"Sherlock." Lestrade sighed. "I don't know if this is the best idea."
"Thank goodness I didn't ask your opinion." Sherlock huffed angrily.
"I still think that this should be done in person." Lestrade said firmly. "You shouldn't just write him a letter and expect everything to be better by the time you get back."
"Just give this to him." Sherlock said shoving the letter at him roughly. "And DON'T read it."
"I'm not five." Lestrade huffed. "I don't want to read your love note."
"Keep it away from my brother too." Sherlock said.
"I promise." Lestrade said crossing his heart. "From my hands to his."
"Right." Sherlock said now looking incredibly uncomfortable.
"Do you have any idea where you're off to next?" Lestrade asked.
"Switzerland." Sherlock answered. "It's the most logical place to go."
"Right." Lestrade said. "I'll get transportation set up for you and expect a confirmation email as well."
"Of course." Sherlock said.
"And," Lestrade said before striding out of the "Be careful."
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"I don't want this." John said attempting to hand the envelope back.
"Nope, sorry." Lestrade said moving away. "I've already played too big a role in this whole thing. I am officially bowing out."
"Geoff..." John tried again.
"Listen." Lestrade sighed. "Just read the damn letter. I'll be at the pub later if you want to stop by. I was going to watch the match."
John glared at his friend as he beat a hasty retreat out of his little studio apartment. He turned his attention to the slim envelope with his name written on it with Sherlock's signature spidery script. Sighing heavily and feeling his stomach roil with uncertainty, he broke the seal and pulled out a piece of paper covered in familiar writing.
Dear John-
I believe that it is rather obvious as to why I am writing you this letter so I will not insult your intelligence by attempting to justify my reasons.
First and foremost I want to apologize for any pain that my supposed death has caused you. I hadn't thought it possible that it would affect you overmuch but Lestrade has expressed that maybe my deception has caused you discomfort. So, I am sorry. My reasons for the deception aside, I was under the assumption that my absence wouldn't be more than a blip on your emotional radar. I guess I should have deferred this thought to you, John. The problem is that I am not a well-rounded person. I am a genius of a very small percentage of the knowledge in the world. You, on the other hand, seem to understand so much more about the people in the world. While it is not integral knowledge for my work, it is imperative information for the happiness of those around me. The happiness of you, John. It is possible that I didn't grasp the full effects that our parting might have had on you. I know that it affected me deeply, but I never thought that it would wound you as much. You seem so much more capable than me to form connections with others that I was under the impression that I was just a passing acquaintance. Lestrade has disabused me of this assumption.
I must also try to explain my reasoning for the deception. It seems we were each trying to function using blinders that left us without a comprehensive view of the entire situation. I only knew that Moriarty had taken you and hurt you. That he had taunted me into playing a game with him that has taken me all over the world. I cannot lie to you and say that I wasn't intrigued and excited at the prospect of dismantling such a convoluted and meticulously designed organization. It was the game, John, and I couldn't resist. But driving me then and more than anything driving me now is that he threatened you. I have since tired of this fight with Moriarty and the only reason I am still away is the fact that if I were to return, you would be a target. Having you in the hands of that madman once was more than enough evidence for me to come to the conclusion that you being in danger because of me is intolerable. I even know what you will say when you read that. I know that it is your choice when you put yourself in danger. I know that I don't have the right to lock you away to keep you safe. You are more than capable of taking care of yourself. I needed you safe for my own well-being and I was selfish enough to act on that fear.
You were provided with an entirely different view of the situation. You were informed that I would leave you behind. That I wouldn't require your company for this case. You were functioning under the assumption that I didn't even have the decency to inform you of my faked death. That I didn't even care enough to say goodbye. The truth, my dear Watson, is that I couldn't. I couldn't bring myself to look you in the eye and say goodbye. This can be attributed to cowardice. I thought it would be easier to just slip away quietly. But you know me too well, John. You even cared enough to set Lestrade on me. Did you know that one evening in Morocco he dosed me with a sedative to get me to sleep? He really is intolerable. Thank you.
The final thing I want to extrapolate on is how wrong you are. It is a familiar feeling for you so it probably won't be too overwhelming. But you do mean a great deal to me. It is harder to describe than I had anticipated but the truth is still so apparent to me that the idea of you not knowing is baffling. And the hardest thing is that I can't explain it. I can't put it in words. So, please, when I get back, let me show you. Give me a chance to prove to you how much your friendship matters. Don't write me off yet, Dr. Watson.
Yours,
Sherlock Holmes.
John read the letter three times before folding it neatly and placing it under his pillow. He felt numb as he pulled out a loose sheet of paper and scrawled a reply. He'd get it to Geoff tonight.
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"Here." Lestrade said, rolling his eyes.
Sherlock grabbed the envelope and held to his chest tightly glaring at Lestrade until he made a hasty retreat. He tore it open quickly and felt his entire body fill with warmth at the succinct reply:
You're an idiot. Stay safe.
Yours,
John
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"How many CDs do you have, Geoffrey?" Mycroft asked stunned as Lestrade drops a third medium sized box on the carpet next to the entertainment system.
"Too much?" Lestrade blushes.
"I just don't remember seeing them all at your place." Mycroft shrugged.
"Well," Lestrade answered. "I didn't have the space for them so they spent time in one of my closets. We don't have to display them all. I'll just go through and pick out an assortment."
"Or we could always just get a stand for them all." Mycroft chided.
"You don't mind?" Lestrade asked.
"Of course not." Mycroft said kissing him happily on the nose.
"Trip to Ikea then?" Lestrade said.
"Hardly." Mycroft sniffed. "Ikea isn't actually the motif that I was going for."
"Snob." Lestrade said playfully.
"Vagabond." Mycroft huffed back.
"Seems we'll have to settle this the old fashioned way, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade said herding his partner back toward the couch.
"What do you suggest, Mr. Lestrade." Mycroft smirked.
"A test of wills." Lestrade said pushing Mycroft lightly down onto the cushions.
"Parameters?" Mycroft asked pulling Lestrade down to straddle his thighs.
"First one to come loses." Lestrade purred in Mycroft's ear.
"You're on." Mycroft said nibbling on Lestrade's collarbone.
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"It's been awhile, darling." Moriarty smirked. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."
"No snipers this time around?" Sherlock asked. "You seem to be losing your touch."
"But they're not really necessary now, are they?" Moriarty said with that snakelike lilt.
"I'm afraid you're overestimating your importance." Sherlock said primly.
"Giving in to those sociopathic tendencies you're so very proud of?" Moriarty asked smugly against the roar of the falls.
Sherlock felt a cold, detached calm seep into his skin as he pointed John's gun unwaveringly at the madman's chest. Two and a half years of fighting and running and sacrificing to get to this point. To finally put an end to this fight. His greatest accomplishment as a consulting detective, his most prestigious case, a true testament to his brilliance, and he was alone. He was no longer elated by this chase. No longer excited by the prospect of this game with Moriarty. He was tired and bitter. He was sick of being tugged and pushed across the globe at the whim of this waste of oxygen. He was so close to dismantling every facet of Moriarty's vast network. Once he cut off the head, it would be over. And then he could go home, he could fix this.
"Hardly." Sherlock quipped. "Just taking care of the refuse."
"Speaking of waste," Moriarty said with a sharp grin. "How is dear Johnny? It's been a while since I've checked in with the dear doctor."
"Shut up." Sherlock growled.
"Now, Sherlock." Moriarty tutted. "You hardly get to play the role of protective boyfriend, do you? I mean, abandoning him in London? That seems cruel even to me."
"I am curious." Sherlock said trying to stuff away the distracting emotions clawing at his throat. "What exactly did you say to him that night?"
He felt something sickening slide over his skin at the chuckle emanating from the criminal.
"Oh, that." Moriarty said as if recalling a fond childhood memory. "I just told him the truth."
"The truth about what?" Sherlock asked.
"About you." Moriarty grinned. "I knew that you'd come after me, of course. That was obvious. I simply informed him of the fact that a broken, useless Army doctor would never factor into the ingenious plans of our dear Sherlock. You played your role beautifully too. Faking your death? That was gorgeous. You didn't even have the decency to say goodbye either. It was so entertaining. I have the look on the doctor's face from when that inspector informed him of your death as my screensaver."
"Of course I left." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You threatened his life."
"Oh, please." Moriarty rolled his eyes. "I threatened to burn out your heart. You were the one who placed that weight on the shoulders of an idiot with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp. But enough about him. Let's talk about us."
"There is no 'us'." Sherlock said firmly.
"Of course there's an 'us'." Moriarty laughed. "What do you think the past couple of years have been about? The truth is that you need me."
"Hardly." Sherlock bit out.
"Oh really?" Moriarty purred, striding confidently into Sherlock's personal space. "We both know that you wanted to play this little game. I mean, if it was really about protecting John, you would have sent your brother's minions. No, this is what you wanted. What you needed. That's why you're not going to kill me. Because you won't go back to that pathetic existence of yours. I mean, really? Begging cases from the Yard like a stray begging for scraps? You're so much better than that, my dear."
"Oh, you're not serious." Sherlock scoffed.
"Very." Moriarty challenged. "I promise you won't be bored."
"I'm afraid you can't promise that, Jim." Sherlock smirked.
"And why not?" Moriarty asked.
"Because I've been bored of this little game of yours for years." Sherlock said firmly. "Lestrade, I'm done here."
With those words, twenty well-trained agents of the British government descended upon the psychopath forcing him none to gently to the rocky cliff ground. Sherlock watched with a tired sort of relief as the madman struggled and shrieked and cursed.
"NO! NO! Sherlock! NO!" Moriarty shouted. "This isn't how it goes! NO! This isn't the plan!"
"Sorry, Jim." Sherlock said loudly. "I'm afraid I have something much more interesting waiting for me in London."
A dark gleaming viciousness flashed across Moriarty's eyes as his face twisted into a crazed grimace. "Not if Moran gets there first."