Sherlock's Second Vow [FINISHED]

Chapter 10: This is for your sake, Love

This one is going to be pretty short too. We're at the 53 page mark right now, so that's nice. I don't know if the smoking description is accurate bc I've never smoked so sorry if it isn't. I am trying to update everyday since we're in quarantine rn but when things go back to normal updates might be less frequent, like 2 times a week.

Cheers and happy wishes and prayers to those who need them

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10

Sherlock sat across from Mycroft in one of his brother's many private offices. He'd slipped out of the hospital after John left and made his way here. Red light bled in from around the curtains, catching the dust and cigarette smoke.

"To what do I owe the visit brother mine?"

"I need money. I have to leave London."

If he stayed, he would want to go back.

Mycroft blew out a stream of smoke and said, in his infuriatingly calm voice, "You? Leave London? Under what dire circumstances?"

"If you haven't guessed it already I won't tell you."

"Ah. The Watsons."

Sherlock breathed in, filling his lungs with thick, warm smoke. He'd stopped for a while, for John, but he'd missed this. The pleasant almost-dizziness, the buzz in his chest.

"Worn out your welcome have you? I told you it was bound to happen. Especially with the little one."

"Just give me the money, or don't. I'm not here to talk."

Mycroft paid no attention. "People change, have families, old relationships die out. Then they die."

He always likes to go on about things. It makes him feel sophisticated. Sherlock felt that manners were a waste of time. He blew a cloud of smoke in his brother's face. Mycroft only rolled his eyes.

"Hopefully it'll be your turn soon," Sherlock said.

"One can only hope."

"I'm taking that as a no on the money."

"Oh, I'll give you money, but you'll be back."

Sherlock ground his cigarette into the ashtray. "Not this time."

"Doubtful."

He collected the money and pocketed the box-- Mycroft could always get more. Then he stepped out onto the streets of London, headed for the station. The fog blurred the red-indigo of the sky together. Evening, almost night, his favorite time of day. All the interesting people were coming out.

This was his place. He could walk these streets with confidence. He knew every quirk, every faulty light and back ally. The people knew him too-- enough, at least, to give him a wide berth as he walked. After all, his reputation wasn't exactly favorable.

Sherlock would miss it.

He had... a soft spot for this place, he realized. A human attachment to something that wasn't even alive. Not in the conventional sense, anyway, but he could see why people said the city breathed.

He lit another cigarette as he walked, running the smoke over his tongue and down his throat, letting it calm him a little.

Then he called Mrs. Hudson.

"Baker Street."

"Hello."

"Sherlock? What's happened?"

She knew he only called when something big was happening. He should have texted her, now he would have to listen to her voice breaking as she worried. He kept his own voice as even as he could. "I won't be coming back to Baker Street."

"Well, why not?" she asked sharply, "What are you doing?"

"Leaving. I can't keep hurting John."

"You aren't hurting him!"

But Sherlock was. He was the problem. It couldn't be more obvious!

"He stopped talking to me a long time ago, and he's said to keep away from Rosie. He doesn't like my influence. If I don't do this he might go completely downhill."

"But he's your family."

"It's clear that I'm not a part of that."

Anymore. If he ever was.

"If you won't stay for John, at least stay for Rosie. She's going to grow up without someone to show her that she's not the only one."

"She is going to grow up with a loving, supprotive, amazing father. She'll be fine. Besides, they both know I'm alive."

"You won't be able to leave London for long. You never have."

"I never had a real reason to."

"You both need to get over yourselves."

He took another pull of his cigarette. "Tell him I said goodbye. And thank you. And sorry."

He stuffed his phone back in his pocket and boarded the first train to Sheffield. It began to ring, and he tossed it out the doors just before they snapped shut. That chapter of his life was over.

It had to be, for John's sake.

***

John was in his room, staring down at the hot mug of tea in his hands. The hot steam billowed up against his face, warm, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. His phone rang.

"John, has he told you?"

It was Mrs. Hudson.

"Told me what?"

"Sherlock, he's left London."

"He'll be back eventually."

Rosie, crying in his arms. "He said he won't..."

"No," John said firmly. "He's in the hospital, at St. Barts."

"He called me from the train out of London. Said that I had to tell you goodbye."

He spilled his tea on the front of his jumper and hissed at the pain.

"I told him to go back, but he says that he's only hurting you and Rosie."

"He has got to be joking. I only told him to leave her alone!"

Mrs. Hudson paused. "Well I suppose he's making sure he will.

"That absolute bastard!"

"Keep your hair on! You're his family, so if he thinks it's best for the both of you to not be around him, he'll leave. You have to be the one to convince him to come home."

So he called Sherlock, again and again. The only response he got was the detective's answering message.

"I am not able to come to the phone right now. Or choose not to. Text me if you must."

Beep!

And he did.