Isla leaned against the window of the plane, taking comfort in its slight chill. Everything pained her, her shoulder worse of all. The Captain had all but refused to let her leave, saying that she wasn't stable enough to fly. She thought he had been right about that, though the plane came with a well-stocked liquor cabinet that kept most of her symptoms at bay. Or at least distracted her from them.
As she stared down at the approaching views of home, she felt like she should feel something. Relief, joy, elation at finally reaching the destination that she had so fiercely fought for. But the face of the Captain kept swimming back to her, his disapproval of her perceived person. She knew what he thought she was. A murderer, and a skilled one at that. And he wasn't wrong.
She used to think that taking a life was hard, that it required something innately different in a person. She now knew she was wrong. Or at least half wrong. It had been easy to pull that trigger, to watch the life drain from them. She didn't have nightmares about their dead faces, felt no regret. No, the nightmares were of what had happened before, nightmares she couldn't drive away.
The plane landed on the tarmac with a thud. She got up and crossed to the door, waiting impatiently for it to be opened. No that they were on the ground she was anxious to get out. Finally, it seemed, the door lowered and she stepped out into uncharacteristic sunshine.
She spotted the black car right away, the government plates and the driver. She saw them next, their faces dropped into identical expressions of shock. Sherlock surged forward but Mycroft stood, rooted to the spot. She stayed at the top of the stair case, suddenly not as happy to see them as she had imagined. It didn't make sense, this sudden switch, was no doubt caused by shock or alcohol or some unholy combination of both. They looked the same, but for their shock expressions. She didn't feel the same. It felt as if it had been years instead of weeks.
She descended the stairs slowly. Sherlock met her at the bottom, wrapping her in a tight hug that sent shooting pain through her shoulder and ribs. Sherlock stepped back as she cried out, still holding her by her un-injured shoulder. It was if he didn't want to let go, didn't believe she was real.
"Isla," he said, almost reverently. "Isla! We thought you were dead. What happened to you?"
His eyes traced up and down her, cataloguing every one of her features. "I got shot. After I was imprisoned. Do you know what the Taliban do to woman they capture?"
Sherlock's eyes widened at her words, his face a picture of disgust and empathy. She didn't know why she had said it, not until she found Mycroft's face, Mycroft's horrified face. His horrified, guilty face that confirmed everything she had feared, every horrible thought that had crossed her mind in those last eight hours. That he had left her.
"Isla I-"
"I want to stop at Alfie's before you take me home," she said, cutting him off. Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other uneasily, their eyes sorrowful.
"Isla he's-" Sherlock began, but he trailed off. She looked between the two of them, feeling sick.
"No. No. Mycroft, where is Alfie? You take me to see him right now or so help me, those twenty insurgents will look like a temper tantrum."
"I'm so sorry Isla. He- he's dead."
She had thought she felt numb on the plane, indifferent. Now she wished for numbness instead of this mind-splitting pain. Black dots obscured her vision, her breath caught in her chest. She let go, letting the blackness take her.