Chapter Text
The day was fairly overcast on the tarmac in the first week of January. The private plane was waiting to spirit it's passenger off to a distant country. John and Mary arrived in a high class car that they probably would never afford. As the pair piled out, they both saw Mycroft and Sherlock already waiting near the aeroplane, with black suited men next to them.
"You will look after him, won't you?" Sherlock asked Mary, with a tone that was almost from a child.
Mary had hugged Sherlock and promised to keep John in trouble, before stepping aside to let he and her husband talk.
The detective turned to his brother, "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, do you mind if we take a moment?" There was no malice or arrogance in his voice, just a quiet request.
"Of course," Mycroft answered, nodding his head to the guards, who moved off so that the two friends could speak together.
John nodded to him, but didn't say anything for a moment or two, then clearing his throat, "So here we are."
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." Sherlock spouted.
"Sorry?" John glanced at him, puzzled.
"That's the whole of it," Sherlock elaborated, "If you were looking for baby names."
John laughed, remembering saying the exact thing to him during the Adler case. "No, we had a scan, and pretty sure it's a girl."
"Oh," was the whispered response, but Sherlock smiled all the same.
There was an awkward silence, and John found himself looking around, looking at anything than Sherlock. His friend had been kinder, even more caring the past year than John had ever imagined he could be in the time he'd known the detective.
"Yeah...I don't know what to say."
"Neither do I," Sherlock admitted cooly.
John inched closer so that he could not be overheard, "The game is over."
"The game is never over, John." Sherlock stated flatly, fixing him with a steely look. There would be other cases, other problems to solve. "But there may be some new players now. It's okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end."
John looked at him, slightly puzzled, "What's that?"
"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path.
It seeks out the unworthy ... " He met John's eyes "... and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally me."
John snorted with laughter, "Nice!"
"Basically he was a rubbish big brother." Sherlock concluded. They both smiled, but silence ensued again.
"So, Where are you going now, exactly?" John inquired.
He could tell that Sherlock was acting bored, "Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe."
"For how long?"
Sherlock didn't look him in the eyes, but just above his head, " Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."
John couldn't imagine, what "undercover work" Sherlock could be doing, as he finally had been told by Mycroft of what had happened in the three years he had been gone. "And then what?"
Sherlock shrugged, "Who knows?"
That was very unsettling to John, as he wouldn't hear from his friend again. He almost said, 'You need to take care of yourself', but knew there would be no guarantee when doing such work. He had seen men who had come back from undercover missions worse for wear both in mind and body. He looked away for a minute, unable to fathom what Sherlock would have to endure again.
"John, there's something ... I should say; I-I've meant to say always and then never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." Sherlock started.
This had gotten his attention again. John had so many things he wanted to say, but it was masculine pride that kept it locked within him. He knew that this was goodbye, and he couldn't muster up the words to thank Sherlock for all he had done for him and Mary, even if the death of Magnussum meant exile for the detective. Most of all, he wanted to thank Sherlock for being the best, if not the most unusual friend that he had in his life.
Sherlock took a deep breath, "Sherlock's actually a girl's name."
John chuckled, "It's not."
Sherlock's shoulders rose, "It was worth a try." Sherlock answered halfheartedly.
"We're not naming our daughter after you." John remarked.
"I think it could work." Sherlock joked.
They ceased speaking, not able to think of anything to say to one another, for all the sentiment that either could tolerate.
Sherlock pulled something out of his coat, and handed it to John. It was his Wreck This Journal. "Keep it. With my compliments. Thank you, for the distraction." He nodded to it.
"After all the chemicals and weird stuff you put in it?" John teased, looking at the edges of the paper. "Thanks mate. I want a smelly journal around the house." John got closer, "You ought to give it to Mycroft." He giggled.
"Ah, he wouldn't appreciate it as much, I'm afraid." responded Sherlock with a wicked grin.
There was one page that was bookmarked. Sherlock glanced at it, "Open it."
On the page was the prompt: "Crumple this page and throw it into a neighbor's yard (return if possible) with a picture of a tree and a picket fence. Within the space, Sherlock had written in a messy scrawl, 'to my flatmate John, who put up with experiments and shenanigans that others would not have done within this book."
John chuckled, "That's for damn sure."
"To the very best of times, John." Sherlock said kindly, pulling off his glove and holding out his hand for his friend to shake. "Farewell, John."
And with that, the detective boarded the private plane, and was gone.
THE END.