Summary: If sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, Sherlock is most decidedly lost.
Takes place at the end of HLV just before the Moriarty broadcast. A little something for the fans who thought they heard Molly in the TAB trailer.
Sherlock climbs the steps and ducks into the plane, choosing a seat on the opposite side as the door is bolted shut. He has no wish to watch the figures on the tarmac recede as the plane taxis away from them. He's said his goodbyes.
He closes his eyes and fingers the small parcel in his pocket containing the syringe. He's promised himself he wouldn't use it, at least not yet. Not until things get desperate. Not until he's confirmed that Mycroft is right. But he already knows Mycroft is right. Mycroft is always right. The syringe, a carefully planned overdose, is better. It's the only way, really.
"There are always other options. You're a puzzle solver, find one."
His eyes pop open. John is sitting in the seat across from him. But its only a trick of his psyche, the John from his mind palace.
"Go away. You're not real."
"No, but that is." John nods to the mobile phone on the armrest.
"What?" He asks belligerently, "You want me to ring you out there on the tarmac, so you can rush in and play the hero? Save me from myself before I fly off to let someone less qualified kill me?"
"You said yourself heroes don't exist, remember?"
"Of course I remember. What's your point?"
John gives him a patient look. "Maybe all you need is to talk to someone. Hmm? Someone who cares?"
"For God's sake!" he spits back, "Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Don't be an idiot. The first thing either would do is call Mycroft. I've considered all the options. This is the best choice."
"No, it's not. Besides, I wasn't talking about either of them, and you know it. Christ, Sherlock! What made you like this? You need some sense slapped into you. I think you need a doctor."
"I have a doctor!" He bellows in frustration. When he looks back, John is gone.
He glances down at the phone. It's brand new, with an anonymous, untraceable number, a parting gift from Mycroft.
His fingers slide over the glass of the screen as he keys in the number. John is wrong at any rate, ever the army doctor, trying to save a life. Sherlock doesn't want saving, doesn't need saving. Can't be saved. But he doesn't want to be alone right at this moment, either. He wonders briefly if it's fitting or merely ironic to call upon a doctor who specializes in death.
It rings only once. Then Molly's voice fills the cabin, sounding more than a little put out. "Who is this? What do you want?"
Of course she's angry. It's the third time he's dialed her number since he got this phone.
Each time, as soon as she answers, he finds himself unable to speak. Sherlock Holmes, at a loss for words...unbelievable. It's never happened before. He opens his mouth, then wordlessly snaps it shut again.
He's not sure why she keeps answering a number she doesn't recognize only to be met with silence. No matter, even her anger is a comfort.
He wants to tell her what he's done, that he's leaving, to take care of herself, to have a happy life. He wants to tell her to forget him. He shakes his head, finger reaching to end the call, berating himself yet again. Sentiment.
"Why won't you talk to me?" she asks, on the verge of yelling, and maybe tears, "I demand you speak! Who are you?"
He pauses, fingers curling above the screen. He doesn't speak. Nothing he could say would make any difference.
Jim Moriary thought him on the side of the angels, and for a time he might have been. Still, he never was one, far from it. But Molly... Just like John, she's always stood by him, even when he's disparaged her, or worse, ignored her. She's always done what was best for him, provided whatever he needed, even though he didn't reciprocate. She's always seen the best in him. She truly is an angel, or likely as close to one as he's ever going to know.
After a second, she speaks again, her voice suddenly softer and tinged with fear.
"Sherlock? It's you, isn't it?" she asks. "Please, talk to me."
That startles him. But then she always did see him, see right through him, didn't she?
It's almost a plea now, "Please, Sherlock. What do you-" He taps the screen with more force than is necessary, ending the call. She can't help him now. No one can.
The engines roar to life and the plane picks up speed, racing down the runway, away from everything and everyone he's ever dared to care about.
He tucks the angel safely away in one pocket and pulls the syringe from the other. Time to let the devil drive...