Author's Note:

I'm sorry I haven't responded to those of you who reviewed the previous chapter. I was in a hurry to get this one out.

PLEASE NOTE: Because of the formatting of this chapter, if you're reading on a device that doesn't display italics, you may find it confusing to follow.

For example, this sentence is italicised.


Chapter 68 – All Lives End; All Hearts Are Broken

"Janine managed it once. She makes the funniest noises."

Sherlock turned his head toward Magnussen, the churning in his gut intensifying, the hatred hardening his heart.

The sound of a helicopter circling Appledore thankfully took the media proprietor's focus away from continuing to flick John Watson's eyeball. The helicopter blades pushed the rapidly chilling air toward them. They silently watched it pass behind the trees before hovering over the perfectly manicured lawn in front of them. A voice that Sherlock immediately recognised as his brother's commanded over a loud speaker:

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man!"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly stirred. He didn't want to wake. He almost always dreamt about her, but her voice rang loud and clear in his mind this time.

"Sherlock?"

No. Wait. This wasn't a disembodied voice. There was somebody in this room with him right now. He hadn't heard them enter. Clearly they had been trying to approach him stealthily. Priming himself for an assault, Sherlock stopped breathing. A weapon. He needed a weapon!

In one swift movement, he reached for the lamp that he knew sat next to the bed and sat up simultaneously, poised to strike.

"No!" called a familiar yet panicked voice. "It's me."

Sherlock's heart tripped over itself. It couldn't be! He refocussed his gaze, slowly lowering the lamp.

"Rose?" he asked tentatively, but he could plainly see that it was her.

Magnussen and John had turned their attention to the hovering helicopter. Sherlock had stayed frozen by the glass doors during John's ordeal, but his mind had been continually calculating.

"Here we go, Mr Holmes," Magnussen said, turning to face Sherlock.

Sherlock debated whether or not this was going to play out exactly as Magnussen had predicted. But Sherlock may have other plans. The weight of his decision hung in the air as heavily as the chopper in front of them.

Rose gave a faint, but unnecessary nod. Sherlock's chest expanded as he approached her. But her expression—her round, moist eyes, and the smile that couldn't quite form on her lips—told Sherlock all he needed to know.

"Sherlock, I'm..." she said, taking a tiny step back from him as he approached.

"—here to say goodbye," he finished for her.

He felt a pang in his chest. It was too late. He already knew this. Months of keeping an eye on Rose had revealed these facts to him and yet he had refused to do anything about it; he had decided against confronting her. He didn't want to acknowledge all he had deduced about her. He had seen the headlines as well. He then uncovered the steps she had taken to leave London for Edinburgh, for good: her possessions being sent ahead of her, moving in with her work colleague, giving a month's notice at Roches, and purchasing a one-way airline ticket.

He had hoped it would only be temporary. It had to be temporary, because he had made his own plans. Plans to keep her safe. And now tonight, on the eve of him executing those plans, she was choosing to leave him.

"Yes," she said, sounding unsure of her answer.

Sherlock continued approaching Rose, hoping she wouldn't turn and walk out. When she didn't, he gathered her up in his arms, every nerve ending in his body tingling as his senses were assaulted by her scent and the way her body instantly molded to his.

"Not now," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Wait until the new year."

Tears began to well in her eyes, sure signs that Sherlock's pleas would fall on deaf ears.

"It's too late," she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

"No," Sherlock said, a slight shake of his head. "I've got a plan... just... wait." He was faltering, desperate, his mind scrambling. He should've approached her earlier. He should've let her in on the plan! "Tomorrow... I've..."

She shook her head, her bottom lip trembling a little.

"Did you see what he did? That... woman... and now the... letters."

She was crying now and Sherlock's heart sank. He wasn't too late. He couldn't be.

"It will be okay," he said, attempting to keep his voice steady. "After tomorrow I'll know how to infiltrate the vaults. I'll destroy it all, and then we can... It will be safe enough so we can... be together."

Rose shook her head again, and pushed lightly against Sherlock's chest.

"But he knows," she said, her tears falling freely. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. We can't be... Because he knows." Sherlock slackened his hold on Rose, desperately searching her face for the conviction behind her words. "As long as he knows... as long as he exists," she began, "we can never... be together."

"No," Sherlock said firmly, his voice hitching in his throat. "I can get rid of the evidence, Rose. Destroy it all."

Sherlock stepped forward, an idea coming into his mind, fully formed.

He spoke loudly and confidently over the noise of the helicopter.

"To clarify," he said walking away from the glass doors, "Appledore's vaults only exist in your mind—nowhere else, just there." Sherlock stopped beside John and looked to Magnussen for an answer.

The blackmailer turned his gaze towards the helicopter.

"They're not real," he said, his confident smile unwavering. "They never have been."

"I'm sorry," Rose said.

Sherlock had dropped his arms from around her. He felt far too weak to argue with her, to make her see reason. For months he had simply struggled to regain his footing in the world, to work out what really mattered. His mind had often raced ahead of his body. Physically he couldn't keep up. And there were those times his mind failed him completely.

Mary and John had kept him focussed on what was important. Their relationship. Their impending family. Though they were separated, he could see the evidence of their love for each other whenever he spoke to them individually. And he hadn't accepted that he'd never see Rose again. That was a ridiculous notion. But John and Mary, whatever it took, he had sworn to them in front of their wedding guests, he would always be there for them. Whatever it took. And the same applied to Rose. He couldn't let her give up so easily.

This case was as much for the survival of Mary and John's relationship as it initially had been for his, Sherlock thought as the helicopter continued to hover in front of them. He smiled grimly to himself.

Mycroft's voice came over the loud speaker once more.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: step away."

"It's fine," Magnussen called out, walking toward the edge of the patio and addressing Mycroft in the helicopter. "They're harmless."

So he had to tell her. Now.

His heart hammered in his chest, but Sherlock reached for her hands. A heady rush of emotion caused him to falter. He could feel his throat beginning to tighten, so he forced the words out before it completely constricted.

"I love you."

For a split second Rose was stunned. She hiccupped out a sob as Sherlock's head reeled at the words he'd spoken aloud. Just three words. So simple, yet so terrifyingly difficult to voice. He searched Rose's face for an acknowledgement.

Her face was crumbling but she squeezed his hands back.

"I know you do," she finally whispered.

Sherlock pulled Rose into his embrace and held her tightly. He couldn't say anything else. All along they had been the hardest words for him to utter, yet the easiest to feel when he had Rose in front of him. Why had it taken him so long to say them?

He felt her trembling in his arms. She was acknowledging that it was over, Sherlock surmised, his heart-rate now erratic. Even if she had made the decision months ago, she must know that leaving London gave a finality to their relationship.

Rose eased back, wiping at her eyes. She steadied herself against his chest, looked up at him and said, "Goodbye, Sherlock."

His heart stuttered. The goodbye ritual. But he still brought his head down and met her lips with his. The gift of her kiss was powerfully arousing and he was consumed by it.

Sherlock could sense the special armed forces rushing into position along the glass frontage of Magnussen's residence. Radio static burst into life, and an officer's voice spoke.

"Target is not armed. I repeat, target is not armed."

John finally overcame his shock at that moment, his complexion still a paler shade of white.

"Sherlock, what do we do?" he asked urgently as armed officers scrambled across the lawn toward them.

Rose and Sherlock tore away at each other's clothes, the air humming between. It became a race, of pleasure, desperation and almost punishment. The last time, Sherlock couldn't help but think, this is the last time he would get to make love to Rose.

He felt the violence simmering beneath it all, the hunger and the pain. He filled himself with her, shuddered her name and clung to her during their final release. He hoped she would wrap herself around him and rest her head in the crook of his neck for the rest of the night, but Rose lay breathlessly beside him for only a few seconds before rising to gather up her clothing.

"Nothing," Magnussen responded over his shoulder. He turned his attention to both John and Sherlock. "There's nothing to be done," he added congenially. "Oh, I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a businessman, acquiring assets. You happen to be one of them."

"Rose," Sherlock said, his bare chest heaving.

She didn't turn to face him, but continued dressing. Despite feeling physically sated, Sherlock felt lost, bereft of her company. He slid from the bed himself and stooped to retrieve his own clothes. He silently dressed, matching Rose garment for garment.

She held her coat in one hand as she finally turned to him.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said. Her cheeks were flushed and she combed her fingers through her hair before turning to the door.

"Wait," he choked out.

This couldn't be it. How can 'I'm sorry' be her final words?

"Don't you know," he said moving toward her, "our relationship is supposed to survive against all odds. That's what they say."

Her eyes appeared to cloud over, as if she was mentally blocking his words.

"We... love... each other," he said, his voice rasping slightly. He had backed her up against the door. "I love you," he said again, reaching for her, "and you..." Here, he faltered, because it had just dawned on him that she hadn't reciprocated his sentiment earlier. Rose's jaw tightened as he continued to gaze down at her. "Do... you love me?" he asked, his voice almost strangled on the way out. A loud buzz began to resound in his ears as Rose's expression became neutral. It took her a moment before she could answer.

Sherlock turned his gaze toward John. His best friend's whole world was also crumbling around him. The reconciliation that had just happened between John and Mary in the sitting room of his parents' cottage was about to be destroyed by this man and his plans to gain wealth and power. Why should two people who so obviously love one another be denied the right for a harmonious life together?

"As long as he exists," Rose's words replayed in his mind, "we can never be together."

"Sorry," Magnussen said. "No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes."

"No," Rose replied, her voice devoid of emotion as blood leached from Sherlock's face. "I don't love you. Not any more."

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man," came Mycroft's voice once more. "Do it now."

Confusion flitted across Sherlock's face. She's lying, he thought. Why is she lying? All the evidence was there. Her gaze had never wavered and there was determination set firmly in her jaw. She wanted him to believe the lie, but why?

Sherlock's blood became heated beneath his skin. She wanted to leave him even though her heart wasn't in it. She was lying more to herself than to Sherlock. She was going to ruin everything.

He stiffened, but narrowed his eyes as he stared down at her.

"So what was that?" he said, gesturing vaguely toward the bed. "What the fuck was that!"

Sherlock's mind buzzed with a multitude of thoughts. Hero, he thought derisively. He'd once told John Watson that if heroes existed, then he wasn't one of them. People thought they knew him, and knew what was best for him, but he knew that only he had the power and the courage to do what was necessary.

"Oh, do your research," he said, stepping closer to John. His heart beat a pulse in his ears as he brushed past John, dipping a hand into his best friend's jacket pocket.

Rose tilted her chin upward in defiance.

Looking Sherlock squarely in the eye, she said, "You and I both know it's possible to have sex without love."

Sherlock walked closer to Magnussen, John's standard army issue comfortable in his grasp.

Mary Watson's words echoed firmly in his mind. People like Magnussen should be killed.

"I'm not a hero..." he said.

Sherlock's expression hardened. She was deliberately trying to hurt him.

After everything he'd done.

After everything he was going to do.

"Get out," he said, standing back from the door.

She blinked, an infinitesimal flicker of hurt on her face. That made him angrier than ever. Couldn't she be consistent with her lie?

"Get out!" he barked again.

As Magnussen turned to face Sherlock, he added, "I'm a high-functioning sociopath." He lifted his arm, aiming the gun at the power monger's head. "Merry Christmas!" he snarled, squeezing firmly on the trigger.

The door slammed downstairs, prompting Sherlock to move once more. She'd done it. She'd left him. He grabbed at the lamp, pulling its cord away from the socket and in a fit of rage, hurled it across the room.

"Man down, man down," came an officer's call over the radio.

Blood pumped viciously through Sherlock's veins. She'd left him.

"Get away from me, John! Stay well back!"

John Watson looked about him in a state of shock.

"Christ, Sherlock!" he said, raising his own hands as officers swarmed around them.

"Stand fire!" came Mycroft's desperate call. "Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!"

Sherlock stared into the blackness of the room. He imagined the lamp now protruding through a new hole in the wall. He could still feel his heart-rate thundering inside his chest. He'd finally given himself to somebody else and she had done this.

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock!"

He couldn't keep her safe, but she had torn a hole right through him.

"Give my love to Mary," he said to John. His friend stared at him, his expression numb with shock. "Tell her she's safe now."

Sherlock sank onto the edge of the bed, his eyes stinging, his breath becoming unsteady. She's gone, he thought, dropping his head into his hands. I failed her. She set out to hurt me with a lie, just so I'd let her go.

Sherlock stared out onto the grounds before him, the thudding of the helicopter blades making hypnotic thwacks inside his head. Laser pointers winked at him against the grey sky. As he raised his hands and sank to his knees he blanked out all activity around him. A man lay dead behind him. He was responsible. His mind couldn't quite comprehend the enormity of his actions. He had realised that although Rose had left him empty and devoid of love, he had now put himself in a position where he'd never get to see her again.

What had he done?

.


Author's Note:

The next chapter will be the final chapter in this instalment. x