You’re sitting next to me, an arm around my shoulders, trying to hold the terror at bay, as I watch the video. Sherlock is pointing the gun at your chest. Moments before, you taunted him, said vile things that would upset him, convince him to shoot his own brother instead of John.
“Well, I suppose there’s a heart somewhere inside me. I don’t imagine it’s much of a target, but why don’t we try for that?”
I feel myself shaking, as my hands, icy cold, clutch at the handkerchief you wiped my tears away with earlier.
The face of Jim Moriarty appears on the viewscreen. “The end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes.”
Now, fresh tears are running down my cheeks, as I listen to Sherlock saying his final words to you.
“Goodbye, brother mine.”
The shot is loud, but I hardly register the deafening sound. I know the waistcoat you were wearing is bulletproof and the blood soaking the jacket is fake, coming from the small pouch you had hidden in your breast-pocket . To see you drop to the ground destroys me though. John is standing still, paler than I’ve ever seen him, and Sherlock, Sherlock has his eyes squeezed shut.
A wail is breaking painfully from my throat.
The woman on the viewscreen, Eurus, your own sister, is laughing with mad glee. She’s clapping her hands in excitement, keeps laughing, jumps up, and starts dancing around. It’s a close call that I don’t vomit. I certainly feel sick enough.
You take my right hand to kiss the ring matching the one you’re wearing.
I know how it ends. How Sherlock saved John Watson, and Eurus got caught and is locked away once more.
I snuggle into your chest and close my eyes, listening to your heartbeat that tells me you’re alive.
A week later I stand at a grave, pretending to pay my respects at your alleged funeral. I nod at your parents and Sherlock before I climb into the car that will speed us towards our new life, far away from London.
Exhausted I sink against your body, as you kiss my hair and whisper, “my Gregory.”