Hello! Thank you to all of the followers, and the favorites. It's really very encouraging!
Thank you also to Eienvine and miischall for the lovely reviews.
This is the last chapter that is based on Episode 3...the next chapter starts the dragon's reign of terror. *grins mischievously*.
Chapter 9, In Which Love Takes Revenge
Sherlock had always known killing Magnusson was a possibility he might have to face. He had asked John to bring his revolver, after all.
The glasses had been a disappointment. They were regular glasses. Sarah's text had told him they probably would be. Between Mycroft, and Moriarity, and himself, he knew that the ability to memorize and store copious amounts of information was possible, and with Magnusson, it was certainly probable. He just had to be sure that there were no other copies.
There weren't.
Magnusson had grown arrogant, had thought he'd beaten Sherlock, and had to rub it in his face. Good. Sherlock needed that, to be sure.
It made the rest of his plan more difficult, however. Because no copies meant that the only person privy to Magnusson's database was Magnusson himself. And while Magnusson had overestimated his own abilities, he'd underestimated Sherlock's.
There were bigger things, bigger players in all of this. It might be a mistake to kill Charles Augustus Magnusson, with his large and varied database of dirty secrets – his brother would certainly have a fit over it – but he did make a vow to John, after all. And Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not a man of his word. Well, this word. Other words…not so much. The incident with Janine had proven that.
He knew there would be repercussions for this.
He didn't hesitate when he pulled the trigger.
Prison was not conducive to proper thought processes. A small sacrifice, to keep his vow to John, but it was growing larger by the day. Er, hour. All right, minute.
If hiding from prying eyes in and out of Molly Hooper's flat for three weeks after his 'suicide' was difficult, this was bordering on torture. It would be over soon, he knew. His dear brother would come to send him on a journey that he was never expected to return from.
Sherlock was anxious. The smallest things would interrupt him from his mind palace thoughts – the particular stretch of his sock across his pinky toe, the rub of his collar against his neck, the bristle of fabric from the bed, the creak of springs from the mattress. It had gone according to plan – mostly – he was still disappointed that he'd had to kill Magnusson (the world was better off without him, so not a lot of remorse, there), and this business of exile was bothersome. It took all of his self-control to keep from screaming and punching the walls of his cell.
But, as always, Sherlock had a plan.
He just hoped the person his plan hinged on would act before his time was up.
Molly – it was always Molly, if it wasn't John – had given him his clue. He'd probably have recognized it himself sooner, had he not been recovering from a gunshot wound to the chest and drugged up on morphine.
It was what she said – "We know what kind of a man you are. We're friends. You should have trusted us."
It was an echo of what Janine had said to him, earlier. Connecting her words to Janine's had opened her door in his mind palace, and synapses suddenly connected and before him, in plain sight, was something quite suspect.
What had Moriarty called him, as he was…dying? Sherl.
Who else called him Sherl? Only one other person – Janine.
Perhaps his subconscious was trying to tell him something.
As he dug deeper, he began connecting dots and mapping out answers.
"I may have fiddled with your morphine a bit."
"How much more revenge are you going to need?"
"Just the occasional top off."
He'd assumed she was speaking of the false relationship, of the proposal. Now…he was beginning to come to a new conclusion.
Her next words:
"You lied to me. You lied and lied. You shouldn'ta lied to me, Sherl. I know what kinda man ya are. We could've been friends."
The way she said them…it was…familiar. There was no anger in her words, just resignation, and a sheen in her eyes that he thought had been tears, but no tears fell. They were almost sad, but there was something else, there – was it - glee?
He realized now there was a reason she had been Mary's maid of honor. There was a reason she'd been paired with him at the wedding. After all, she had been the one flirting with him, at first, wasn't she? Someone had placed her there – he wasn't sure who, yet, but he had his suspicions.
He knew Mycroft suspected something, too. He wasn't sure if he suspected Janine, yet, but he had made that comment about being more useful here in England. What was it he had said?
Here there be dragons.
Something big was coming.
He just hoped he would be around to slay it.
Sherlock Holmes was anxious. He was ready, so ready, to begin. His plan did not seem so perfect, now. He was in the car, at the airport, ready to be exiled. He had made his move – killed Magnusson – and now he was waiting for a reply. He hadn't received one yet, and time was up.
He stood, watching John and Mary exit the car on the tarmac.
Mary walked up to him first, a sad, knowing smile on her face as she squinted into the light.
His heart squeezed itself in his chest. Still not properly healed yet, he supposed. The one regret he had was not being here to protect them from further misfortune. He knew it was coming. He just didn't see a way out of it. Not without a response from the other player in all of this.
"You will take care of him, won't you?" He asked, wrapping her in an embrace. This time, it was goodbye for real. This time, he appreciated the comfort of physical touch as much as any other human.
"Don't worry," Mary said, kissing him lightly on the cheek, smiling gently. "I'll keep him in trouble."
He returned her smile, eyes crinkling up at the corners. "That's my girl." He was thankful that John had this woman in his life, for all his objections to relationships and sentiment. Perhaps not so many objections now.
His brother was standing by, watching, disapproving. Sherlock frowned.
"Since this is quite possibly the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment alone?"
Mycroft made a show of rolling his eyes, but gave them space.
John smiled at him, and Sherlock's heart pressed against his chest again, and he commited John's smile, his awkward way of moving, his shrugs, to memory.
"So," John said, rocking on his heels, hands behind his back. "Here we are again." He cleared his throat, pacing a bit now.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."
John stopped, and raised his eyebrows. "What – sorry?"
Sherlock glanced at the ground before meeting John's eyes again. "That's the whole of it. If you're – looking for a baby name."
John chuckled, looking at the ground himself. "No, we've had a scan, and we're pretty sure it's a girl."
A girl. Sherlock had never understood girls, and had long considered them too emotional for his taste. There were, to date, only five women he could tolerate being around for long periods of time, and only two he actually preferred to spend time with. Still, he could not help smiling at the thought of John Watson raising a little girl. He would miss that. "Okay."
Sherlock bit his lip, and rocked on his heels himself as John stared across the airport at something in the distance. Neither one of them really knew what to say. How do you say goodbye to the person who is your best friend, your best man, and has saved your life more times than either of you could ever know?
"Yeah…yeah…I can't…I can't think of a single thing to say." John admitted after a moment.
"No, neither can I."
"The game is over," John eyed him, looking away quickly.
Sherlock could tell he wanted to be contradicted. "The game is never over, John."
"But there may be some new players, now," He added, looking away himself, angry that the player who was supposed to make a move hadn't, and now he was here, saying goodbye to the person he supposed loved him most in the world, and…one of the people he loved the most in the world.
He could not change things, now. No use crying over spilled milk. He smirked at the thought, though it saddened him a bit. "The east wind takes us all, in the end."
John stared. "What's that?"
"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The east wind is 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 directed at me."
John nodded, halfway. "Oh, I see." He really didn't, but it was kind of him to pretend.
"Bit of rubbish, big brother."
John smiled again, and cleared his throat. "So – what about you then? Where are you actually going, now?"
Sherlock sighed, and this time he knew the pain in his chest was not caused by shoddy stitching. If was being honest with himself, he knew he'd healed just fine all along. The pangs with Molly, and Mary, and John, all along – they had all been emotion. His brother was right. He had become too involved – but he didn't regret it. He was beyond that, now. "A bit of undercover work in Eastern Europe."
"For how long?"
"Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong." Sherlock did not meet John's eyes as he said this. John could not know he'd be dead at the end of those six months.
"And then what?"
Sherlock blinked. "Who knows?" This was a lie, but it was what Molly would call an honest sort of lie. A lie with pure intentions. That's something she'd said, after the fall, before he left. The best sort of lie. A lie meant to protect and help those around him. She was right, again – she was always right. Third time's the charm. He wasn't going to make it, this time. He'd fight, of course, he'd fight – but his brother was never wrong.
John nodded, looking behind him, at the plane, behind him again. Anywhere but at Sherlock. That would make it too final.
Sherlock paused, biting his lip again. "John, there's – something – I should say. Something I've meant to say, always, and I never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."
John was looking at him with such honest eyes, so full of emotion. And Sherlock found that he couldn't tell John how much he meant to him, how John was his best man, because that would be too final, and there was still a chance – still a chance – that the dragon would make his move and he'd be back here making witty barbs about John's inability to stay out of trouble for more than a week.
So, as he always did, Sherlock went for humor. It was a gift he could leave John with, his humor. "Sherlock is really a girl's name."
He grinned, and John grinned back at him. "It's not," John corrected.
Sherlock laughed. "Was worth a try."
"We're not naming our daughter after you."
"I think it could work."
Sherlock smiled again, putting all his love and gratefulness and apologies into that one last look at his best friend. He held out his hand. "To the very best of times, John."
John hesitated, and took it. He shook it firmly, and nodded, his face conveying everything he could not say.
Sherlock turned and boarded the plane.
Lestrade was at the pub, having a pint and watching the football match. He'd heard from John that Sherlock was going out of country for a few months, and he had to admit, he was saddened at the news. He'd just come back, after all, and he'd only just begun terrorizing London again.
He sighed in irritation as the screen began to go fuzzy. Jeers and complaints from the rest of the patrons filled the room. And then – and then –
His mouth dropped in disbelief. He – he recognized the back of that head. The jawline, the brow, as the man in the screen turned – and then the face.
That horrible, grinning, sadistic face, saying over, and over, and over again:
Did you miss me?
He pulled out his phone and had sent three texts by the time he was out the door.
Molly was about to leave for the night. She just finished cleaning the lab, putting everything back in its place, the background noise of the telly keeping her company. She heard static, and turned around to give it a whack again, straightening her lab coat.
Her mouth opened in horror at the sight of the man on the screen.
Did you miss me?
Sherlock stared out the window, memorizing the last of the English landscape, and with it, the people he cared about most. The people who counted. The people he had done all of this for. He could make plans for Serbia later. This time, now, was for him, and his emotions, and for gaining self control.
He was interrupted by an attendant with a phone. "Sir, it's your brother."
He glanced at the phone, suspicious. He barely dared to hope that someone…some dragon…had made the move that would get him out of this. "Mycroft."
"Hello, little brother. How's the exile going?"
"I've only been gone four minutes."
"Well, I certainly hope you've learnt your lesson." Sherlock could hear the smile in Mycroft's voice. "As it turns out, you're needed."
"Oh, for goodness sake, make up your mind." His voice did not betray the relief, and the joy he felt at hearing those words. The move had been made. "Who needs me this time?"
"England," Mycroft sighed.