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“You’re sure?” Mycroft Holmes asked his younger brother. If he was perhaps softer, showing more concern than he usually did, then at the moment, he did not particularly care.
“Quite,” Sherlock said stone-faced then turned back to look out the window of the room he was being kept in. The bars hindered his view but he looked out just the same.
“Very well, then,” Mycroft acknowledged then sighed. He tucked the letter Sherlock had just handed him into his pocket.
“John and Mary will be there?” Sherlock asked, his voice a deep even tone. “Of course,” Mycroft promised. His brother only had less than twenty-four hours left in England, he’d give him anything that was within his power to do. After all, it wasn’t just Mary and John Sherlock had protected from Charles Augustus Magnussen. Magnussen’s ultimate goal was to control Mycroft, acquiring Sherlock and the Watson’s in the process was an added bonus to the megalomaniac. Sherlock did the only thing he could, the only option he thought he had left, and now he had to pay the penance for it. Mycroft couldn’t help but hope his brother would find some way out, some other outcome to the end he had predicted. Now it was Mycroft’s turn to protect the Watsons; he couldn’t protect his brother anymore. Just the thought was breaking his heart, though he never let it show, the ‘Iceman’ through and through. “Mummy and father will be by later, be kind,” he begged. “I’ll be back tomorrow, be prepared to leave promptly when I do.”
Sherlock remained silent, his gaze still locked on the world outside his window. When Mycroft was outside and opened the door to the sleek black car awaiting him he looked up at the window. Sherlock still stood there. Mycroft was almost sure he could see his brother’s oddly coloured eyes watching him. Mycroft Holmes never wanted to be wrong, he prided himself on always being right, but he solemnly wished now that he was wrong about the six month time-table. If anyone could prove him wrong it was his brother Sherlock, and this time he truly hoped he would.
* * * * *
Doctor Molly Hooper was where she could usually be found, down in her lab in the morgue of St. Bart’s. It was nearly the end of her workday. She was running tests that she had performed so many times she could most likely do them in her sleep. It was probably a good thing it was something so routine, anything else and she would not be able to do it properly she was so lacking in her ability to focus. Most everyone lately had left her alone to work in peace. Mike Stamford was especially aware that Molly was not okay and was kindly giving her the space she needed. The newspapers weren’t of any help to her state of mind, if anything they made things worse.
Molly had been mildly surprised by the breaking news late Christmas evening that newspaper tycoon Charles Magnussen had been shot and killed on his estate. It had broken on the telly before they knew much detail. The next morning a brief press conference had revealed that the shooter and a witness had been detained for questioning. The authorities didn’t say it then but the press had soon disclosed that it was Sherlock who fired the gun, John, as always, by his side. Details of the circumstances were never revealed, not to the public, and so the public did what they always do, they made up their own story. Molly had tried getting information from Greg Lestrade but he didn’t know any more than what she did. She tried calling John and Mary but no one answered. The papers couldn’t decide who was the true monster in the plot: Charles Augustus Magnussen, a man who’s true colours were being revealed as a malicious and manipulative egomaniac that was blackmailing a long laundry list of people, or Sherlock Holmes, the hat detective everyone always found fascinating but thought him unhinged enough to commit murder.
Feeling a presence in the room Molly froze. She wished for a second that it could be him, hovering like he used to do when he wanted something. She looked up from her microscope and her shoulders drooped. Wrong Holmes.
“Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft greeted her in his usual cool tone. There was something in his demeanour though, something that anyone else would not pick up on. He seemed uncomfortable about something.
“Mycroft Holmes, what can I do for you?” she tried smiling and failed. They, of course, knew each other, Sherlock being the common denominator. Mycroft and Molly had stayed in contact after both being involved in the rooftop scheme.
“I came to give you this,” Mycroft pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. She saw her name written on the outside of the envelope in familiar script.
“Thank you,” she took the letter gently, almost reverently. Mycroft looked like he wanted to say something more but didn’t and instead nodded once, sniffed and departed. She stood staring at the door for a few minutes before unfreezing again.
Molly carefully put the letter in her pocket, afraid of what it would say. Putting off reading it for a few moments longer she cleaned up the lab and all her open projects. She did all the paperwork she needed to, crossed all her ‘T’s and dotted her ‘I’s. When everything was done she finally sat down at her desk and pulled out the envelope. With a deep breath to steel herself she broke the seal on the envelope and unfolded the papers within. She couldn’t help but ‘hear’ Sherlock’s voice in her head as she read his words.
Molly,
By now I’m sure you’ve heard any number of stories claiming to be the truth of what happened at Appledore. Knowing you, you have probably tried finding out the truth for yourself but knowing Mycroft and his constant need for secrecy have probably not gotten far in that endeavour. I wish that circumstances were such that I could tell you the entire truth of it, but unfortunately, not all of it is my story to tell.
You have always been there for me in all the ways that count, all the ways that matter, and you have always believed in me, believed that I could be better than what I sometimes am. For that I feel I owe you some kind of an explanation. I won’t impress upon you the weight of the exact details of what occurred, but know that what I did was to protect others. It was the only option left in order to stop a tyrant. Some may say that what I did makes me a murderer, and perhaps I am. I know you have an independent mind enough to formulate your own opinion of me.
Regardless, I will be paying penance for what I did in the form of undercover work for MI6 somewhere in Europe. The exact location is, of course, classified. It is a mission that I will be active on for approximately six months, Mycroft estimates. I depart tomorrow. I regret that I cannot bid you farewell in person. For some reason that I can’t fathom, facing you, seeing the disappointment in your eyes, is not something I could bear. It is cowardly, I know, and I don’t understand why I can’t. I have six months to ponder it, however.
I wish you well, Molly Hooper. I hope you find happiness every day and a companion to be by your side that knows just how special and intelligent you are and values you for it. Know that you have been a valuable friend to me and for that I thank you. Remember that you do count, that you have always counted. Always. Goodbye, Molly.
Affectionately, Sherlock
By the time Molly read the last of the letter her vision was blurred with tears. She knew Sherlock, she knew that if he was saying goodbye he did not think he was coming back. She knew his subtext and could figure out that when he wrote Mycroft said he would be active on the mission for six months that meant that’s how long he would survive on the mission; six months to ponder why he couldn’t face her to say goodbye. The thought of never seeing Sherlock’s face again, never again see him strut though her doors or ask some insane favour, never hearing his voice once more, it shattered her heart. She started sobbing. It wasn’t a pretty scene and it was what Mike Stamford walked in to see.
“Molly?” he hastened over to her side. “Molly, what happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry, I just…” she sniffed and took a deep breath but the tears still continued to fall. Feeling the letter was too personal for Mike to see she picked up the papers and carefully refolded them and tucked them back into the envelope.
“Is it Sherlock?” Mike guessed correctly. “Is that letter from him?”
“Uh huh,” she nodded glumly.
“Jesus,” he commented. “Look, he was my friend too, but I know you two worked closely together a lot. You’re in no state to work, why don’t you go on home.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Molly said taking another shuddering breath. She was thankful now that she had cleaned up earlier. She trudged to her locker and switched out of her lab coat and into her winter gear. Mike had walked with her and helped her don her coat. They were getting a few puzzled looks from their co-workers but no one asked what was going on. They would probably end up gossiping. Molly didn’t mind that but she hated other people seeing her so vulnerable.
“Can I ask…I mean, if it’s not too personal, what did he have to say? Did he really murder that man?” Mike asked after ensuring the locker room was empty.
“You know Sherlock, Mike, do you really believe him capable of just murdering someone?” Molly was indignant at Mike’s doubting Sherlock’s moral character.
“I honestly don’t know what to believe,” Mike admitted shame-facedly.
“He may not wear his emotions on his sleeve like others and I know that as he classifies himself as a sociopath he tries not to feel but he does have feelings. He may not have the greatest of people skills but Sherlock Holmes’ heart is a good one.”
“And you don’t doubt him at all do you?” Mike seemed in awe of Molly’s unfailing belief in the detective. “No, I don’t doubt him. He’s a good man and he protects the people who need protecting, he champions for those in need for his intellect.”
“And you love him, don’t you?”
“Mike,” Molly winced.
“Sorry, it’s okay, you don’t have to answer that. Most of us already know. I shouldn’t have asked, though, rude of me, I apologize.”
“It’s fine, it doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Because he doesn’t reciprocate? That’s nothing against you, Molly, you’re a very beautiful woman.”
“Thanks, but no, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then?”
“He won’t be coming back, Mike,” she told him sadly.
“They’re not jailing him are they? He didn’t even get a trial.”
“No, no, but he’ll be…away. He’ll be gone,” Molly’s voice choked up again.
“Where?”
“I…can’t say. Sorry.”
“Okay,” he said then nodded. He walked her outside and helped her into a cab. At least the cabbie didn’t ask about her being upset; she was leaving a hospital, a lot of people left the hospital upset, nothing odd there.
Molly got home, fed Toby and took a shower but started sobbing again under the running water and stayed there until the water turned cool. She dried off and put on her warmest pyjamas and crawled into bed. She kept thinking about all the things that would never be again and the things she had dreamed about happening that now never would be. Molly cried and cried until her eyes were nearly swollen shut and her chest ached and fitful sleep finally claimed her.
* * * * *
Molly started the next day in a numb state. She didn’t want to think about what significance the day meant. She didn’t want to think about Sherlock boarding a jet and never setting foot on English soil again. She kept trying to push all emotion away, trying to keep her thoughts clinical and focused on the task she had in front of her. It didn’t help that that was the way he thought. What also didn’t help was the way Mike kept popping in to check on her.
Mike had just left after one such check-in and Molly had told him that she was thankful for his concern but would he please stop. She was walking back to her lab table when she noticed the monitor of the computer in the office was acting strange. She heard and saw static then the image on the screen came into focus. Molly froze as the face became clear, recognizable, as it asked over and over in varying tones, “Did you miss me?” The repeating and oscillating voice was eerie and sent chills of fear down her spine. In that moment of frozen fear Molly couldn’t help but think that if there were ever a time they needed the help of Sherlock Holmes it was now, more than ever before.