. My non-dreams were feverish and not entirely without pain. I was jostled and shifted and more than once, bright lights were shone in my face. I wanted to tell whoever was doing it that they were a total wanker. To turn them off and leave me in peace to sleep.

On more than one occasion, I thought I heard my dad's voice in the fray. I thought, fleetingly, that someone should let him know I was fine. Tired, but fine. But in that small awake and not place, I wasn't sure that anyone knew that. It seemed like I spent weeks floating in that strange state of consciousness. Perhaps it was only hours.

When I surfaced from whatever tide I was drifting on, I was in my room. My suitcase was standing in a corner. And my dad was leaned back in my desk chair, eyes closed, with his arms across his chest. I was propped up on pillows, bandaged a few times on my arms. A butterfly band-aid on my cheek. I tried not to be too eager and take my time trying to move, testing each area of my body slowly. I didn't want to shout and cause a fuss. When I was satisfied that I could wiggle my toes and fingers, I tried to sit up… and everything went sideways.

I bit down on my tongue so hard that I tasted blood, trying to keep myself from waking my father. Definitely a bruise. A debilitating monster of one. I paused, realizing it could have been much worse. Sherlock and I could have died.

An explosion.

I wished I was able enough to gather my suitcase and leave for the airport straight away. What I'd told my dad was more on the nose than I realized. I really was in over my head here.

"KW?" My Dad asked. He'd awakened without my notice. I turned my attention on him, blinking in surprise.

"Hi, Dad." I said. I sounded a bit sheepish. I knew that he was upset, had to be. Considering I'd just had a slight brush with death.

He raised one eyebrow, the perfect picture of skepticism. "I don't need to worry, do I?"

I chewed my bottom lip. "Sorry."

"Katherine." He shook his head. "You can't give me another scare like that. Understood?"

I could make no promises. "What are they saying about it?"

"Gas leak." Dad pointed to the windows, the world outside of which had gone dark. I'd been out for longer than I thought. Definitely missed my flight. "Reporters have been down there all day. Vultures, the lot. They say accident and everyone calms down." He looked at me again. And there was a knowing there that made my stomach sink. "I think I know better."

"Gas leak." I said, trying to skirt around what he was implying. What I knew had to be the truth. That someone had targeted Sherlock… targeted me. Moriarty.

"I want you on a plane for the States tomorrow."

"Funny, you. Considering I can't even sit up right now." I muttered.

"Dana will be here to collect you by the afternoon. She saw all this madness on the telly and phoned straight away."

"You told her to come get me?" I demanded, shoving myself up despite the pain. Nausea rolled through me. My vision faded and focused – in and out – for at least thirty seconds. It was difficult to hold on to anger when I could barely stay conscious.

"I did." He said. "I'll pay the airfare. I know you lost the money on your first ticket."

"I can't just leave –"

"You're going to be on a flight out of this place tomorrow, Katherine." Dad stood from the chair with his fists clenched at his sides. Anger. Fear. "If I never again tell you what to do, by God, I'm telling you now. I sent your mother to the hospital for a sedative. Losing one child is enough. Do you hear what I'm saying to you?"

I felt small. I was schooled. I knew better than to open my mouth and argue. Losing one child is enough. I lowered my gaze and nodded my head. The anger left his face immediately and in its place was exhaustion. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Would you like me to send Sherlock in?"

"He's here?" I asked. "Is he alright?"

"Wouldn't let a medic touch him until you'd been looked over." My dad's voice dropped so that only I could hear him. "Don't know if he'd want you to know that. Not only is he here, but I've had the infinite pleasure of meeting Mycroft."

"Infinite pleasure?"

"Ultimate misfortune?"

"Better." I said. "A proper response."

No smile. There was a small glimmer than sprang to life in his eyes, my only indication that he'd registered any humor in the situation. He was too tired for anything else. "Sherlock?" He asked again.

I nodded. "Please."

My dad ducked his head and disappeared through my bedroom door. I didn't think a full minute passed before Sherlock was breezing in. A little too quickly to be totally unconcerned. He looked me over without speaking, checking for things that Dad would have missed, and must have decided I looked no worse for wear. His eyes shuttered, shoulders relaxed. Relief.

"Katherine –"

"It's not your fault." I said quietly. "I'm sure my dad blew a gasket. And I'm sure he blew it straight at you."

"Well deserved." He replied and sat himself down at my desk.

"How could you know?"

"Couldn't have. Impossible to anticipate a gas leak." Sherlock said. His voice was monotonous, and at this point, totally unconvincing. I narrowed my eyes.

"A gas leak." I repeated, an echo of my earlier conversation with my dad. I really hadn't expected Sherlock to lie to me. I had a solid suspicion I knew what was going on. But when he only hummed, non-committal and unforthcoming, I forced myself to move on. "Is Mrs. Hudson alright?"

"She was gone, out to tea with her sister." He looked so tired. I couldn't remember ever seeing him so… human. "Mycroft arrived shortly after Lestrade. And then your father. Claims he's putting you on a plane tomorrow. Unwise, I think."

"I hope you didn't try to tell him that."

Sherlock scoffed. "As if I wouldn't know better." He pointed toward the door. "No. Mycroft is now offering him an alternative. Instead of flying an airline, you'll be on a jet with Dana and a physician. I fear that the trip might also include my brother. Tried to get you out of that one."

I groaned softly. A whole nine hours on a jet with Mycroft and Dana. Together. Mycroft would undoubtedly piss her off. And he would hear about it. Boy, would he hear about it. "Thanks for the effort. But I'm sure I can fly commercial. It won't hurt me."

"Are you really going to put up a fight over a private flight?" Sherlock asked.

"Dana and Mycroft. Confined space. Nine hours."

His mouth twitched. "I'll make you a mix."

I rolled my eyes. "That will be the day. What will you put on it? God Save the Queen?"

"Might just." Sherlock said. His eyes shone with the humor my father couldn't manage. It made whatever tension lingered in my body dissipate. I leaned back against my pillows, smiling. I tried to commit the sight of him to lasting memory. I wasn't sure when I would be home again to see it. The thought sobered me, and I dropped my gaze to my blankets. I rolled the edge of one between my thumb and forefinger, thinking.

"Will you see me off?" I was so quiet that at first, I wasn't sure he heard me. The question seemed to make the entire world take pause. All was still.

He fidgeted in his seat for a moment. The room seemed to shrink around him, caught in the vortex of his thoughts. I could barely stand to watch, in fear of what his answer might be. Finally, he seemed to settle though he never did try to meet my eye. "If you will have me."

I looked up then. My heart seemed to stutter in my chest. I wasn't sure how to act, or what to say. I breathed in the words and kept them close, afraid they would disappear. "Of course." I said. The words came out in a sigh. "I'm not sure exactly when I'll be back."

If.

The heaviness seemed to return to Sherlock's shoulders. The sight of it tortured me tremendously. I wanted to take whatever burden he bore onto myself. I wanted him to feel right again.

He took pause once more. "Not very good at goodbyes. Never have been."

"It isn't." I said. It came out sounding like a promise. I knew very well I was in no position to make promises.

Sherlock looked up from the floor and straight at me. For the first time, he smiled, and I found it unbearable. It didn't reach his eyes, which had been sparkling only moments before while we sparred. There was such a sense of finality in it. Of mourning. I knew exactly what he was thinking.

Isn't it?

I knew then that though I wanted him to see me off, the chances of him doing so were slim. He wasn't good with goodbye, he said. And I took that to mean that he would probably avoid it entirely. I could make peace with that, or at least understand it. If he did show up, there was a strong probability that I would not get on the plane.

It was better this way.

I broke the silence first. "Tomorrow, then." I said, knowing full well it was a lie. A necessary one.

"Tomorrow."

He was lying, too.

When I awakened the following morning, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Mycroft offered me no excuse as to where he'd gone. And I knew that I wouldn't see him again.

xxx

The events of the following afternoon were a welcome relief in many ways. From the moment Dana arrived, she had done nothing but fuss. A fair reaction to my near demise, but exhausting nonetheless. I couldn't wait to once again have the privilege of standing up without being asked sixty different questions before I could make another move. And as suspected, Mycroft and Dana were "getting along" as well as I could have hoped.

"Is there the slightest possibility that this could be sped up?" Mycroft asked. He was tight-lipped, irritation written on his person from head to toe. It was the first display of any real emotion that I'd seen from him. He watched impatiently as Dana dragged my bags to the front of the flat before going back to retrieve me, still hobbling from the day before.

"Is there the slightest possibility that you could shut it?" Dana's teeth were gritted so hard it was a wonder she managed the words. "Snatch up a bag. Then it'll go quicker."

Mycroft said nothing. The look on his face was clear enough. There was no way in heaven or on earth he would be assisting with the suitcases. Dana knew it and could sense that she'd won. He wouldn't say another word.

So much like his brother.

"I will be waiting downstairs." Mycroft muttered and swept away like the last dredges of a storm down the stairs.

I pursed my lips, giving Dana a look out of the corner of my eye. "Is this fun for you?"

Something wicked sparkled and showed in the way her mouth curled. As if we had conspired and shared the most wonderful secret. "He's a sod. An irritating, power-hungry, lazy sod. But, my God, it makes for an interesting display."

"Do not." I said firmly. "Don't even think it."

She shrugged her shoulders, slipping right out from under my arm so that she could pick up my bags herself, poised for the trip downstairs. "Dunno." She teased coyly. "You wouldn't let me have Lestrade. This might prove to be too much. After all, I have very little restraint."

"I'm actually going to end you." I swore. I scowled with all my might, considering I was otherwise useless. My back was going to sport a bruise for several weeks at least.

"Relax, little Watson." She laughed, hauling a duffel over her shoulder. "I would never be serious about anyone who leaves me to do all the heavy lifting."

Dana disappeared with a flourish, surprisingly graceful despite the extra weight she bore thanks to my overzealous packing. And I was left to stand there, looking around the empty flat. I thought for a moment to shout after her, to remind her that being casual wasn't an option either. But I was caught up in memories, in the stilling of time. I thought of John's blog, of the adventures he'd had while living in the very place I stood.

I imagined him sitting in his chair, writing. I looked at it reflexively. It wasn't a proud thing. The life had been smooshed out of it through many years of use, and yet I could imagine nothing else in the spot where it sat. I closed my eyes and inhaled the flat. Rosin and the faint smell of leather.

When I opened them again, everything seemed different, as if I'd snipped a cord and set myself free of whatever was holding my feet to the ground. I realized that this was Sherlock's place through and through. I could not see any imprint of myself anywhere.

I dared a glance at Sherlock's chair, at his violin that lay discarded at its side… and at the table that had no set spot but seemed to drift and dance wherever it pleased. Sherlock, it seemed, had been composing. The table was where it would be within reach of his hand, and there were papers scattered all over it. And on the top, something glistened in the dusty daylight that filtered in through the windows.

An I-pod.

Curiously, I drew closer to it. It was not something he'd chosen for himself. It was an alarming shade of pink, the fact of which put a smile on my face instantly. Distinctive. There were earbuds sitting next to it, along with the box and the charger. I couldn't think of the last time I'd seen someone with an I-pod instead of their phone. But it was just the type of thing for Sherlock to do.

On it, there lay a note.

Play me.

I forgot Dana and the luggage. I forgot the ache in my back. Mycroft and the car waiting at the curb to take us to the airport.

I picked it up gingerly and fitted the earbuds into the jack at the bottom. There was no passcode. It was too old to have one of those. And despite its small size, there was a library of music awaiting me that rivaled anything I had ever seen.

Thousands upon thousands of songs. Illegally downloaded and bought. His and mine, the songs I often played in the shower.

And on it, there was a single playlist.

Violin. Viola. Cello and piano. Every classical piece I recognized and most that I didn't. Brahms and Mozart and Beethoven… and at the very end…

God Save the Queen.

It was his own version of a goodbye. A better one than either of us would have managed face to face. Smiling, I put the music in my ears. I took one last look around the flat.

I turned my back and closed the door on Baker Street for what I knew would be quite some time.