Shadows Chapter 9

Well, this is it. The final chapter...

-XXX-

But he isn't. I wake alone nearly two hours later to a commotion downstairs. My head is killing me. The pain rushes up all at once when I make to sit up. It feels like a bowling ball – heavy and clumsy. I rise on leaden limbs, leaning over my knees for a few minutes as I attempt to further wake it. Soon enough, the noise downstairs beckons me.

As I trail down the squeaky staircase, the noise grows louder. It's a high-pitched sniffling, followed by hiccup-y wails. Someone is in distress.

That someone turns out to be Violet, who is seated at the table in the kitchen surrounded by her husband, Mary, Bill, and Mycroft. When the elder Holmes brother's eye turns upon me, they flash with a curious annoyance and pity. I pause in the threshold, wishing not to intrude.

"I'm sorry," I say when everyone follows Mycroft's gaze to look at me. "I must've dozed off. What's happening? Is everything alright?"

This only leads Violet to sob a little harder. Her hair is a right bird's nest, eyes puffy and red from crying, cheeks pink. Siger pats her on the shoulder, looking as though he's barely keeping it together himself.

Mary pulls herself from the pitiful scene to approach me. "It's Sherlock and John," she says quietly. "They went off to…to confront Magnussen. Stole Mycroft's laptop with the intention of trading it over for protection."

The name rings a bell automatically, and once Mary sees my eyes alight with familiarity, she goes on. Though, I can't understand most of what's she is telling me, likely because it is relatively out of context for me.

"He was ready for them," she continues, bitterness searing her tone. "And they were corner. If Sherlock hadn't, they both would've gone to jail and – and –" She can't finish. Tears are suddenly welling in Mary's eyes. All of these mixed-up emotions cannot be good for the baby, so I lead her to a chair.

"And what, Mary?" I ask softly.

She's completely crying now. Full-on sobs. "Sherlock shot him. He shot him to protect me and John."

I cannot comprehend. I hate to press her, but I don't understand. "What do you mean? Sherlock shot…what?"

"Who," she croaks. "Sherlock shot that dreadful tyrant Magnussen straight in the head. He's gone now, and Sherlock's in custody for attempting selling government secrets. "

Though she's elaborated, I still cannot understand. It's as though I'm hearing her whisper it across a football field-size distance. Something is lost in translation.

"Sherlock. Shot? Murder? Gone. Arrested? Secrets. Sherlock. Secrets. Gone…."

I suddenly find myself being pushed into a chair as well, handed a steaming mug of tea and a handkerchief. I blankly look up, realize that my vision is being blurred. I rub my eyes, pulling them back to find wetness. "Oh. Tears. Right." Mechanically, I sip the tea. Mycroft, who stands across the table, gazes at me with a vague sort of concern. I simply blink back.

After several moments, warmth is seeping back into my body. I jolt abruptly. "Where is he? Where is Sherlock?"

Mycroft frowns. "He's being held under government custody."

"But it's Christmas," I say softly. As though that changes anything. He's still a murder, regardless of the holiday.

"Yes, making it yet another festivity my brother has ruined," the elder Holmes brother replies dryly. There's an edge to his tone, however, that suggests he's not quite so put together over the rest of us. "I've come to anticipate it, just never on such a scale as this. I'm sorry Mother, I must be going," he says, turning to the ashen Violet. "Got to clean up this mess and see what I can do about making sure he doesn't end up locked away for good this time. I am sorry."

It's the first apology I've ever heard out of him. Mycroft crosses and leans down to give his mother a stiff embrace. She kisses him on the cheek, clutching his arm briefly before letting him pull away. Siger accepts a hug, patting his eldest on the back as he steps away. When Mycroft passes me, he pauses to press a surprisingly reassuring hand into my shoulder. He does the same for Mary.

"John will be back soon," he tells her.

"Thank you," Mary whispers.

Once Mycroft is gone, we sit in silence for some time. Siger gently suggests that we heat up dinner and eat a bit when John arrives. Silent, I set about reheating all of the dishes. Violet doesn't stop me. She and Mary sit. I don't mind – I welcome the distraction.

John appears almost two hours later. He says little, simply sweeps Mary into his arms and holds her for what feels likes an age. It's nearly nine in the evening. We sit, huddled around the small kitchen table. Bill has disappeared. Its just John, Mary, the Holmeses, and me. I know we could have easily left our hosts but I think the Watsons feel, as I do, that it would be cruel to leave them alone on the night they learn their son has killed another human being.

I don't wish to be alone, either. And going back to London would mean precisely that – anyone that I would seek out is home with family for the holiday. Whether I'd be in 221B or my own flat, nothing but lonely silence would greet me. At least here the silence is semi-companionable.

-XXX-

I return home the next morning. According to John, who is grim-faced after his processing, we won't be seeing Sherlock for a few days. Though we shall see him – eventually.

I avoid Baker Street, heading for my own apartment instead. It's pitifully quiet. I turn to my booklist for the coming semester, and in two days I've polished off the first two months worth of reading. It's on the morning of the third day that I receive a call from John.

In sweatpants, having not showered in a few days, with my greasy hair pulled back in an exceptionally messy bun, I grope for the phone from my position on the couch. Until I see the caller ID, I'm considering blocking the call. John and Mary Watson. Without hesitate, I accept the call. "Let this be good news."

"Hello?"

"Viola," John answers, relief coloring his tone. "Hello. How are you?"

I pause. "Fine. And you?"

"Also fine." I can almost hear him smile. "As well as one can be, I suppose. Viola," he says. "They've made a decision."

I say nothing, waiting for him to go on.

"He's being…"John struggles for the words. "Sent away. They're using him for intelligence operations. He's leaving Friday."

"Can we…see him?"

"Yes. They'll take us out to say out goodbyes. It will only be for a few minutes."

"That's still something," I say quietly. "Are you sure I'll be welcome?"

"He'll want to see you probably more than anyone, Vi. You're his girlfriend."

"And you're his best friend."

"You're coming," John states with a great finality.

My fingers coils around the hem of my blouse, twisting nervously. I've missed telephones with cords. We'd had them back at home. I'm a fidgety person, I need something to twist, to move, to worry upon.

"We'll pick you up around noon."

"Very well. I'll see you. Give Mary my love."

Once reassured that the love will be passed along, I hang up, then return to lounging uselessly on my couch. I'm tempted to go through my last texts to Sherlock – there are tons – but realize soon that is the behavior of someone whose boyfriend died recently, or a person who was recently dumped. I'm neither really, making my potential actions even more pathetic.

"Rubbish," I think, turning the volume up on the TV. "All utter rubbish."

-XXX-

I find John at my door on Friday, grim-faced and stoic. He waits as I put on my shoes, slip on my dark green winter coat and snowy pink scarf, and hurriedly stuff a few thing into my clutch, then guides me downstairs where a sleek black, very un-John-like yet incredibly Mycroft-esque car awaits us. I slip in the front, finding Mary in the back. She smiles gently, hand upon her stomach. The driver beside me say nothing, simply shifts the car into gear when we're all in and settled.

The drive is long. Over an hour. In the course of it, we're relatively quiet, speaking only to remark upon the weather, some odd passerby, or the like. Our driver pointedly does not join in.

We go through a set of tall chain-link gates, rolling onto what I assume to be a private tarmac. There, a lean black figure next to a white jet, is Sherlock. Next to him, less lanky and less lean, stands the prim and proper Mycroft. I don't know whether to rush at him fist raised or arms open. He's the reason Sherlock is being sent away.

I hang back as the Watsons surge forward. Mary first. Sherlock embraces her readily.

"You will look after them for me, won't you?" he asks, half-wry, half-serious.

"Don't worry," she answers. "I'll keep him in trouble. As for Viola –"

I don't hear what she says next. Somehow, they're both smiling.

"That's my girl." He turns to his brother, speaking too softly for me to hear. Suddenly, Mary has me by the arm, and we're moving away from Dr. Watson and Sherlock, following Mycroft and his fellow government cronies. I peer back.

"They're having a moment," she informs me. "Your turn next."

"Oh, I –" But I stop, unsure of what to say.

After several minutes of what appears to be heartfelt goodbyes between the two former flatmates, they embrace, then part. John approaches us. He's an inch more relaxed than before, but still rather serious.

"Go on, Viola," he says, moving to stand beside his wife. "He wants to see you. Go on, then."

I edge towards Sherlock. Nerves have caught me, and I'm staring at his face, eyes wide, feeling terrified. For several days I've longed for this – to see him, once more, just once. And, now here, I don't know what to do. A deer in headlights, the most I can do is blink.

Sherlock's lips are twisted in a slight smile. The wind ruffles his hair. I push back the urge to arrange it.

"Viola," he greets lowly. Just that. My name.

I'm too choked to say much more beyond a "Hello, Sherlock."

"You're alright." It's not phrased as a question.

"I'm fine, yeah."

Then the lips are downturn. I wonder if that's the wrong answer. What else am I supposed to say – the truth? But there is something akin to a faint amusement in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," the consulting detective finally says quietly. "I thought…I did think we'd make it work, you see. That we'd get into Appledore. That we'd set everything right. And it would seem I just mucked it all up."

"Sherlock, no." I can scarcely breathe. "It was all wrong, he was a horrid, horrid man. John's told me. I can't imagine…What you've done, it was so kind. I just wish it hadn't worked out like this. If there had been another way…." I cut myself off, wanted not to sound so "in despair." This might be the last time we see one another. I shan't have him remembering some sentimental, whining creature. "Buck up."

"And you? Are you…alright?"

His brows rise, almost comically. "As well as can be expected. They've seen fit not to cuff me today."

I am not sure how to respond to this. So, I look past his shoulder instead. "Have they said when you might return?"

He hesitates. I wait, counting the seconds of silence.

"If it's not in a body bag," he says. "It will not be for a long time."

The honesty is appreciated, even if it is not well-met. Squeezing my eyes closed, I breathe out slowly. When I open them again, his crystal-blue orbs are trained on mine.

"It's not much, and it's rather obvious, I should think, but I'll miss you."

"I share those sentiments."

"Is there anything you'd like for me to pass on to anyone? Lestrade? Molly? Mrs. Hudson? One of your homeless pals?" I'm desperate to be of some use, some help…something. Just standing here, saying goodbye, it doesn't feel like enough. I feel helpless. God knows when I'll see him again, and I'd like to feel like we'll part with a remanence of hope between us.

"No," he says finally. "No, I think they'll get on without me."

"We'll all get on without you," I say bluntly. "That doesn't mean we would like to. I have to say, I hate you a little for it."

With a heavy smile, Sherlock bows his head. "I appreciate that you wish to overlook the sugar-coating, Viola, truly."

He offers a hand, which I accept, allowing him to pull me into an embrace. This is some of the only voluntary, freely presented affection he has ever displayed so openly. It scares me.

My head finds that warm crook between his neck and shoulders, burying my nose in it, inhaling. I smell peppermint, coffee, his aftershave and cheap soap, along with the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. Mycroft probably bummed him one before the ride over. Or maybe it is simply engrained in the jacket. I'm not Sherlock; I cannot tell by scent alone.

Arms squeeze me almost to the point of unbearable tightness. I close my eyes, bidding myself not to make a single sound, not to cry or sigh, just breathe. "Breathe." It takes some convincing. I choose to focus on memorizing all the tiny details that I can, such as the way his legs shake just slightly, and the way a few of his thick black curls brush my shoulder when he lowers his lips to my forehead for a chaste kiss. They're slightly chapped lips. I ought to offer him some of the balm in the coat pocket, but I feel as if it would ruin the moment to just whip it out, uninvited.

We stand together for what feels like an age before parting slightly. Just enough to look at one another.

"I know it's a lot to ask," I start quietly. "But could you please try not to get yourself too maimed or killed before you're sent back to us? It would bother John quite terribly, and I can't say I'd be too happy about having to deal with your dead or decently injured ass either."

At this he grins spectacularly. I've said nearly the right thing.

"I promise I will endeavor. " His lips twitch in restrained amusement. "Though, I fear my dear brother may have condemned me to a task that is rather dangerous."

"I'd expect nothing less. Your mother must be quite pleased. Speaking of which, were they not invited?"

"Ah, I saw them yesterday. They were remarkably put-together, considering the circumstance."

Coming from Sherlock that could really mean anything. I choose not to press it. Looking at Mycroft's less-than-pleased expression, I can see that time is short. Sherlock, too, seems to sense this, and tightens his grip upon my waist.

"What are the chances I'll see you again before I'm old and grey and boring?" I ask.

"Seeing as you've got some time before that, there is a possibility." Sober, Sherlock looks down at me. "You may get old and your hair may change colour, but do see to it that you are never boring, Viola Carters. If we're making vows back and forth, I wish for that to be yours."

"You don't want me to swear to wait for you?" Smiling – it feels highly inappropriate, but I cannot help it – I tilt my head.

"Oh, no, you'd just break it and enviably feel guilty."

I snort. "Some faith you have in me."

"Human nature," he murmurs sardonically as he leans in to kiss me once more before pulling back once and for all. At once, the distance hits me like a fist to my stomach. I wait for it to pass, but it does not appear to be moving too quickly. It will not budge for weeks, I find.

"I'll be here," I blurt lowly when we start walking towards the others. "I may not 'save myself' or 'wait for you,' but I'll be here. Thinking about you. I know it's not much but you need to know that…that someone has you on their mind. And that they miss you. We all will," I finish pitifully.

Eyes straight ahead, Sherlock nods. "I know."

No "thank you," but that would be highly out-of-character. I'd want nothing less than for Sherlock to be of character in these final moments. So, with resolve, I slip my hand from his as we approach John, Mycroft, and Mary, restraining the sting of tears as I tear my eyes from his cold, composed face.

-XXX-

The drive off the tarmac is silent. We each claim a window to stare wistfully out of, each lost in their own thoughts. I'm really to stunned to have much to think about, leaving the heavy processing for later, tonight in the shower, perhaps. I prefer to allow the blur of hours to claim me as we start back for the city. John and Mary seem to share a similar mindset – they do not touch, do not look at one another, absorbed in their own experiences.

Our quiet is painfully punctured by the sharp jab of a telephone, chiming loudly in the confined space. With a murmured curse, the driver claims the cell from the cupholder, answering with a trim, "Hello?"

He listens a moment, replies with a few clipped "Yessirs," before hanging up. Wordlessly, he turns the vehicle, setting us in the direction from whence we came.

"What's this?" John demands, alert.

"We've been summoned back," the driver says vaguely.

"What for?" Mary's brows are furrowed. I don't look up from the passenger window. The driver doesn't answer, despite the Watson's badgering. They eventually settle, disgruntled. It's the longest ten-minute drive of my life.

Mycroft and a few serious-looking men in unnecessary sunglasses and dark suits await us. John angrily shoots from the car, demanding answers from the elder Holmes brother. I trail behind, taking in Mycroft's calm expression. Except, it isn't calm. Not really, anyways. Veins pop out on the backs of his hands, and his eyes have a gleaming, narrow quality that suggest something has happened. Something to irritate him. Something big. Big enough to give Mycroft Holmes a line of sweat above his thin lips.

He catches my eyes, evaluating me with one sweeping glance. A silent communication passes between us. I resign myself to the background, standing by Mary as Mycroft deflects Dr. Watson's irritation.

Only a few minutes pass before I can hear it; the unremarkable noise of a jet descending. Common. Everyday.

Except, it's extremely close to us.

When the tires hit the tarmac, I search the tiny, black holes of windows that line the body of the plane, wondering if I can see him. It's hard to imagine what state he must be in….I can scarcely process the spectrum of emotions surging though me right now.

"We've had an unfortunate change of plans," Mycroft drawls as the plane turns towards us. "That required us to seek the aid of my brother's puffed-up ego once again…it's the only one that can be matched to Mr. Moriarty."

I barely hear the last part as the stairs are attached as the doors open, breath baited as a tall silhouette breaks through the oval door, pausing before the small audience gathered at the base of the stairway. With flashing eyes, Sherlock steps from the plane, looking ready to tackle a thousand James Moriartys. No one releases the air caught up in their lungs. They wouldn't have a chance to do so for several more months.

-XXX-

Aaaaaand there we are!

I'm not one hundred percent happy with the last three scenes. I may revise later. Eh.

Thank you for reading and supporting this sequel. I may come back with another with series 4, maybe not, who knows.