Note:
The scene at the tarmac is the one that needs to be fixed the most. Here we go.
The monotonous life of solitary confinement goes on like that for a while. Breakfast, bricks, lunch, weather, workout, shower, visitor, emptiness, sleep. Nightmares. I still don't speak that much. John comes every third day, Mycroft is there in between. We all don't know when this routine will be over, and what will happen then.
I know that Mycroft is doing all he can to negotiate me out of the MI6 assignment in Serbia and out of prison as well. I just don't think that he will be successful. And by the way, I am not sure that I deserve being negotiated out of it. No matter that my motives were noble, in the end I killed a man in cold blood.
It is haunting me more than I care to admit. Sometimes, when all is quiet, I hear the shot echoing in my mind. Sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I remember the look on John's face afterwards. And every time I sleep, I dream of dusk and helicopter noise and red dots and wind and death. After three weeks it becomes clear that I will not be able to stand this life any longer.
John refuses to believe that Serbia will be a death trap. He is completely adamant that Mycroft will find a way out. "You will not die there," he states matter-of-factly while holding me tight. His optimism is so radiant that I tend to believe it as well. Occasionally.
Whenever he leaves, he refuses to say the big goodbye. "I'll see you in three days," he always says and presses a chaste kiss on my nose or my forehead or my cheek. I play along, ignoring the sword of Damocles for a moment.
He always makes sure that we talk about the future, make plans that we will probably (almost certainly) never realise. "We can turn my old room into a nursery," he suggests and makes me talk about wall papers and carpets and changing tables. "I want to introduce you to my parents," he smirks and laughs at my horror-stricken face."We need to talk about how to go on once the baby is born," he says but flatly refuses to do so now, because there will be enough time for it later on.
On his sixth visitor's day he brings along Mary. (Mycroft's idea. She is still to believe we are friends.) I feel like one of those precious John-days is completely wasted. But I am nice to her, because soon I will not be able to protect John and Baby Watson any other way.
She allows me to touch her belly, and Baby Watson kicks against my hand. It renders me speechless for nearly an hour.
When they leave, Mary hugs me and cries because, as she states rather clearly, "we will most likely never meet again." My fragile hope shatters instantly. I catch John's glance over her shoulder. It hurt him just as badly as it hurt me. She is really evil with those little things.
The next two non-John-days pass in a haze. Mycroft ensures me that he is still trying to help me out, "I am already organizing backup for you in Serbia." But I know that he has to be discrete about it and hence is limited in his resources. It is unthinkable what would happen (especially to our parents) should it become widely known that the Iceman is in fact a loving family man.
Mummy and Dad don't come to visit me. They think I am heroically working undercover, extensively protected by my big brother.
When John comes back three days after Mary's visit, he is still clearly shaken. "You will not die," he repeats over and over again. We embrace so hard I can barely breathe. For once, I have to cheer up him, and not the other way round. Funny feeling. Not my most prominent strength.
But I seem to make do.
"I was thinking about Emilia for girl and Anthony for a boy," I let him know after the long long long embrace. (Have given that a lot of thought, carefully avoiding every living relative of him and of me. Of course his belief in the Watson Curse is pitifully weird, but important to him, nevertheless.)
He smiles (open smile with a tint of sadness). "That sounds wonderful," he says. "I was thinking of Grace or Joshua. But Mary insists on Evelyn or George." His parents. He has broken all contact with them, but hopes to see them again one day. Choosing their names for Baby Watson seems to be a loving gesture by his beautiful wife.
But she knows exactly why he does not want the baby to be named after living relatives. Knows exactly that so far, if the name of a relative is used for a Watson child, it is the name of a dying or dead relative. With the sad exception of Auntie Rose who had a deadly car accident just three days after her niece had been named after her.
In the end it is just another cruel move by his bossy wife. The thought of leaving John and GraceOrJoshua with her is even more scary than my imminent death. Need to talk about it with Mycroft soon.
When John leaves that day, he is extremely fierce about the "See you in three days" part of saying goodbye. He tells me about the scan they will have tomorrow morning, that will most likely tell them if it will be an Emilia or an Anthony. "Grace or Joshua" I correct him, and he smiles again.
The next day, Mycroft comes along earlier than usually. He does not have to say a word. I know that I will leave for Serbia now.
We keep our (inevitable) conversation factual. Mycroft promises to work out a plan for John and GraceOrJoshua that is strongly orientated on what John wants. I state my confidence in his ability to work out a way to support me in Serbia. He informs me about the (suicide) mission, tells me all about (very rare) safe houses and (even rarer) supporters. I quip about how grateful I am that I was allowed to keep my hairstyle in prison. He sneers at my vanity in the face of danger.
We spend fifteen minutes pretending I will return to England after successfully finishing my assignment. Fifteen minutes for me to dream of a domestic bliss I never knew I wanted. John in the kitchen, preparing tea. GraceOrJoshua sleeping in my arms. The smell of infant all over the flat. Mrs Hudson and Molly standing by to babysit while John and I solve spectacular cases and have spectacular sex afterwards. Fifteen minutes to believe I still have a future.
"We should bid farewell here, not out in the open," Mycroft says then. I prepare to shake his hand when the unspeakable happens. He ignores my outstretched hand and pulls me into a fierce embrace. One of his hands is holding me at my back, the other is pressed against the back of my head. He does not say a word, just holds me tight and pets my curls.
This is when I know for sure that I will die.
There is nothing left to say really, so I remain silent. Just allow myself to lean into the embrace, feel like the ten year old boy that snuggles against big brother in the aftermath of a devastating hour at the vet. Thankfully he ignores the tears in my eyes when letting me go again.
"I will continue to try helping you out," he promises on our way to the car, but his heart is not in it. He knows that course is lost.
"You will keep John and the baby safe," I instruct him, "that will be your top priority." Because there is no telling what Mary will do if John tries and leaves her.
Will he still try and leave her with me dead? I don't know. (Breaks my heart.)
At the tarmac, we wait for John and (inevitably) for Mary. Enough time to contemplate how I can let John know that there is no hope for me any longer. (Because, just saying so out in the open, even in front of his body guard, could compromise Mycroft's cover. The world is not to know that he tried to help me out at all. All of sudden, I am tired of playing games, speaking in riddles, making believe.)
When they arrive Mary hops out of the car, grinning. She can barely conceal how happy she is to see me leave. Still, we both play the game one last time, feigning sympathy, hugging, touching arms. Exchanging a smile. She lets go of me and marks her territory by linking arms with John immediately. Another little mean gesture. Disgusting.
John is so stiff that I am afraid he will put his back out. Dark bags under his eyes. Looks nearly broken. I can barely stand seeing him like that. A tiny tiny part of me hopes that I'll be in the plane soon, just to bring this painful goodbye to an end. I manage to send the others away so John and I can talk one last time in (relative) private. (For who knows how many bugs there are attached to the plane or to the car or to the body guard or to whatever. That's the game Mycroft plays, with the Mycrofts of other nations and other organisations.)
John tries to keep up his smile, but can barely look at me. What I want to do is take him in my arms and kiss him senseless, pressing our pelvises together and feel him getting hard right here in front of everyone. Or hide in his arms and cry like a little child, make him caress me and press those chaste little kisses on my face. Or just stand opposed to him and look into his wonderful eyes for hours, see his love for me shining through.
What I do instead is letting him know that there really is no hope for us any longer. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes," I say, "if you're looking for baby names." Meaning: I am dying.
"No," he says and adds quickly, "we've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl." Meaning not only "It will be a Grace" but also "No, you are not dying."
My heart beats faster at the prospect of baby Grace cuddled up in John's arms. So when he says that the game is over, I disagree vehemently. Because no matter that I won't be there, he will have her to protect and to love and to admire.
I cannot bring myself to say goodbye just yet, so I chat about a story Mycroft told me when I was young. Then we talk about my "undercover work in Eastern Europe" as if John would not know about it just to make sure that Mycroft's cover works (I owe that to him for trying to safe me all those years. Plus it gives me another stolen minute in John's company.) I bravely lie about the suicide aspect of it, just to make sure, leaving it with an uncertain but fake "Who knows".
I am unwilling to stop talking, not ready yet to leave him for good, so I keep on talking. "John, there's something I should say ..." I start, not knowing where this sentence will lead me. "I-I've meant to say always and then never have." If I don't stop myself now, I will declare love beyond death to him right here. Think, Sherlock. Find a better ending to this ludicrously pathetic speech. "Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."No, not better. Still too close to "I will always love you". But I will. Does he know?
I watch him, see him squirm, see the expression on his face, the haunted look in his eyes. He knows. And that is what I will leave behind this time. When I jumped off the roof, I left a broken man who had no idea how much he was loved. No, I leave behind the man who would have been willing to raise a baby with me, who loved me spiritually and physically in more ways I ever thought possible, who will soldier on no matter what. Who knows that I am saying "I love you" right now without needing to hear it.
Who still holds the misguided hope that I will not die within the next six months. So I try to make it crystal clear one last time, "Sherlock is actually a girl's name." Meaning: "I will die. Please forgive me for leaving you."
I watch him crack up, trying to regain his composure and fail for a moment. Neglecting it again. A true smile crosses his face then, when he understands that I have also said "I love you" one last time. I take it in, make a mental picture of it that I will hide in my mind palace, planing to hide it until the moment I die, and the take it out and look at it while my life ends. (If I die slowly, that it.)
I am probably smiling back for a second, tears already stinging. I desperately need to get it together now, or I will break down right here. So I collect myself, and instead of hugging and kissing and loving I stretch out my hand, "To the very best of times, John."
He hesitates for what feels like hours, apparently contemplating hugging and kissing and loving himself, but bravely plays along in the end. Shakes my hand, looks me straight in the eye, cannot bring himself to say something. When my heart is utterly completely broken by the look in his eyes, I turn around and enter the plane without looking back again.
I even sit on the right side of the plane, knowing that looking out of the window there I will not see him (standing next to Mary, probably even holding hands) as the plane departs.
Note: Oops, that turned out a bit more heartbreaking than I thought, but fortunately we all know that the plane will turn around soon.