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He pulled the cigarette out from the pack, stuck it into his mouth and paused. No one was watching him. After a moment he pulled out his lighter and used his other hand to shield the flame from the wind as he lit his cigarette. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled deeply when he removed the cigarette from between his lips. One day, if he was lucky, it would be these things that killed him as opposed to, say, the men who had been trailing him throughout the city. He’d lost them, for now, but he knew they’d find him sooner rather than later.
He was in Amsterdam’s Red Light district, and the safest bet was to hide for a time in one of the coffee shops. He wouldn’t imbibe, of course; that would be incredibly stupid of him to befuddle his mind with cannabis right now, despite his taste for it in the not-too-distant past, but most places were sparsely populated now that the indoor smoking ban had passed, and he could settle for a drink and plot a way to get out of the city with some possible relative privacy.
He hitched up the collar of his coat and made his way towards the place he had heard of the most, The Greenhouse. He hoped it would be busy enough for his purposes but not so busy that he would be forced to have to share an area with anyone else. The light rain made him miss his Belstaff as the rain got between the bottom of his hair and the top of his shirt. That had at least protected him, in more ways than one. Here, chasing after ghosts, being chased after by hunters, he was left with so few of his usual weapons at his disposal and none of his allies. He missed his friends. He even, at times, missed his family.
He made his way into the coffee shop and found a secluded place to sit after ordering a drink. He needed to think, to plot, to plan. He needed to leave the people trailing him behind as he made good for his next destination, which Mycroft had said would be Cape Town. He just needed to get to the air port by midnight to get on his flight, and that left him with three hours to lay low and remain unobtrusive. He sipped his drink and took in the atmosphere for a moment. In his more wild youth he might have enjoyed this, possibly. Or at least the high quality cannabis. The atmosphere itself would have been grating after a time.
He started to focus on the music. It was not to his taste but still interesting, he supposed. He had no real interest in anything considered remotely modern, though he’d heard John play things that sounded similar. John…he missed him. He missed the quiet nights in Baker Street, the sharp observations and warm humor, the cool wit and exasperation. But it did no good to dwell on those thoughts.
So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
Now that he focused, he realized he’d heard this song before. Molly had played it, in her flat, before he left on this mission. They’d talked about it; he’d complained bitterly that the imagery presented was nonsensical and obtuse. She’d said it was beautiful and poetic. He’d scoffed but said nothing more, pouting slightly in his chair as she sang along with the rest of it. She had a rather nice voice, he’d realized. Soft, yet strong. She’d sung quietly but he knew if she put her all behind it the power would shine through and she’d be quite amazing.
Or, rather, she’d show how amazing she really was.
He shut his eyes. He didn’t need to go in those thoughts again, either. He’d had those same thoughts about her over and over, time and again, since he’d meant to give her a kiss on the cheek before he departed and she turned and he kissed her on the lips. He hadn’t pulled away in shock, and neither had she, though when they had finally parted she’d looked suitably surprised. He hadn’t regretted it.
No, what he regretted was that he hadn’t kissed her more passionately, or for longer. That he hadn’t kissed her earlier or more often. That he’d not made one single move as he’d realized she was becoming important to him, that he was caring for her, that there was an attraction growing. No. He’d stayed silent and stuffed it all down because alone was safe. Alone was better. Alone protected him.
That, he’d decided in the time since he’d been gone, was an utter crock of shit. Alone was alone, and it was lonely, and it was sad. Alone was pointless.
The song slipped into the last verse, the one that he knew would always make him think of her. He had the feeling no matter how much he would wish it otherwise, they would never be at the same point at the same time for anything to happen. He would never be so lucky as to even have the chance, having squandered it before when she was madly infatuated with him. If he was lucky, he could have her friendship. If he was lucky.
And he truly, truly hoped he was.
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.