It was utterly amazing how, when you truly sat down with a pen and paper intending to write something meaningful, it hardly ever came out the way it was meant to.
What would he tell her?
What would he ever tell her?
She’d just waltzed into his life several months ago, all fiery hair, and long legs, and big green eyes, and a smile that could disarm even Mycroft… She’d come from the Doctor, a companion who needed some time to make some sense of herself, he’d said. Watch out for her he’d said. She’s just going to university he’d said.
He never said anything about giving him stupid nicknames and attempting to organize things in his flat. He never said anything about her barging in on cases with all the authority of the London police- or having a police uniform for that matter!- or her tendency to be reckless and unthinking.
He never said she was smart, and quick on her feet, and wasn’t afraid to take risks or even die, though he probably should have expected that from a friend of the Doctor’s. He never said anything about her loud laugh or her lanky, lazy stroll, about the way she wasn’t afraid to tell you off and was just as quick to tousle your hair or kiss you goodnight.
Sherlock had been able to figure out her basic background, and that was all well and good, but in short… The Doctor hadn’t actually told him anything he really needed to know, now had he?
And now the great Detective himself knew one thing for certain: she couldn’t stay here any longer.
Amy Pond walked into 221B with her backpack swung over her shoulder, cheeks red from running in the cold. She’d always loved winter because it was such a fiercely unpredictable season, and this winter had turned out to be especially unpredictable…
Amy Pond had most definitely not been counting on meeting the Baker Street boys.
It was just university, that’s what she told herself. Just grad school. Just trying to get a better life. However, her life had been anything but ordinary since she met Sherlock Holmes.
“Hello, Sherlie!” she called, plopping the bag down beside the door. Only silence met her. “Sherlock?”
She crept around the corner and down into the bedrooms, past John’s pictures on the wall. There was one from the case where they’d tracked down a smuggling ring and ended up covered in fish oil from head to toe. Amy had teased Lestrade mercilessly for weeks about the look on his face when he first saw the trio. It was the first time she’d seen Sherlock crack a smile that suggested he had a sense of humor.
Another picture detailed the adventure that John called “The Red-Headed League” on his blog (Amy had insisted on “The Ginger League,” but that didn’t do much more than cause John to giggle for several minutes). This one was upside down and actually wasn’t meant to be snapped anyways, but Amy particularly liked it because everyone was simultaneously shouting “NO!” At the press, and it had caused the cameraman to drop his camera in surprise. Hence, unintended candid camera.
After the hallway came the two separate bedrooms, John’s neatly made and Sherlock’s with sheets looking the same as if he’d just gotten out of bed. Both empty. Amy gazed fondly at Sherlock’s room, shaking her head. Once, she had managed to find out just what it felt like to be tangled in those ever-messy sheets. He was the only person she’d ever known to have skin as ivory as her own, and for a man who seemed to have a cold temperament, he felt warm and safe to sleep beside.
That morning she awoke in his arms, and had silently giggled at the fact that John was probably sleeping like a rock in the next room, completely oblivious to what was going on.
He hadn’t made the bed up that morning, either.
For months she’d been building up to that. Ever since Amy first saw him she’d thought there was something there. From her small gestures like tousling his hair and squeezing his shoulder for encouragement, to bigger gestures like openly flirting and reveling in his blush and oblivious state, she had never been able to keep her eyes off Sherlock from the moment she got here, even if he’d seemed like an arrogant twat… In hindsight, she’d probably shrugged it off because she thought there was more to him, and also because he was a handsome arrogant twat who had wound up saving her life several times in less than a month. Someone like that couldn’t be so bad, could he?
The first time she’d kissed him he’d acted like he still thought girls had cooties. She’d brushed it off then, but it had come as a blow. The second time he was slightly less resistant, though not entirely welcoming.
The last time she’d pressed him up against the wall, tongues exploring and teeth clicking against each other, and something had finally broken in him.
It had taken her all of eight months, and every second was worth it if it meant she got him.
On the way out, assuming they’d gone to go work on a case, she finally noticed the envelope taped to the back of the door, with her name in Sherlock’s messy hand.
She ripped it open without any regards for the actual flap on the envelope, and hurriedly pulled out a piece of folded paper.
I’m afraid this is the last message you’ll ever receive from me.
Amy had to sit down, staggering to a chair and collapsing in it. She couldn’t believe what she was reading.
You were always so much better than I was.
No. No. Not this, anything but this.
Before you came here I was so lonely- I wasn’t alone, but I was lonely. You gave me so much, so much more than I deserve… but now it’s my turn.
Amy’s eyes burned, and her vision swam as she read.
This is goodbye. I need to protect you, and if you never forgive me for this than at least do one last thing for me: find someone. Find someone who can love you in ways I never could love you, and marry him. Start a new life- one without the daft old detective from Baker Street.
A single, salty tear dropped on the side of the paper.
Don’t try to find me.
PS: Don’t you dare look back.
The letter was clutched more and more tightly in her hand until it was crinkled into a ball and folded and unfolded, and reread a thousand times until it was tear-stained and smudged. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It wasn’t possible- it couldn’t be possible.
The next day the news said he was dead, but she didn’t believe it.
She didn’t until the Doctor came for her, landing the TARDIS outside her university, and she cried in his arms like a little girl.
Sherlock Holmes was gone, and it seemed that he was never coming back.
Little did she know that one of her tears fell through the TARDIS floor grate. It ran down his face as he watched from his hiding place below.
Three years. That wasn’t too long to wait for Amy Pond, was it?
But the truth was that he would have to wait a lifetime and longer for Amy Pond, because she deserved everything. She deserved so much better than him.