Work Text:
Dear Molly,
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. A year ago I wouldn’t have believed it. I would have scoffed and told them they were wrong, stupid even. But now, as strange as it is to hear, I must admit, I think they—who are they anyway?—are right. It’s true.
Absence, distance, separation... Danger... It makes me miss you all the more.
You are the reason I'm here, the reason I was able to pull off this magic trick. You risked everything—your job, your freedom—for me. And I’ve never thanked you. I need to do that, and I will, properly, when I get back.
I will come back. It’s just, I didn’t expect this mission to take as long as it is. It seems hubris had me believing this errand wouldn't take any longer than six or eight months. God, was I wrong! Very wrong. I’ve been gone sixteen months, but, one by one, I am severing the threads of this web , and getting closer to the endgame.
And when I get back, I will set everything right and you won’t have to lie anymore. You won’t have to keep our secret from our friends any longer. I’m sorry you’ve had to do that for so long. It's not fair. I am not fair. I haven’t been fair to you. I’ve been rude and mean and more than a bit not good and I truly am sorry. I will make all of this up to you just as soon as I return to London. I promise.
You count, Molly, and I lo
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Sherlock whirled around in his chair.
“Mr. Sigerson?” a Romanian man’s nervous muffled voice came from the other side.
The voice belonged to the landlord, a man who had proven to be of tremendous help during Sherlock’s stay in Botosani. But judging by the nerves in the landlord’s voice, his help was about to run out.
Sherlock sighed and set his pen down on the desk. He rose from the chair and crossed the small studio flat. He opened the door only as far as the chain would allow.
“Dumitru?” he asked.
“Mr. Funar is downstairs.”
Sherlock’s mouth curved into a smile. One more thread severed.
“I’ll be down in a moment,” Sherlock answered.
“He is not a patient man,” Dumitru said.
Sherlock nodded. “I know.”
“After this, you cannot stay here,” Dumitru added.
There is was. The end of Dumitru’s assistance.
“I have arranged passage for you to Bucharest.” Dumitru slipped a folded paper through the space in the door. “Everything you need to get there is written here.”
Sherlock unfolded the note and took a quick look. A name, address, and a password to prove he was who he said he was.
“Thank you, Dumitru.”
Dumitru nodded, and issued Sherlock a well wish, and then Sherlock closed the door.
Sherlock didn’t have much to pack. The clothes he wore had been acquired here, and he’d only brought one thing with him from London.
It sat on the bedside table, and had sat on every bedside table of every bedroom he’d slept in since leaving London.
Bombini polaris —an arctic bumblebee native to Scandinavia, Greenland, and the northern reaches of Russia and Canada—encased in a small circle of amber.
His Christmas present from Molly.
He’d known it on sight when he’d finally gotten around to opening her gift, and had immediately sent her a text to thank her. Now, it was the one item of home he carried with him. It had seen him through his mission safely thus far and he almost considered it a good luck charm. He would have if he believed in that sort of thing.
He picked it up and held it for a few moments. He felt a little bit like the insect in his hands; small and surrounded by something much bigger than him. Surrounded by a world that could be cruel and dangerous, but immediately around him was the resin that kept him here—the people who made this world worth living in. The people he had to get back to. And the person who counted.
But in order to do that, he had to finish his mission. Now.
He nodded firmly to himself, and tucked the bee into his bag, carefully enclosing it in his clothes.
Then his eyes fell on his unfinished letter and he grimaced. It would forever remain that way. It never would reach its destination. Molly’s eyes would never read the words.
When he got to Bucharest, he would try again. Just like he did in Aleppo, and Bursa, and Odessa. He would sit down at a table somewhere and write the same words on a different piece of paper. He would tell her how he felt, tell her what she meant to him, tell her he loved her. Then, if he got the chance—but only if he got the chance—he would send it.
He picked up his pen and slipped it into his bag. Then he picked up the letter, and held it in one hand by a corner while his other hand found the lighter in his pocket. He couldn’t leave the letter sitting here, nor could he take it with him. He had to destroy it. For Molly’s sake.
He flicked the lighter on, took a deep breath and brought it to meet the letter at the opposite corner he was holding. The corner ignited.
I’m sorry, Molly.
Sherlock held onto the letter until the flame and heat licked at his skin and he was forced to drop it.
And there, on the floor, the small orange flame consumed his carefully written words, turning them into nothing but ashes and soot.