Sherlock? Sherlock! It's me ...

Someone was calling his name. John. John? Everything faded away and when Sherlock opened his eyes he was looking at the cinderblock wall of his cell.

"Sherlock! For god's sake, I had to jump through far too many of Mycroft's hoops to get in here, so bloody wake up!"

"John," Sherlock croaked. He slowly and awkwardly sat up and scrubbed at his eyes, finally seeing John Watson standing just inside the door his cell. In flagrant violation of protocol, but Sherlock Holmes was not a typical prisoner. And Mycroft Holmes was not a typical official. Sherlock pushed a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it, and stood up, noting the silhouette of a guard just outside the tiny window in the thick door. "What are you doing here?"

"Making sure they're not beating you with the rubber hose in their spare time," John remarked dryly. "Jesus, you look like shit."

"It's prison, John," Sherlock, pausing to pour some water from the single tap into dented paper cup and drinking it to sluice his dry throat, when he then cleared. "What did you expect?" He shuffled closer.

John's eyes narrowed and when Sherlock got close enough he grabbed Sherlock by the chin and stared hard into his eyes. "Are … for god's sake, are you high, Sherlock?"

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "Once again, I'm in prison, John. Solitary. Even if I wanted to use drugs, how would I get them?"

"Once again, I'm not as stupid as you think," John growled. "Your pupils are the size of dinner plates. And they tell me you sleep seventy-five percent of the time."

"Not my fault they can't tell the difference between sleeping and thinking," Sherlock replied. "What did you expect them to see? That I'm practising my dance steps? Doing Tae Bo? What else is there to do in here except think and sleep? They won't even let me have my books. I could paper-cut myself to death. Choke on the binding. May I have my face back, please."

Disgusted, John pushed Sherlock away and held out his hand. "Give it here."

"Give what?" asked Sherlock petulantly.

"You know, Sherlock. We've been over this. I know you're clever. I'd be a fool to think that prison walls could stop you from getting what you wanted, but you'd be an even bigger fool to think I'll turn a blind eye to it. I'm your doctor. I'm you're friend."

A awkward pause fell in the space where the unspoken words of I was your lover hovered in the air.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Give. It. Over," John ground out, shoving his hand in Sherlock's face.

"What for?"

"Because it's poison, Sherlock. And ... my god, YOU KNOW WHAT FOR!"

"Oh, what does it matter?" Sherlock shouted, wheeling away and pacing the narrow confines of the cell. "Why should you care? It's not like I can do anything useful in here."

"Why should I —" John started incredulously, then pressed a finger against his lips and hummed in the back of his throat "— why should I care? How can you ask me that?"

"Because I'm stoned," Sherlock sneered, adopting a stereotypical hippie drawl. "Because I'm seeing rainbows and smelling colours. It's totally groovy, man."

"Stop it," said John tightly. "Just stop it. And give it to me."

Sherlock glared at John, huffing angrily through his nose and John stared back, stone-faced.

Sherlock backed down first. "Fine ... FINE. For god's sake ..." He moved to the corner, lifted up a perfectly crafted, previously invisible panel in the floor and pulled out two vials of clear liquid and a syringe wrapped in a handkerchief. He thrust it out at John. "Take it already."

John carefully accepted the items, noting the pointed end of the needle. "Is that all?"

"Would you care to perform a cavity search or check the rest of the floor for hidey holes? Because you won't believe me if I tell you that's all."

"Maybe I'll just have them turn out the room once I leave."

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine."

"Jesus," said John. "Can you not be a prat for five minutes?"

"I'm sorry, John. Is my reaction to the complete and utter loss of my personal freedom inconvenient for you?"

"No, of course not," exclaimed John. "In fact that's why I'm here —"

"Yes, why are you here, exactly?" Sherlock interrupted. "If it's to tell me what an idiot I am, I'll pass, thank you. Have received more than enough of that from Mycroft."

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, I'm here to thank you!" John cried out. "What you did, my god, what you did … you gave up everything, Sherlock … for her …"

Sherlock looked at John for several moments, astonished. And then he murmured, almost inaudibly, "For you."

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"I did it for you!" Sherlock blurted.

John stared at Sherlock, his steely blue eyes suddenly shining with tears.

"I did it for you, John," Sherlock repeated again, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck. "And for Mary and the baby, of course. But I mainly did it for you. So you could be free. Truly free. Of Magnussen. Of Mary's past. And, as a by-product … of me."

"Sherlock," John whispered, "I would never ask you —"

"I never would have asked you to shoot and kill a man on the first day of our acquaintance," Sherlock interrupted. "I asked many ridiculous things of you that day, but never that. But you did it anyway. Gave me several more good years of life — of death, too. But it was just a stay of execution, John. I must insist you that you let me return the favour. Only you will get your full life. I promise you that. A good long life. For a good man." He swallowed. "The best man."

"My god, they're not going to execute you, Sherlock," John rasped, blinking hard. "Don't be so dramatic. You know there's no death penalty in England. That's the other reason I'm here. I have, well, some good news."

Sherlock let out a sharp bark of laughter and sat on the bunk. "I stand to be formally charged with murder, John. Tell me what news could possibly be good."

"Mycroft's arranged it," John began and Sherlock bit back a wry smile. "He has a mission for you. In Eastern Europe, I think. He didn't give me many details, but that in return for executing this mission, your name will be cleared."

"Excellent word choice."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Sherlock," John said softly, stepping closer again. "I know it's not ideal. I can't go with you. I would, but Mycroft won't allow it and … there's Mary and the baby. But I couldn't bear the idea of you spending your life in prison. When you saved my family. And for you it would be —"

"Living death," Sherlock finished. "I agree. A mission is far preferable."

John stepped even closer and cupped Sherlock's cheek in his hand. Sherlock looked up, surprised. "John … don't …"

"I told you once … to your bloody fake headstone, that I owe you so much," John whispered, his voice trembling. "That was nothing compared to what I owe you now."

Sherlock tried to shake his head, but John held it in place, stroking the line of his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

"Can we say we're even, at least?" whispered Sherlock, trying to keep his voice steady. "Your dead cabbie for my dead media mogul. My voluntary exile in exchange for two years of pretending to be dead?"

"All right, dammit," John choked, smiling as tears finally overflowed from his eyes and streamed down his face. "We're bloody even. And it's not exile. You'll be back. Of course you'll be back. You always bloody well come back to me." And then he reached for Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the other man's shoulders. Sherlock shuddered and allowed himself to embrace John, pressing the side of his face into the warm flannel of his shirt that covered his stomach. Breathing in his scent.

John breathed shakily, resting his cheek in Sherlock's curls and kissing the top of his head.

"I love you, Sherlock."

"… I know."

John nodded. It was the only thing Sherlock ever said in response to those words since Mary became part of the picture.

Sherlock pulled back slightly to look up at John. "When am I to leave?"

"In a few hours. Mary is coming out to the airfield … to say goodbye."

"Then I imagine this will be our final moment alone …"

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded. They exchanged a glance, then John cradled Sherlock's face tenderly between his hands and leaned down to kiss him on the mouth. Sherlock trembled, letting out a soft, muffled sound and moved up into the kiss. They kept their mouths closed, letting only lips embrace, but the kiss lingered for long moments, and even after they parted, they pressed their foreheads together, eyes closed in long contemplation, John stroking Sherlock's cheeks with his thumbs, and Sherlock gently holding John's wrists.

A few moments later the guard banged on the door before opening it. "Time's up, Dr. Watson. I've been instructed to take Mr. Holmes to the showers."

John stepped away hastily, keeping his back to the guard as he wiped his face with the backs of his hands.

"Naturally," Sherlock quipped. He stood, making a show of smoothing out the wrinkled fabric of his prison jumpsuit, tugging at the cuffs, and smoothing down his hair to draw the the guard's attention his way while John pulled himself together. "My brother still believes that air travel requires a certain level of grooming." He stepped forward to the guard and called over his shoulder. "John. See you on the tarmac."

"Yes, yes," John muttered, clearing his throat and following, keeping his gaze to the floor. "See you then."

The guard led Sherlock to the empty shower area. "As usual, I've been authorized to give these for sole use here, under my supervision," he said, hanging Sherlock a baggie with shampoo, soap, and a toothbrush.

"Of course," Sherlock remarked. "Pity I wasn't able to conduct an in-cell experiment testing the dissolving powers of shampoo on concrete in order to dig a tunnel with a toothbrush handle."

The guard looked over his shoulder before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a second baggie and handing it to Sherlock. "And here … in case you run out."

Sherlock accepted the second offering, tucking the baggie with the tiny shampoo bottle of liquid and a new syringe in a toothbrush case. "Most thoughtful going-away present, Cyril. How is your sister?"

"Oh, doing very well, Mr. Holmes," the guard said, smiling, ducking his head. "Very fine. Your recommendation landed her a job at the local bookie's. She's off the streets, off the skag, and back home with us again. Who knew she was so cracking with numbers?"

"Sometimes we don't know our true strengths until someone gives us a chance explore them," Sherlock remarked. "She was a very valuable member of my network, but her services are no longer required. At any rate, I was loath to waste her potential. I'm certain this job is only the start of better things for her."

"I wish there was more I could do, Mr. Holmes," said Cyril, frowning. "Something more … useful than this. You know I don't usually go in for this kind of thing … especially because of Frances …"

"Nothing is more useful than this, Cyril," Sherlock said, shrugging out of his jumpsuit. "You worry about your sister and let my brother worry about me. I'll be fine, don't you worry. I'm all set. Your help is most appreciated."

"All right," said Cyril softly. "If you say so." He turned his back, less for Sherlock's modesty and more to keep an eye on the door. "Usual signal?"

"If you don't mind. Oh, and Cyril? There actually is one more thing you can help me with."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"If you have a piece of paper and something to write with, I need to dictate something to you. A list."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Whatever you need."

Still tasting John's tears on his lips, Sherlock moved into a shower stall, fingering the cocaine/morphine speedball cocktail and calculating the timing of the dosages.

Saying proper goodbyes this time. Time to go.