Title: Parting is all we know
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: R (for violence)
Length: 2,400
Content notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence, death themes
Author notes: Spoilers for Sherlock BBC Season 3. Somewhat cracky premise, but no more so than what's seen in the show.
Summary:
Somehow, he isn't as surprised as he should be when he and Irene reach a tent concealed within a copse and Mary ducks out through the entrance.

"Evening, Sherlock." She greets him with her usual smile, standing up and brushing down her tac vest, as if they regularly meet in the middle of an Eastern European temperate forest after gunning down a dozen armed, military-trained men.
(Gen with canon John/Mary, though can also be read as John/Sherlock or Sherlock/John/Mary)


Note: Canon Divergence from the end of 3.03 His Last Vow. Sherlock goes on the mission to Eastern Europe.


Parting is all we know

MY life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
- Emily Dickinson

Too late, too far, he knows, before the first step; yet he goes – ill-fitting boots pounding into the concrete. Muscles responding to the rush of adrenaline, despite weeks of scant rest and poor nutrition. John would be appalled. He chuckles, wasting breath he cannot spare. None of it will matter, very shortly, so what if he indulges-

A body slams into him. His vision goes hazy – he’s cracked his head on the concrete. His mouth is dry and he’s heaving, panic jacking the bellows under his ribs and kicking up his stomach; he is allowed the pretence, at least, that it’s from the exertion.

Terror tastes different, like this. He thought he’d gotten used to it during his time Away. But he realizes now that he had been confident of an eventual return, despite the odds of something going wrong. There had been none of this prickly, cloying muck blocking up his oesophagus , no deafening swarm creeping deeper into his skin with every hour, scraping against nerve endings and whittling down bones.

Sharp words snap his attention back into the present. He’s on his knees. He’s lost seconds- minutes?- and it sends his stomach roiling; he doesn't have very many left.

The government official he’d been attempting to steal key codes from is shouting at him, demanding to know who’d sent him. Ah, Sherlock’s been identified from his previous excursion through this wretched country – chasing one of Moriarty’s middle men. It seems it’s causing some confusion over whom to blame for Sherlock’s presence.

Sherlock elects to keep quiet. He can see that the official won’t dare to keep him alive for too long; any cooperation will only give Sherlock an extra day, at the most. His silence might still allow the British government some plausible deniability.

He’s lived to make Mycroft’s life difficult; he’s amused to find that, in death, he’s disinclined to help anyone else do the same.

The official shrieks something awful. Oh, perhaps it’s because Sherlock is smiling. Memory surges: giggling with John at a crime scene.

A rough hand grabs at his hair, pulls back his head. The official pulls a gun out from somewhere. Doing the dirty work himself – Sherlock is mildly flattered.

He means to stare his executioner in the eyes. Instead his gaze is cast up to the sky. Clear weather, improbably blue, bright sun. John, John, John.

A good thought to go out on.

His hair is released. There’s a strange lightness to Sherlock’s thoughts. He finally meets the official’s gaze.
He doesn't think of himself as brave. How strange it is – to expect bitter resignation and instead find this firm, though light-headed, resolve.

The barrel of the pistol is pressed against his forehead, then pulled back. It looks steady. Likely to be a clean shot. Sherlock calculates speed and distance and trajectory; walks backwards into his mind palace, into a cosy room with wallpaper and a fireplace and two chairs and-

John

His body jolts at the shot. The moment of a bullet’s impact with skin and flesh and bone is infinitesimal, the discrete sound of each layer breaking impossible to distinguish, yet Sherlock feels it down to his bones.

Beat. Beat.

It takes the official’s body hitting the ground for Sherlock to comprehend that he is, in fact, still breathing, heart beating; brain blank but presumably accounted for.

The buzzing in his ears fades enough for him to be aware of a commotion behind him. Fighting, close-range, featuring a blade of some kind being wielded with deadly force. Shock is a surprisingly difficult coat to get rid of, heavy and paralysing. Yet it works in his favour: the four henchmen within his range of vision pay more attention to the fight, their eyes instinctively drawn to movement rather than non-movement.

Crack. Crack.

Two men go down. Sherlock finally convinces his body to lunge forward, aiming for the gun that had been destined to end him. Except he’s forgotten – or possibly never noticed – that his hands had been bound behind his back. He turns his head before his nose can smash against the concrete. The two remaining henchmen already have their guns in their hands. One is vacillating between Sherlock and the other fight, and receives two shots in the chest before he can make his mind up.

The last one chooses Sherlock, but Sherlock has anticipated it and rolls hard to the side. The pistol fires. There’s a flash of pain on his leg. Completely bearable. He forces himself to his feet. He has a vague plan of launching himself at the henchman and hoping for the best. He notes that the man’s eyes are hazel.

A spray of blood. Those eyes widen as the man lets out a howl of pain. The gun clatters across the concrete; bits of the man’s hand are still stuck to it. Another shot, and the man goes silent. The third shot hits a mostly-dead body already on its way to the ground.

“When I say run,” says a voice behind him.

Sherlock lets out a breath. “You seem to have things well in hand.”

Irene stalks to his side, somehow managing to be graceful in the stolen service staff uniform. She wipes her knives on a henchman’s uniform. “Others will come to investigate.” She arches an eyebrow at his hands, bound behind his back. “You should spend more time in this position, it really shows off your arms and shoulders.”

He gives her an unimpressed look. She shakes her head, cuts the rope with one of her knives. Sherlock hurries over to his would-be executioner and rifles through his pockets, eventually finding the flash drive he’d broken into this wretched compound for.

Irene leads him to the bolt-hole in a storage shed that she must have installed when she infiltrated the place. They don’t speak as they ran through the woods surrounding the compound on all sides. Level ground suddenly throws up a sharp incline: Sherlock had noted the moderate-sized hill to the east, on his first reconnaissance. Fairly dense cover, enough altitude for a clear sight into the open space – where Sherlock had been kneeling less than a quarter-hour previous.

Somehow, he isn't as surprised as he should be when he and Irene reach a tent concealed within a copse and Mary ducks out through the entrance.

“Evening, Sherlock.” She greets him with her usual smile, standing up and brushing down her tac vest, as if they regularly meet in the middle of an eastern European temperate forest after gunning down a dozen armed, military-trained men. Sherlock eyes the bits of leaves on her boots and looks up, searching for the correct tree – ah, yes, there’s still a tarp amidst the branches, she’d only stowed the rifle away.

“Cut it a bit close,” says Irene somewhat reproachfully.

“I didn't get a clean shot until he leaned back,” says Mary. “Good work down there, though. You’re a lot faster than you look.”

Irene inclines her head modestly. “Comes of all the whipping. Builds up the wrists and arms.”

“I imagine you’d be pretty handy with a garrotte, too.”

“Used it a few times. A bit personal for this kind of thing, though.”

“Not that I'm ungrateful,” interrupts Sherlock, “But what are you doing here, Mary? Her,” he nods at Irene, “I can understand: I extricated her from a similar situation in Karachi, and The Woman is known for being fastidious about her ledger of favours. But aren't you," he makes a vague gesture towards her middle, "spawning?”

Mary chuckles. “It’s been six months, Sherlock. The sprog's popped out. She’s back home spending time with her dad while mum takes a well-deserved break on the Continent.”

“Still doesn't explain why you’re here,” says Sherlock.

Mary gives him a level look. “Because you’re here, and you’re here because of something you did for John. Well, technically for me, but we both know you did it for John. And I'm here for John, I suppose, if you can’t bring yourself to believe that I’d come here for you.” She steps into his space. “I saw what he went through, after losing you the first time. He hides it, but I can see it starting up again. You think that destroying yourself is an acceptable price for saving him; you don’t see that losing you destroys him, too.”

“But he has you, now,” says Sherlock, confused. “And a child.”

“They really don’t see it, do they?” mutters Irene. She sends Mary a sympathetic smile.

Mary meets Irene’s look with a put-upon sigh. She turns back to Sherlock. “It’s not an equation that you can balance out. He’s not whole unless he has you, Sherlock. And just as you will do anything to make John Watson happy, so will I.” She plants her fists on her hips. “Let me put it this way: the only acceptable outcome here is you coming back to us.”

Sherlock stares at her for a long moment, unsure of what to say. He distantly registers Irene stalking off, disappearing into the woods. Eventually, when it’s clear that Mary won’t stop being expectant at him until he displays some form of cognisance, he asks, “Does John know you’re here?”

“I told him I was heading to Spain, but might wander a bit further if I felt like it,” says Mary. A glance shows that she had, indeed, taken a flight to Madrid, though she’d only stayed there for six hours.

“I should rephrase that,” says Sherlock, “Do you know that John is here?”

Mary blinks at him. Sherlock hears faint movement from the woods, in the direction Irene had headed earlier; he recognizes her tread, and also the second set of foot-stomps.

“All right, fine, what gave me away?” demands a dishevelled John Watson. He pulls his jacket out of Irene’s grip. There is a rifle slung across his back, on top of a heavy rucksack.

“The last henchman,” says Sherlock. “Three shots made by bullets of a distinctly different calibre than the others. At the time, Mary’s attention had been momentarily diverted to Irene, who was encountering some difficulty with the guards.” Sherlock has only an uncertain recollection of bullets flying past his position. He mentally bemoans the side effect of tunnel-vision while under threat. “Mary’s shots were all clinical and efficient. The shots on that last henchman were impassioned, angry. You practically took his fingers off. And shot him after he was dead.” He realized, with a start, that he’d stepped closer to John. Looming over him, in fact; John appeared unperturbed or, perhaps, as yet unaware, gazing intently up at Sherlock.

“Oh my God, I think they've gotten worse,” mutters Irene from the direction of the tent. “Are they like this all the time, at home?”

“On good days,” answers Mary.

A slight pause. “You know, I've always had a weakness for married women-”

“No,” says Sherlock, in unison with John. He tears his gaze away from John to glare at Irene.

Mary shakes her head disapprovingly at them. “That’s just rude, you two, and after Ms. Adler’s been kind enough to help us out today.” She smiles at Irene. “Thank you, love, I'm very flattered. Might have considered it a few years ago, but as you can see, I've got plenty on my plate as it is.”

Irene chuckles. “Indeed – and you’re a braver woman than me.”

Sherlock turns back to John. “You came.”

“Yes. You recruited me, remember?” He waves his hand to encompass all of them. “And maybe I'm a little tired of being the one left behind while the people I love fling themselves into danger. I'm done with being the sane one.” His words are angry but his demeanour is not; there’s an easiness to his movements that Sherlock associates with chasing violent criminals through the rougher parts of London. Sherlock shares a look with Mary, who has clearly made a similar observation.

“I'm guessing the baby’s with Mrs. Hudson?” asks Mary.

“Of course.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “I have three more objectives to achieve before this mission can be considered complete, and they’re all high-risk.”

“Right,” huffs John, “Good thing I brought a lot of tea.” He wanders over to the tent, slipping off the straps of his rucksack. Mary pats him fondly on the arm. She makes some sort of hand-signal that Sherlock doesn't recognize but Irene does; Irene smirks and lopes into the woods, in the direction of the compound. Playing sentry or reconnaissance?

Mary turns to Sherlock and pauses, apparently reading something in his expression. A moment later, a heavy coat is thrown over him; he stiffens for a second, but recognizes the weight and texture of it, the unmistakable scent of John. And there’s John’s voice, John’s hands guiding him to sit, echoing a thousand similar moments.

“-can’t risk a fire, but I've got a portable power source and a tiny kettle, we’ll get you warm in no time.” John’s grip on his hand is hard enough to be painful, grinding the bones of his fingers together; Sherlock will convince himself to let go, in a moment.

“-we’re in the middle of bloody nowhere like a middle-aged paramilitary tea club-“

“-been telling him, but I don’t think he can hear it unless it comes from you-“

Something hot is pushed into his hands. Mug-shaped, but metal. He sips out of reflex and burns his tongue. He sips some more. “John?”

“Here, Sherlock.”

So, not a hallucination. Sherlock lets out a long breath. Exhaustion is tickling the edges of his awareness, but the thought of closing his eyes sends his pulse rocketing. “Yes, you are, aren't you?”

“I always want to be. It’s you who keeps going away.” John’s fingers have migrated to Sherlock’s shoulder. They grasp him, hard; Sherlock would have liked them to be talons, so that John can dig in properly, get into the meat of him. He doesn't mind bleeding for John.

John’s next words are quiet: “I'm here, and one day, you’re going to understand, really understand, that you’re not alone. You haven’t been for a long time. And you don't have to be alone. I don’t know how you don’t see that. But you will. I swear it, if it's the only important thing I do for you - I'll make you believe it.”

The world shudders. Shed leaves and cold packed earth; mineral-oily metal and gunpowder. His tongue burns and his toes are blistered and the points of his elbows are ice. Danger is life is family is loves is home.

He leans into John’s warmth, and breathes, and breathes.

~ end ~