Chapter 22- The Butterfly Waltz

The morgue was freezing. The pale, alien light through off the trio's skin in sharp relief and turned them all into white and blue ghosts. The circles under all three of their eyes were a dark, almost frightening contrast to the paleness of their skin; they looked like they all had identical bruises under their eyes.

Emily clutched John's arm for support as they moved through the morgue, making sure never to blink, never to stop moving, as though she would be afraid if she did, she would trapped in this nightmare. She would be reminded that this wasn't a dream.

John himself felt like he wanted to pass out. He wanted to comfort Emily. He wanted to run and run until his lungs gave out. He wanted to wring Moriarty's neck.

John shook away his thoughts and walked forward.

A large black bag sat on the table at the end of the row. When Emily saw it, she faltered. Just a little break in step, and then she blinked and held her head high and kept moving.

Molly stood next to the table. She looked horrible. Exhausted and distraught, she had the look of one running on adrenaline and bad coffee. Normally, under simple circumstances, Molly had been able to keep calm and not react. But this was different. This wasn't just a nobody or a jumper or a 67 year old man from IT. Now, she had lost her friend. She had to catalogue her friend's remains and shut her friend in a black plastic bag, shove her in a freezer and treat her like another statistic.

Trying not to let emotion take a firmer grip on her, Molly reached out and pulled John into an embrace. He accepted stiffly, trying to remain a soldier while biting back the urge to cry. She released him and wrapped her arms around Emily, who returned the hug and buried her face in Molly's shoulder to hide the tears behind her eyes. Molly stepped back, waited for Emily's nod, and unzipped the body bag.

Lana lay within the black plastic, the hair around her cheeks still dark from washing and cleaning away the blood. Her eyes were closed, and if it weren't for the body bag and dark surroundings, she might have been sleeping. Her neck, not completely set into its original place, still looked slightly off center.

Emily buried her face into John's jacket and let out a single dry sob. John guided her to the neighboring table and sat her on top. Her feet dangled like a small child's as she clung to his coat and shook. As John sat up on the table with her, Emily refused to let go of him, twisting the fabric in her hands and resting her head against his shoulder. She didn't look at Lana's body.

She couldn't look at Sherlock.

Emily hated him. She didn't want to, but she did. Every inch of her wanted to scream at him until her throat was raw, to scratch him until he bled, to make him feel the gaping, bleeding wound she felt. She couldn't stop the volley of thoughts that if he had never known Lana, her daughter, her baby, might still be alive.

And yet, she couldn't entirely blame him. He had loved her as much as she had.

….

"You stole my gun?" asked Sherlock in surprise, sitting down in a chair to examine his newly-found sig.

"You stole my couch space."

He paused, his mouth slightly open. Lana smiled, triumphant, until he gave in. "shut up."

"So you ADMIT you stole my couch."

Sherlock looked appalled. "I didn't STEAL anything. And if I DID steal anything, I stole your couch SPACE. But you were the one who offered to let me stay here until the experiments were done and the flat stopped smelling like turpentine."

"Then where IS my couch?" Lana gestured to the space on her wall where the couch had, until very recently, stood.

Sherlock hesitated, a faint flush blooming on his cheeks.

"You didn't"

"It was either leave the couch here and let the drug dealers get away or plant the tracking device in the couch and let him take it."

The look on Lana's face could have turned some people to stone. "You are unbelievable. Just- Sherlock, it was my COUCH. I can't believe you would just sell my couch to a-" Her rant was cut as Sherlock stepped forward and shut her up.

As they broke apart, Lana murmured."You're still sleeping on the floor, though."

"Am I?" Sherlock replied, and he threw her a wolfish grin as he sauntered out the door.

….

Molly reentered the room with three mugs of awful Bart's coffee, and set them next to John. None of them had noticed her leave the room, but were thankful for the bit of warmth as they sat in the cold empty room. the snow danced across the window panes, and bells tolled out across the empty city, as the three people who loved Lana Heart most of all sat down to pay their respects.

Molly looked at her watch. it was long past visiting hours, but she couldn't bring herself to speak. Without a backward glance, she turned and left the morgue, searching for a place to mourn her friend alone.

She didn't belong with them.

John, Emily and Sherlock sat in silence. Nothing moved but the tick of the clock and the beat of their pulse. John held Emily until his arm went numb, but he didn't release her until he felt her breathing steady from the ragged stretch of crying. Slowly she relaxed, falling into a deep, and hopefully dreamless sleep. Carefully, John lifted his arm away and laid her on the table, covering her with his jacket. He then sat down on the other side of the table, beside his friend.

Sherlock wasn't looking at him. He wasn't looking anywhere. Somehow this lack of focus was even more terrifying than the iciest of his glares. John didn't know whether to hold him or to slap him, but he knew he wanted Sherlock back. Cold, calculating, somehow still caring Sherlock.

….

"You are an absolute moron sometimes," John scolded, slamming the bottle of antiseptic onto the table and began dressing Lana's wounds. He glared steadily at Sherlock, who was pretending not to notice and was staring avidly at Lana's arm.

"It's just another scar, John," she replied. "One more to add to my collection."

Lana looked over her shoulder to Sherlock. "Anything you have to say, sweetie?"

"First of all, don't call me sweetie; this is not Doctor Who. Second, in my defense, the chainsaw was propped up against the door and was only supposed to assist me. If someone got hurt, it wasn't my fault."

"Wasn't the point for you to hurt something?" John asked absentmindedly, covering Lana's room with a bandage.

"I needed it to saw through what was left of that coffin; Missus Hudson took my hatchet." Sherlock got up and headed for his room.

"Let's back up," Lana said, pulling herself out of the chair and following him. "What hatchet?"

….

"John."

The voice was hoarse, not from crying, but from lack of use. John looked up in surprise. Sherlock was looking at the floor as though willing a hole to appear and swallow him up.

"John, I need you to call Emily a taxi, please. Take her home to Baker Street so she doesn't freeze."

John stayed where he was for a moment, unsure of what to say, what to do.

"Please, John. Now."

John nodded and slipped out of the room, into the slightly warmer hallway.

He reached into his pocket for his phone, looking out at the city as he prepared to dial a number.

"No need, John." Said a new, but familiar voice.

John turned around. Mycroft was standing there, with his typical suit and umbrella. In his other hand was his phone.

"You already called?" asked John, exhausted. He sank onto the nearby bench and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Of course, "Mycroft replied. He pocketed the phone and sat beside John. The two men sat, watching the city lights spread out before them.

"You're a survivor, Dr. Watson, I could give you that."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean anyone who associates with my brother seems to have a nasty habit of vanishing or getting themselves killed. You must be congratulated on your persistence."

"He loved her. How can you judge him for that?"

"I never said I judged him. Miss Heart did something I never thought was possible; she unlocked his heart and made him something both weaker and greater than he could have ever been on his own."

"And you think that makes him weak."

"I observe the changes in him. Nothing more, nothing less. And right now I see the only girl he ever loved without viewing her as an adversary has caused him to tear himself apart."

"He's mourning her. Doesn't that prove he's human?"

"When has his humanity ever worried him?" asked Mycroft, staring through the window. "and now that it worries him, how will he react?"

There was a very long pause.

"Then what do we do?"

"What can we do, John?" Mycroft lit a cigarette and inhaled, blowing smoke up towards the ceiling.

John stood up. "I have to try and help him."

He was almost through the door when an arm caught him. John looked into Mycroft's earnest face.

"Give him time, John. Let him heal."

….

"What are you listening to?"

Sherlock pulled one of Lana's ear buds out and she fixed him with a glare. "Classical music. Can I have my ear bud back?"

But the consulting detective was sticking the ear bud into his own ear and listening intently now. Lana was fascinated by the look of calm that stretched over his face. "this is beautiful," he commented, tapping out the light ¾ pattern on his knee. "What is it?"

"It's called the Butterfly Waltz," Lana responded, standing up to keep her own ear bud in as Sherlock suddenly stood up. "Hey! What was that for?"

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, and took her hand. "May I have this dance?"

Lana turned pink. "What?"
"You heard me," Sherlock replied, his face expressionless. "Dancing. I assume you know how to waltz?"

"Yes, but-" Lana felt the rest of her sentence torn away as Sherlock took her waist and guided her into a dance in the middle of her apartment. She tried very hard to focus on her feet, making sure she didn't appear too cumbersome, or stepped on his toes. Sherlock spun her out and back in, and an uncontrollable giggle escaped her lips.

"Why do girls always do that?" asked Sherlock, spinning her around in time to the soft tune.

"What, giggle?" Lana responded, not looking up.

"Yes, it seems to be a universal reaction whenever anyone spins your species."

"Species?" Lana almost laughed. "We're not exactly aliens, you know."

"You might as well be. you and Anderson; two species I will never fully understand.

"And Lana, you can look up. You're doing fine."

Lana looked up in surprise to find Sherlock looking at her with an expression of quiet amusement. She blushed, but kept her head up, and followed Sherlock into a final turn and dip as the song faded into silence

…..

It was long after the echoing footsteps had faded that Sherlock finally moved.

He had wrapped himself in his black coat, sitting as far away from Emily and John as possible while keeping Lana's body in view. He clenched his jaw and refused to speak a word. The cup of coffee had been cold for over an hour and remained untouched beside his arm. Now, he pushed off his seat and stepped up to the table.

Sherlock looked down at Lana, and felt something rise in the back of his throat. Every piece of her brought back new memories. Lana, covered in sheep gore, fighting for her forceps back. Lana, cradling her colt defender and ducking between alleys. Cooking dinner and making snarky jokes. Typing to meet a deadline. Talking on the phone. Photographing a crime scene. Dancing, laughing. Kissing him.

"I love you. "

The words forced themselves out into the room, too big to be kept back by just his mouth. And now the crack was open and words were pouring out.

"I love you, and I've never said that to anyone. You're different and wild and beautiful. And I love you so, so much."

He became aware of the tears etching his face, silently falling along with the tidal wave of words.

Fact- All data suggests cause of death was the snapping of the neck. Survival rate of a gunshot wound is around 15%, but once the nervous system has been breached, statistically the numbers drop.

"please." He reached out and found her cold, tiny hand. "Please. I don't want to go back to being me. I don't want to be a cold, heartless bastard anymore."

Fact- after a fall of nearly three stories onto her neck and shoulders, the collarbone shattered, and the axis snapped forward, causing a cervical fracture.

He gripped her tighter, willing her to twitch, to stir, to snap at him. "I need you here, Lana"

Once gone, nothing can truly come back.

Fact.

"I need you."

….

Some time later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and whipped around.

John stood there. He had his jacket in one hand, but suddenly stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his best friend.

"I've got you," john whispered.

Sherlock stayed perfectly still, stiff with sadness and rage and emotions he didn't quite understand. Slowly he raised his arms and wrapped them around john's shoulders, keeping his eyes open and focused on the back wall. He didn't want John to know what had happened. He didn't want to feel nothing, but he certainly didn't want to feel weak. Finding that balance was difficult, and he fought to remain stoic.

It was a long time before the two men finally left the morgue.

John hit the switch on the way out, one arm still around Sherlock. the morgue was thrown into momentary darkness before the lights of the city outside entered to cast their own shadows. Blocks of light from the windows reflected off the tables and autopsy equipment.

Lana's body still lay on the slab, the light playing off her still beautiful face. In one hand was looped a long silver chain.

The End

Author's note; Chapter 22.1

Hey everyone.

This is chapter 22.1

You see? You see what I did there?

Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you to all you readers for following my little story it's conclusion. I've never done this before, but now I definitely know I want to do more. I mean a lot more. As in as soon as possible.

And it's cool because I love good storytelling and I love good characters, and I that's all I can really hope for. That you guys like my characters and enjoyed yourselves on the journey.

Even though the ending was sad.

Yes, I know, I know, I pulled a Moffat. Or a Whedon. And everyone hates when that happens. But I am glad that you guys cared that much. I really am. I hope you'll enjoy anything else that escapes out of my brain.

Other note; i've been going through and making lots of edits, because my writing isn't exactly good. So I hope you'll enjoy any changes.

Praying forever for your patience, and that you have a wonderful summer,

Jay