Chapter Text
Life will flash before my eyes
So scattered almost
I want to touch the other side
Muse
There were things that Sherlock Holmes was sure in his life. He was able to tell, after few glances, that someone had been in his apartment or hotel room. He could easily predict how much time it would take to get, from a place A to place B, just by looking at the map. He could even see how people would react in certain circumstances. Some people called it a guess, some even a trick; he called it a deduction. And right now he was sure, that he’s going to die today. It wasn’t even a hard deduction, this one.
His head hurt as if someone was trying to split it into a million pieces and it was hard to tell whether it was due to a biting, dehydration or just a withdrawal from drugs he has been given. It didn’t matter. What was the cause? Only the pain, constant and pulsing and agonizing and never-ending.
He was desperate to stay awake, but his eyes just keep closing on their own accord, tormenting him with a promise of blissful darkness. He wasn’t allowed to give up to this. Not yet at least. A time would come, though. The end of a great Sherlock Holmes would be here, without a fanfare, without a grace, without anyone noticing. Thought that wasn’t exactly a truth. The end of a great Sherlock Holmes had happened 3 years ago when a once famous and then a fraud detective had jumped from a St. Bart’s roof. There was only a shelf of something, that once upon a time had been a human being. Or had it been? Not according to everyone.
Once upon a time, there had been also someone who watches him die. Someone who even without his …. presence had been able to light Sherlock’s life. That person was the reason why he had kept going, why he had kept trying, why he had foolishly thought, that after all of this he would be able to come back and… what? Have his life back again; have him back again? But that wasn’t right either, because he never really had him, not in a way he really wanted to. He knew better now, and anyway, he (no, it wasn’t good to say that name now; and there wasn’t a point to it either) would be better without Sherlock. He probably already was. Moved on with his life, had found a normal, boring wife. There was no place for Sherlock in this, so maybe it was better if this time he actually died and stayed dead.
At least he was back home and he would spend his last moments in a city he always loved, even if it never loved him back. For most people, London was just a crowded metropolis, with too much air pollution and too many dangerous people wondering about, where cars could be stuck for hours in traffics. For him, London was full of possibilities, where every day brought something different and exciting. It was the city of late walks around, of nights and days spending at running or following mysteries, of a taken together takeaways and a never-ending crime scenes. But also of these lazy days spent in Baker Street on reading, or experimenting or drinking tea. It was a city where with every taken breath, someone was born or died; someone’s history started or ended. Ooh God, he did miss this, didn’t he?
He took a deep breath to smell this city once again. It was a stupid idea, because he felt a burning pain inside his chest, immediately after a cold air got inside. Sherlock had to stop his slow walk and wait for the sensation to go away. Not that it would change much since he already had problems with breathing. A lack of oxygen was already affecting his body and brain, slowing down not only his heart. As if that was his only problem… He wasn’t a stranger to drugs; he never had been: but a cocktail he had been given, made even him shiver. Either way, he was suffering from withdrawal symptoms, or maybe it was only an effect of mixing too many drugs together, he wasn’t sure. His body was so heavy, and his stomach hurt. If not for the fact, that he couldn’t recall the last time when he had eaten, he would be throwing up.
Sherlock wasn’t sure where he really was, and that was saying something. Probably on some outskirts of London; since he never really had been here. He could hear a distant sound of water, so he probably was close to the Thames, but that was all that he was able to spot. His senses didn’t work the way they used too. A mixture of lack of sleep, drugs, and lack of oxygen, because of his surely bruised ribs, was a deadly combination. He needed to find someplace to send something, but it was highly unlikely, he would be able to. He needed to improvise. Not for the first time. And Sherlock needed to do it quickly before he passes out.
Different shapes of black circles were swiveling in front of his eyes dancing to the pitching sound that he could still hear in his ears. It was impossible to count how many of them were there. Hundreds? Thousands? Millions? Or more? Not that it mattered. He leaned against a wall of a building he was currently passing and let his body rest against it for a moment. A cold stone was a nice change for his burning up head, giving him a delusion of relief. Sherlock wanted to close his eyes, but he wasn’t sure if he would be able to open them again.
He was desperate to stay awake, but it was getting harder with passing time. His whole body seemed inexplicably heavy and numb as if already decided for him that it won’t move anymore. His eyelashes were closing in their own accord. He would close them just for a few seconds and then he would be on his way. Sherlock felt it momentarily. This relief, this peace, through his body as if it finally got what it wanted. He could touch the edge of lightness when the first moments of sleep were trying to take control over his body. But that was wrong. There was something he still needed to do. What was it? Damn. It was harder and harder to focus his thoughts. But there was a picture in his head of… No, no, no… Wake up. Sherlock tried to open his eyes, but his eyelashes were so heavy. So, so heavy. It would be so easy to just give up already, but that would mean failing the only thing in the world he hadn’t ruined over his entire life, and he promised he would never do that. There were too many regrets and unfinished business for him; he knew he would never get the chance to repair them, so adding one more wasn’t an option.
With an effort, he finally put himself in a standing position. Sherlock groaned when another wave of pain ran through his body. Moving seemed impossible since his legs seem to be frozen in a spot, but there was nothing he couldn't do if needed. Being sometimes stubborn, even if toward himself, was a good thing. He started to walk slowly; one step at the time. Staying in one place was a bad idea for many reasons. He didn’t know if anyone was following him, but it would be stupid to assume otherwise. Part of him hoped that they would catch him eventually and bury him somewhere when no one would find him. Sherlock Holmes was dead for a long time, and it would be better for everyone if it stayed that way. He could easily imagine what would happen if someone found his body. All these questions, all these speculations. In one word, a hell would break loose and no one would be able to answer them. At least he wouldn't be there to see it. He wasn’t even bitter about this. For his whole life, he wanted to live the fullest and cheat death. Now, he was just tired.
He wasn’t sure what time it was but judging but darkness and lack of people, it could be some late in the night. It was raining, and the sky was covered with dark clouds. If he could, he would look at the stars, for the last time. Stars always reminded him of... just as much beautiful, but in that usual kind of way; just too much far away from reach. Sentiment. Stupid. Even in the last moments of his life, he still couldn’t stop himself from thinking about him. This man had such a simple, common name and yet was the most unusual person, that ever crossed his ways with him. It was unbearable. Part of him; the one buried since he flew London, wanted to see him again, even just for a few seconds. But what good that he would bring. He probably would just hate Sherlock for what he had done.
He could blame it on his tiredness or being deep into his thought, that it took him so much to see it. There was a woman approaching him. She moved quickly, probably because she was in hurry; maybe because it was really cold outside. Sherlock stood frozen in the spot and waited for her to reach him. The closer she got, the more things he was able to spot. She wasn’t really tall; she wore a red coat and pink scarf. Not a really a good combination, but somehow that suited her well. She stopped in front of him, and her blue eyes were full of kindness and worry. From this close, he could see that she had short blond hair. But that was it. These details; but there was nothing behind them. Not even a single one deduction. He looked her up and down again; still nothing. And that was terrifying. His work, his deduction was a part of whom he was. If he couldn’t do it, was he still really the same person? Was he still Sherlock Holmes? He couldn’t breathe, but this time it wasn’t because of the bruised ribs. He started to hyperventilate, and the world around him started to swirl around to be consumed by the darkness. He would surely fall down, but she took his arms in her hands and steadied him. When she spoke, her voice was sure but kind:
“Calm down, silly. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
But there was something in her voice; this edge like the blade of the knife; that made him shiver. He needed to move and do it fast, but the woman was holding him.
“Let me go. I need to…” he wasn’t able to finish, because his voice was too weak. And that was wrong.
“You don’t need anything. It’s gonna be over very soon,” she replied still, with this sickeningly kind voice.
Suddenly Sherlock felt a stabbing pain in his arm and heard the sound of something hitting the pavement. He looked at the woman in front of him. She was smiling as if she knew something he didn’t and that made her happy. That’s when it hit him. She stabbed him with some kind of needle. But why would she do that, unless... of course. Stupid, slow, idiotic brain. He should have known better than assuming that she had been just randomly walking here. He wanted to run; he needed to do something, but it was already too late. Whatever she had given him, was working fast and made him weak and dizzy. He would collapse on the pavement if she didn’t steady him a little. She helped him lie on the ground and started to move around, but he caught her hand. When she turned around there was no kindness in her eyes anymore, but something else; something he couldn’t put a name on. She scared him; because he wasn’t sure what she would be capable of. There was something unpredictable about her.
“You…” he tried to say, but only a whisper escaped his mouth. “Who..?” he wanted to ask: Who are you? But he was too tired to speak. She seemed to catch up anyway, because she looked at him with delight and said lovingly; if that was even possible for someone like her.
“Ooh. You’re catching up, aren’t you? Well done.” she said proudly.“Mary Morstan. It was a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
She was searching through his pockets. Finally, she found what she was looking for because she looked at him triumphantly. She was holding a white card in her gloved hand and shoving it off like a treasure. This card he was supposed to send. He failed so much, again. But it wasn’t this that chilled his blood to the bones. It was something she said after that:
“You’re seriously thought that we wouldn’t find out?”
No. No. No. No. No. No. That couldn’t be happening. He was so careful to not leave any traces behind. He felt sick inside. How they found out? Did someone betray him and had told them? That couldn’t be true. All the images of what had happened or of what would happen started to move in front of his eyes. All gruesome and horrifying. He felt like a failure. Now he just wanted to die. He didn’t deserve to live. If they knew, what world would it be anyway? It was his last job; the most important one and he screwed it so badly. It was true, what an angry colleague once told him; he brought with himself only tears and death.
The woman - Mary - was still looking at him, with curiosity; as if he was some interesting specimen to watch. He couldn’t understand why. She must be satisfied with what she saw thought because she stood up. She was still smiling when she said:
“You’re gonna be fine. Well, you’re not gonna remember any of this, but don’t worry, we’re gonna meet again very soon. See, you around Sherlock.”
After that, she turned around and started to walk away. He wanted to scream, or moved. Anything to not let her go away. But he couldn’t. His body felt light as if it could fly away, and very distant; his mind was already drifting in different places. He closed his eyes because his eyelashes were too heavy to keep them open. He shivered. The last thing he could hear before he passed out, was a distant laugh of a woman in a red coat and the sound of her hills on the pavement.