Locked (30 page)

You’re not here.

If you left some part of yourself here, it washed away long ago.

There’s no part of you left anywhere. A bullet and a nightmare is all I have left.

I float back. The sky stretches above. It’s an almost-dark blue. There’s a single black bird wheeling above me.

I’m alone in the sea.

|||

“At least that’s the end of her texting you, little brother. She had her phone in her pocket.”

Don’t respond. Look through binoculars. Magnification eight. Water temperature likely between forty and fifty degrees Celsius. Ten, fifteen minutes before hypothermia sets in. I open the car door.

“Calm your chivalric impulses. I have contacted the harbor master. He’s already walking down from the boathouse.”

Shut up, Mycroft. But: he’s right. Small figure leaving boathouse. Bloody idiot. Not walking quickly enough. Two minutes before he’ll reach her. Though: she’s already getting out.

“See? Hardly a suicide attempt.”

Symptoms of hypothermia: hyperventilation. Loss of coordination. Shivering. Slurred speech. Too far away to tell. Can barely see her face, even with binoculars. Parked on a hill, a considerable distance away. Too far for her to see. Mycroft has a different car. Tinted windows. She wouldn’t recognize it.

“The fact that you’re ignoring me is making me considerably more worried for your wellbeing than if you were snapping at me like normal.”

Could run down. Put my arms around her. Warm her. Tell her: sorry. Tell her: I’m alive.

“It’s for the best, dear brother.”

For the best. Possibly the cruelest words in the human language. The harbor master has reached her now. She’s standing up. He’s calling someone. I turn to Mycroft. “You say that like it wasn’t my idea.”

“It was a nice touch, the detail with bullet going through her and into you. Now we don’t have to explain the lack of an additional gunshot. And the EMTs have recently acquired enough cash to send them on a substantial holiday. I don’t think they’ll be telling anyone the truth. Our tracks are covered, Sherlock. We can move on.”

“I told you I wouldn’t leave until I knew she was all right.” The harbor master has wrapped a blanket around her. She’s getting into his car. She forgot her shoes.

“She’s been released from both hospitals. What more do you want?”

“She’s wearing the bullet she thinks killed me around her neck, she tried to sleep on my grave, and now she’s jumping into the ocean in winter. That’s hardly all right.” She’s gone. Car taking her away. No: wait. Try to get last glimpse of her. Can’t. Gone.

“That’s what people do. They grieve. They get sentimental, they visit graves and familiar places, and then they move on. She’ll be fine.” His voice changes. Gentles. Very unusual. “You know you don’t have to do this, Sherlock.”

“She nearly died because of me.” That sentence: painful. Still not used to this. This pain in my chest.

“Yes, and now she’s grieving because of you.”

“Grieving’s better than dying.”

“She might not agree.”

Hate him. “I’m being rational, Mycroft. This is the best way to keep her safe. I’m a dangerous person who attracts dangerous situations and I don’t want her to be drawn into another one. If I had just left, she would have come after me. This way, there’s no danger of that.” Chest still hurting. Should take medication for it, possibly. “The grieving won’t last. It’s not as if she loves me.”

Mycroft: silent.

“I’m ready to leave.”

“Don’t do you want to know where we’re going? I’ve got my eye on a little town. Reichenbach, Indiana.”

“I don’t care where we’re going.” All other towns are the same. None contain Irene Adler.

Mycroft drives. Car pulls away. Tires on gravel. I look: storm coming. Sky dark. Ocean: quiet, waiting. A single black bird soaring below the clouds.

Goodbye, Irene.