It wasn't a big aircraft. It didn't need to be. He was the only one who was going to be travelling on it.

The journey from St Barts had been made in silence. Sherlock was lost in his own world of thought. Of pain. Of sorrow. Emotions he fought hard to control the whole way. Mycroft had flicked several glances over to him during the journey. How had he not realised? How had he, Mycroft Holmes, not spotted his brother had changed. Had grown up. Had fallen in love, completely, utterly and hopelessly? Yes, he had known that they were close, that Molly had been Sherlock's rock during his illness, and she had been staying at his flat. But love? Always a human error in both of their opinions. Maybe not in both of their opinions any more.

He looked again at Sherlock. The pain and hurt in his eyes and his whole demeanour confirmed to Mycroft that he had been correct all along. Love was a human error. It only led to pain, hurt and sorrow. Sherlock was the one dealing with the consequences of his emotional failings now. But thinking all of that, Mycroft also felt for his brother. A man who had been through so much. Helped so many and now was in such pain. Yes, killing Magnussen was wrong and it should not have happened, but there were a great many people relieved and even pleased that Magnussen had gone. Again, in his way, Sherlock had helped so many.

The car pulled up at the aircraft steps. Sherlock was surprised to see John and Mary standing there. He had presumed that he would not get to see John, would not get to say all the things he had been meaning to say for so long.

Mary greeted Sherlock first. An awkward hug was exchanged, where she promised to look after John. Sherlock's eyes could not greet hers. He knew he had taken the decision to pull the trigger, but it was she who had made him. She was John's pressure point and so she had to be protected. A thought crossed his mind that this was all her fault. That it was her fault he was losing Molly. But he pushed it aside. 'Of course its not her fault. You did this' he thought to himself as she walked away.

Saying goodbye to John would not be quite so easy. John. His dear, dear friend. His best friend. He was John's best friend. He still couldn't get over that. He actually had a best friend. Back then, when he was all alone, someone had actually liked him enough to call him a friend, to become his flat mate, and then for a while to become the most important person in his life. John, who had taught him how to have friends, how to laugh, how to cry, and most importantly the value of companionship. It was John who had encouraged him to explore his feelings about Molly. It was John who had shown him that love was not a human error, and who had supported him the whole way through. John, up until very recently, his only pressure point.

Sherlock and John took a short walk away from the aeroplane. Sherlock just wanted 5 minutes with John. He had so very much to say. So much that was bursting out inside him, but he just didn't know how to say it. He so wanted to let all the feelings he had suppressed for so long about John out. He wanted to tell him how grateful he was. How John had taught him so much, had meant so much to him, had been his one and only true friend. He wanted to say how much he had enjoyed working with him, drinking with him, sharing a flat with him, getting mad at him. But none of it would come out. He just didn't know how to express it.

So in the end he just held his hand out to John and they shook each other firmly by the hand

"To the very best of times, John"

Sherlock climbed the steps into the plane, took off his coat and sat down. He could not sit on the same side of the plane that John, Mary and Mycroft were standing on. It was too much to bear. So he sat down so they could not see him.

The doors closed, and he fastened his seat belt. There were no formalities on the plane. Everyone knew why this trip was happening. A brilliant man was being banished from the country and people he loved the most due to the most hideous of crimes. He had committed murder.

The plan began its taxi down the runway. Sherlock's eyes started to stream. He did not stop them. He did not try to hide his tears. He put his hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small photograph. He looked at it for a while through his tears. The one thing he had allowed himself to bring with him. The usually unsentimental Sherlock allowing himself one moment of sentiment.

It was a photograph of Molly. His Molly. In her lab coat, in the morgue at St Barts. In the place where he had fallen in love with her. In the place where he wanted to remember her, wearing the clothes he wanted to remember her wearing, her hair pulled back into a pony tail in just the way he wanted to remember her hair. She was smiling, smiling at him, with her eyes shining.

He slipped the photograph away in his pocket. He didn't plan to look at it again. She was there with him and he closed his eyes. The plane began to speed up, gaining momentum as it powered along the runway. Sherlock took a deep breath. This was it. He wasn't coming home again.

The plane climbed steeply and after a short while flattened out. Sherlock stared out of the window, taking in the view of London for one last time.

He became conscious of a person standing behind him. "Excuse me Mr Holmes, its your brother" the voice said, handing him a telephone.

"Yes Mycroft" Sherlock said.

The conversation was not a long one. He handed the phone back to the steward, just as the pilot announced they were all to prepare for landing. Landing back at the same airport they had left less than 10 minutes earlier.

As Sherlock climbed down the steps of the plane, Mycroft greeted him. "Well?"

"I saw his body. I saw him die. As of yet I have no further explanation for you. I will need to get more information."

"But I saw you die. I saw your body. We even had a death certificate. But here you are standing next to me" John said all in one breath. He was white and pale.

"Let me see the screen" Sherlock demanded

Mycroft led him over to the Jaguar and opened the door. It was there for all to see, clearly on the screen of the satellite navigation, still speaking the same words over again in Moriarty's own distinctive Irish Accent "Did you miss me?"