*Possible trigger warning: This chapter contains description of intravenous drug use.
Through the tinted windows of the car, the cold December morning was bright and crisp. Sherlock folded his arms and looked to his brother.
"I need to make a stop at Baker Street before we go to the airfield."
Mycroft frowned. "This isn't a taxi, Sherlock. You're not off on holiday, you're being exiled."
"Yes, and after today you will never have to deal with me again. Can you not afford me five minutes at my flat before I hop on a plane to my inevitable death?"
"Fine." Mycroft sighed before directing the driver towards to Baker Street.
III
He rifled through the kitchen cupboards, filling his arms with bottles, utensils and tools. He put them on the table before sliding open the kitchen drawer and taking out the cocaine. 'For emergencies'. Was this an emergency? He shrugged. He grabbed the remnants of whatever other drugs he could find stashed around the flat and mixed them into the cocaine concoction, cradling it inside some tinfoil and holding it over a Bunsen burner with one hand.
He used his teeth to rip open a fresh syringe packet. "Come on… Come on…" he said quietly as he waited impatiently for it to cook, glancing towards the living room on the lookout for his brother.
Finally, it was ready. He filled the syringe and held it in his mouth as he unravelled an elastic tourniquet and tied it tight around his arm.
"Sherlock! Is that you up there!?" Mrs Hudson voice echoed up the stairs.
He dropped the syringe from his mouth and caught it in his hand. "One moment!"
"I thought you were going straight to the plane," she said, her steps creaking up the stairs.
"Don't come up here!" he shouted as he injected the mixture into his arm, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes.
"Oh, Sherlock, you're not going on the run, are you?" She stood on the bottom step running her finger against her lip with worry.
"Of course not," he said as he popped his head over the banister with a smile.
Mrs Hudson yelped in surprise as she watched him skip down the stairs, straightening his coat and flicking up his collar. He sat down on the bottom step, pulled out a pen and paper and began to scrawl something down.
"Is that a goodbye letter for me?" asked Mrs Hudson.
Sherlock stood up and laughed. "No, it's a list for Mycroft." he slipped it into his pocket. "But you can have this pen." He handed it over with a wink.
III
Mycroft stood with his brother on the runway near the plane as they watched a black car pull up in front of them. Mary climbed out of the back and made her way towards them. John climbed out the other side and followed her.
"You will look after him for me, won't you?" said Sherlock as Mary approached him with a smile.
"Oh," she replied before kissing his cheek and pulling him into a hug. "Don't worry, I'll keep him in trouble."
"That's my girl."
She pulled away, walking back to John's side and taking his hand. John gave a nod.
Sherlock turned to Mycroft. "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?"
Mycroft raised his brow before gesturing to his security guard to walk away. Mary followed, leaving the two men alone.
"So, here we are," said John.
Sherlock glanced around the airfield and cleared his throat. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes."
"Sorry?"
"That's the whole of it – if you're looking for baby names."
John chucked. "No, we've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl."
"Oh," he smiled. "Okay."
An awkward silence grew between them. They glanced around, as if searching for something to talk about.
"Yeah," John finally said. "Actually, I can't think of a single thing to say."
"No, neither can I."
"The game is over."
"The game is never over, John." He began to speak quietly. "But there may be some new players now. It's okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end."
"What's that?"
"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally me."
"Nice."
"He was a rubbish big brother."
They shared a smile.
"So, what about you, then?" asked John. "Where are you actually going now?"
"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe."
"For how long?"
"Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."
"And then what?"
"Who knows." Sherlock shrugged. "John, there's something… I should say. I've meant to say always and then never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." He stopped for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. "Sherlock is actually a girl's name."
He grinned as he watched his friend laugh.
"It's not," said John.
"It was worth a try."
"We're not naming our daughter after you."
"I think it could work. I was saving it for my own daughter, but since that is never going to happen…"
"Oh yeah," John scoffed. "Like Margaux would've let it happen anyway."
They laughed together again. Sherlock slipped off his glove and held out his hand.
"To the very best of times, John."
John waited for a moment before shaking his hand.
Sherlock slipped his glove back on and walked up the steps of the plane.
Mary gripped John's hand and gave it a squeeze as they watched the small jet speed down the runway and ascend into the sky.
Sherlock sat in the cushioned leather seat, peering out the small window as the tarmac turned to clouds. He leaned back and slipped Vaughan's picture out of his pocket, looked at it for a moment and put it back.
III
When Margaux woke, she knew he would be gone. Yet when she ran her hand across his side of the mattress, her heart still ached. She dragged herself out of bed, her bare skin prickling in the cold before she pulled on a pair of jeans and a knitted jumper. She walked next door to Vaughan's room and found him on the floor playing with his toys. He had only just woken up, she could tell as his dark, curly hair was still wild from sleep; he reminded her so much of him.
"Good morning, love."
"Mummy, look!" He held up the small figure he had built with his new blocks.
"Amazing!" She smiled before heading to the kitchen.
She slotted two slices of bread in the toaster and took a punnet of grapes from the fridge, slicing them into quarters and placing them in Vaughan's plastic bowl. She spent most mornings this way; alone in her kitchen making breakfast for Vaughan. But the knowledge that Sherlock was never coming back had left a void – everything would feel different now. A small television sat in the corner of the counter. She used her elbow to switch it on, welcoming the boring voices of news casters to fill the quiet. She turned her back on the television while she buttered the toast, stopping instantly when a voice sent a chill up her spine.
"Did you miss me?"
She turned slowly, the butter knife still gripped in her hand.
"Did you miss me?"
On the small television was Moriarty, along with a loop of his distorted voice asking the same question over and over again. Did you miss me?
No. She hadn't missed him at all. Jim Moriarty's eyes instilled the same sick stomach and thudding heart as they had done on that day in the hospital basement. As she stood in her kitchen, watching the man through a television screen, it was as if she could still feel the cold gun against her temple, the restraints around her wrists, the agonising pain in her abdomen.
Margaux dropped the knife. It clattered against the floor but she didn't hear it – she was too focused on him. She grabbed her phone and dialled with shaking fingers.
"Yes?" Mycroft's voice sounded through the phone.
"It's Moriarty," she said. Her voice nothing more than a quiver. She cleared her throat and shook off the fear before speaking again. "He's back."
"But that's not possible," said Mycroft. "That is simply not possible."
"Well it bloody well is because I'm looking at his face right now. He's on every single channel." She flicked through the television as she spoke. "Get him off that plane, Mycroft. I don't care if he's already in the sky, you make them turn around and bring him back."
III
Mary stood on the grounds of the airfield with her hands in the pockets of her red winter coat.
"But he's dead. I mean, you told me he was dead, Moriarty."
"Absolutely. He blew his own brains out," replied John.
"So how can he be back?"
"Well, if he is... he'd better wrap up warm." He looked up. "There's an East Wind coming."
Mary followed his gaze, the pair staring into the sky as the plane turned around and began its descent towards the airfield.
III
He looked out the window as the plane changed direction, lifting the cuff of his shirt to his nose and inhaling the scent of Margaux's perfume. He closed his eyes and finally let the drugs take over.
"Mr Holmes?" It was a familiar voice. "I wasn't expecting to see you here so soon." Pretty voice, he thought, in his dazed state. A shadowed figure in a Victorian corseted dress melted into view. She walked towards him carrying a lantern, her image becoming clearer as she grew closer. Her dark wavy hair was pulled back in an old-fashioned style and her amber-hued eyes glowed in the lantern light. The scent of honey and old books drifted through the air as she took his hand in hers and began to guide him deeper into his mind palace.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked.
He wasn't sure if the words had actually left his mouth – if he was awake or dreaming.
She answered him softly. "1881."
The plane rattled violently as its wheels connected with the tarmac, slowing to a stop as John, Mary and Mycroft hurried to meet him on board. But Sherlock was somewhere else entirely; following Ms Cave through the streets of Victorian London, streets haunted by the ghost of Emilia Ricoletti.
III
John and Mary followed Sherlock into the car, trying to keep up with his quick ramblings as he dipped in and out of coherency. He tipped his head back and opened his mouth slightly as the car pulled away from the airfield. The Adam's apple protruding from his throat bobbed up and down as he struggled to swallow.
"Sherlock, an overdose like this can be really bad," said Mary. "Please let us take you to the hospital? Or look, he's a doctor and I'm a nurse; let one of us check you over?"
"Not necessary," Sherlock replied bluntly.
He closed his eyes, playing over the details from his delve into the mind palace; the case of the abominable bride, the things Moriarty said to him at the waterfall. Victorian Sherlock had proven Moriarty was dead. But he had also unearthed a question: who was using him? What was their motive? It was all so exciting.
John shook his head. "She's right, you need to have this stuff pumped out of you. You need fluids and rest and–"
"I'll go to the hospital if you name your daughter Sherlock."
"Baker Street it is," said Mary.
III
Mrs Hudson had vacuumed. Sherlock grimaced at the distinct lack of dust as he stepped into the flat. He looked into the kitchen; it was spotless, with no remanence of the mess he had left behind. She walked up behind him with a tray of tea in her hands, noticing the confusion in his face.
"My ex-husband ran a cartel, Sherlock. You really think I don't know how to make a drug lab disappear?"
He winked at her with a smile.
"Come and have some tea," she said, ushering him to sit in his chair.
Mary took off her coat before she sat down, rubbing her belly and letting out a sigh. John handed her a cup of tea. She thanked him and lifted it to her lips, stopping before she drank it.
"This tea isn't going to knock me out for two hours, is it, Sherlock?"
"Ha, ha," he replied sarcastically.
She smirked before taking a sip.
"So, what's going to happen then?" asked John. "Will Mycroft have you pardoned? Will it get covered up?"
"No idea, I'm sure he'll sort it out," he replied cheerfully. "But come on, John! Stop worrying about it and just be happy!"
John glared at his friend in absolutely bewilderment.
"I'm back. I'm not going to die. Let's not sit around all mopey drinky tea-y," he jumped up from his chair, "let's… I don't know, let's do something. Let's celebrate!"
Mary chuckled into her teacup, thoroughly amused by Sherlock's sudden change in personality.
Margaux rushed into the flat. She was windswept and breathless, her brown coat hanging open, her scarf haphazardly flung around her neck. She stopped and looked at him as she tried to catch her breath. He swivelled on his heels to face her.
"Margaux!" He grabbed her face and pulled her into a hard, exaggerated kiss.
John, Mary and Mrs Hudson exchanged glances as Margaux stared up at him, her eyes wide, cheeks squeezed together between his hands.
"Hello," he said.
"Hi?" she said breathlessly.
He let go of her face and walked past her, pacing back and forth excitedly. "Isn't this excellent." He spread his arms wide, a huge smile plastered across his face.
She had never seen him like this before; so intensely happy. Suddenly, her smile began to fade.
"You're high, aren't you," she said.
"Technically not anymore."
"Brilliant."
"He overdosed on the plane so he could go into his mind palace and solve a hundred-year-old case," said Mary matter-of-factly.
"Ah. Of course he did."
"And you know what? I did it. I solved it," he said.
"Sorry, am I missing something here," said Margaux as she sat next to Mary at the table. "Moriarty… Plastered all over London… Traumatising me in my kitchen…"
Sherlock furrowed his brow. "It's a creepy video, Margaux, but 'traumatising' is a bit exaggerative."
She paused for a moment. "He… He tried to kill me?"
"Oh, yes," he cocked his head. "Sorry, I forget these things."
"Hm," she nodded. "Not important enough to save?" she asked teasingly, tapping her finger against her temple.
He looked at her and snapped his fingers. "Foxgloves. Yellow. Libra."
She couldn't help but smile, stifling a giggle as memories of the night before came flooding back. She had lost him once. Almost again. But each time they came back together, like magnets. She was almost certain this wasn't the end. But more than ever, she was willing to face whatever was coming.