After killing Charles Augustus Magnussen, Sherlock has no choice but to go away, forever. On his final night before being exiled, he pays a visit to Margaux.


33.5 / Goodbye

The last time she thought she'd lost him, she thought about everything she wished she'd said. The missed moments, the lingering glances that could have led somewhere but instead got overlooked and brushed away. This time she knew that he was leaving before it happened. But it didn't hurt any less.

She climbed up off the couch and held her hand out to him. He took it, letting her pull him to his feet and bring them face to face again. She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and dragged him into a kiss. It was desperate and hungry, knocking him off balance. He gripped her waist to steady himself, breaking away when he felt her body pressing against him.

"I'd like to actually make it to the bedroom," he said.

She laughed softly before nodding and taking his hand again. She led him out of the living room and across the narrow hallway, stopping at her bedroom door and turning to him.

"What?" he asked.

She stared up at him for a moment, thinking back to what he'd said when he first arrived.

I want to build you a room.

I'm getting my own room in the mind palace?

Yes. I want to remember everything.

"Nothing," she finally said as she grabbed the door handle and let them inside.

Sherlock closed the door and turned around, his eyes falling on Margaux as she stood in the middle of the room, fidgeting with her hands and shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Why do you seem so nervous?" he asked.

"Because I am," she replied. "I'm feeling a lot of pressure."

"Why?"

"Because..." she walked up to him, sliding her arms around his shoulders as she spoke. "Anything we do tonight ends up in there." She tapped her finger gently against his temple.

"Everything we've ever done is already in here," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Everything?"

"Yes. I store each experience and optimise what I learn from them. It's the best way to elicit effective responses and-"

"Very sexy..." she interrupted sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes. "Alright..." he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground.

She let out a squeal as he hoisted her up, gripping her thighs to keep her in place.

"In layman's terms, since you clearly need me to break it down for you, it's how I know what 'turns you on'. It's how I know that you run your hands through my hair when you desire intimacy. Or... that you prefer to kiss on this side," he tilted her head to the left and lay a soft kiss on her lips, before walking them to the bed and dropping her onto it. "It's how I know that this..." he crawled on top of her and kissed the hollow above her collarbone.

She let out a soft moan.

"Makes you do that," he finished before moving his mouth to her earlobe. "And this..." he mumbled as he bit it. "Creates these." He ran his hand up her arm puckered with goosebumps.

"What else?"

He furrowed his brow. "You want me to give you an itemised breakdown of your own turn-ons?"

"Yes." She said with a slight smirk.

"Alright..." he thought for a moment. "Well, I know you like it when I take control. Which is good because I like it when I take control."

She giggled.

"And I know if you're aroused enough, I could push you over the edge just by talking in your ear." He paused. "I know if you dig your nails into my skin, it means you want it harder."

She shuddered, letting out a heavy breath.

"There's the 'just talking' thing I mentioned..." he said.

"Arrogant."

"Another turn-on."

"Only because I'm usually thinking about ways to make you shut up," she replied as she sat up and weaved her fingers into his hair.

As she tugged on his dark curls, she was fully aware that she was proving his deductions right. But she didn't care. Because now wasn't the time for point-scoring. In the morning he would be gone, and she didn't want to regret how she chose to spend their last moments together.

"I know your turn-ons too," she said, climbing into his lap and wrapping her legs around his waist.

'Mm," he shook his head, talking against her lips as she kissed him. "I don't think I give as much away as you do."

"Really? Hm, well... I know you like it when I moan your name, or when I bite your shoulder, just here. And I can always tell exactly what mood you're in just by the way you kiss me..."

"Obvious things."

She raised an eyebrow. "Okay." She took his hand and put it on her neck. "You do this so you can feel my heart rate rising. But really, I think you just like the way I look with your hand around my throat."

His breath quivered. He ran his thumb over her pulse, feeling the sudden desire to kiss where it throbbed beneath his touch, to bite, to suck blooms across the soft flesh - to mark her.

Even in the dimly-lit room, she could see the intensity in his face, the hunger in his eyes as he swelled beneath her. She leaned forward and kissed him, grinding against him and smiling when she drew a groan from his lips.

"I'm going to miss that sound," she whispered.

There was a flash of worry across her face, like she wished she could take back what she had said, go back to ignoring the fact that this was the last time she'd have him in her bed, the last time she'd get to touch him like this, to feel his lips on hers.

He ran his hands up her back beneath her jumper, holding her tighter, like he was comforting her; reassuring her that it was okay. He was leaving. But right now he was here, and he wasn't going anywhere.

He yanked at her jumper and pulled it over her head. She responded by unbuttoning his shirt, laying kisses over his shoulders as she peeled the material away from him. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and tugged her head back to expose her throat - he had wanted to mark her, for this encounter to linger on her body long after he went away. She gasped as he drew her skin into his mouth, closing her eyes and basking in the mix of pleasure and pain.

He lifted her off him and climbed off the bed. She watched quietly as he unbuckled his belt and slid it out of his trousers. The sound of the leather whipping through the fabric sending a shiver of excitement to her core.

"Jeans," he said.

That single word told her everything she needed to know - this wasn't about romance, it never really was with Sherlock - this was about need. He needed to have her, to leave no part of her untouched, no desire unmet.

She unbuttoned her jeans and thrust her hips forward, shimmying them down her thighs and kicking them to the floor. She sat up on the edge of the bed and reached out for him, pulling him closer by the waistband of his trousers. He was aching for her.

She slid off the bed onto her knees, tugging his trousers and underwear down as she went. He let out a sigh as she freed him from the fabric, wrapped her hand around his length and gripped it tight. She looked up at him, their eyes meeting as she took him in her mouth.

He threw his head back and closed his eyes, trying to keep his mind clear as he focused on the way her lips moved - the swirling of her tongue and the light, careful grazing of her teeth. He forced himself to look down, almost losing his composure at the sight of her knelt at his feet. She pulled back, taking in a gasp of air as his hand found its way to the back of her head.

"Can I?" he whispered.

She nodded before continuing, this time feeling his hands holding her head still as he thrust himself into her mouth. He was moaning quietly, holding back as he always did, but as she stifled a choke, spluttering and digging her fingers into his thighs, it was as if something ignited inside of him. He took her face in his hands and pulled her up on her feet, into a hot, forceful kiss that made her stomach flutter and her knees buckle.

He turned her around and bent her over the edge of the bed, tugging down her underwear as she gripped the duvet in her fists. She was expecting his impatience to take over, like it had done so many times before. But instead, she felt his lips on the small of her back, trailing down until he was laying hungry kisses on the backs of her thighs.

A satisfied groan poured from her mouth as he parted her legs and began working his tongue into her centre.

"Oh... my... god," she sighed, letting her eyes roll and her mouth fall open.

She had always wanted to ask him how he became so good at this. The question circling her mind but never managing to reach the surface. She wondered if he was more experienced than he liked to let on, or if his ability to study and store information had led to him knowing exactly what he was doing without the need to practice.

He stood up, wiping his mouth crudely with the back of his hand. She looked over her shoulder, watching as he palmed himself quietly, his eyes never leaving her body. He placed a hand on her hip, his other hand guiding himself into her. She sank her face into the bed, moaning as he buried himself to the hilt. He was gripping her waist, pulling her back as he pushed forward, their bodies crashing together over and over again.

She turned her head to the side. "Pull my hair."

He obliged without hesitation, taking a fistful of hair and pulling on it roughly. Her back arched as she propped herself up on her hands, swearing under her breath as he drove deeper inside of her.

He pulled out suddenly and let go of her hair, the loss of contact making her cry out in protest. She collapsed face-first onto the bed before rolling over and shuffling back towards the headboard.

"You're mean," she panted.

"I'm pacing myself," he replied as he brushed his dampened curls out of his eyes.

He climbed onto the bed and crawled up her body, laying between her legs and letting his weight rest on top of her. She reached up and took his face in her hands, pulling him down into a kiss.

"You shouldn't hold back," she whispered.

"If I didn't, this would be over by now."

She laughed softly.

He trailed his lips down her jaw to her neck. She bucked her hips in a desperate attempt for friction, succeeding when she heard a growl in the back of his throat. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him as close to her as she could, before whispering his name wantonly in his ear.

Her voice tingled, sending a shiver down his spine. She knew exactly what she was doing - if this were a game, he thought, she would be winning. He lifted his head and returned his lips to hers, kissing her passionately as he snaked his hand down between them to guide himself back inside her.

She moaned softly as he sank into her, keeping her legs around his waist. His hands found hers, raising them above her head and pinning them to the bed as he moved, savouring the feeling of her tightening around him. He rested his forehead on hers, breathing heavily and looking into her eyes.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, almost inaudibly.

She wondered if it had been a slip of the tongue; if he was just supposed to think it yet accidentally let it fall from his lips. Or if the fact that he was never going to see her again filled him with a need to tell her, to see her reaction so he could store it in his mind palace and replay the moment when he was alone. She moved one of her hands from his grasp and stroked his face, silently acknowledging it but not daring to reply with words. She knew he thought she was beautiful. He had said it to her before in passing. But to hear it like this, as their bodies connected, it was like a confirmation - Perhaps this was more than just sex after all.

He rose onto his knees, holding onto her thighs as he continued to drive himself into her. She moaned loudly and covered her mouth to muffle the sound as the deeper angle sent a shockwave through her body.

"Don't stop," she cried.

Even if she hadn't said the words, he would still know she was close to the edge. It was in the change in her moans, the look on her face. He could feel it in the way her hips moved, how her hands reached for something to hold onto. He focused on her face, watching as she came apart beneath him before slowing to a stop and allowing her a moment to ride out her orgasm. He lay on top of her, feeling her chest rising and falling as it pressed against his. She was trembling, as if the pleasure had overridden every nerve and replaced them with pure electricity.

She tapped his chest, instructing him to get up. He rose to his knees before sitting down in the middle of the bed. She followed, draping her arms over his shoulders and straddling him as they began to kiss again. She moved her hips, grinding against his hard length as if she were teasing him, seeing how far she could push him before he broke.

Sherlock groaned as he ran his hands up and down her back. He unclipped her bra and slid it off before traipsing his tongue over her breasts. Her neck and collarbones were covered in speckled red welts, like a map of the places he had kissed. But her breasts were soft and bare - untouched. He decided to change that, almost smiling when she let out a hiss as he began to mark her with his mouth.

She slid forward in response, catching the head of his erection and sinking down onto it without warning. He buried his face in her chest and groaned, grabbing her hips forcefully as she began to pick up speed.

"No one..." she began, struggling to speak as they moved together. "No one else will ever..."

He stopped her with a kiss, like a silent plea for her not to say it. Partly because he didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he was leaving, but mostly because the thought of her moving on, of being with anyone else like this, was too much to bare.

She broke away, pressing her forehead against his. "Sherlock..."

"Don't," he whispered into the crook of her neck before rolling her onto her back.

He could feel himself losing control, the pressure swelling and spreading through his body, causing him to lose rhythm. His hips jutted as he moaned against her lips, releasing himself inside her as she dug her nails into his back.

III

They lay together in the dark. A tangle of bare limbs and bedsheets. Margaux loved the moments that followed sex; it was a time where she truly caught a glimpse of Sherlock, like she was a welcomed visitor behind the cold, unyielding wall that surrounded him.

He lay with his head resting on her bare chest, caressing her upper arm and running his fingers across her small hand-poked tattoo.

"What is it?" he asked quietly. "I've often tried to work it out."

She giggled softly. "It's the symbol for Libra."

Even through the darkness she knew his face had scrunched in distain.

"I didn't know you were into all that," he said.

"I'm not really. I was seventeen, drunk at a party, and this guy I barely knew did it for me with a sewing needle and ink from a ballpoint pen. I'd read a bit about my star sign and it is pretty accurate."

He traced the outline of the tattoo with his fingertip, noticing the bumps and ridges where skin met ink.

"Libras are charming, romantic, indecisive, fair..." she said as she ran her fingers through his curls.

"Mhm. As are many people who are not Libras."

"Yours is pretty accurate too. Independent, analytical, assertive, impulsive, unpredictable, stubborn."

"You know a lot for someone who's not that into astrology."

She turned on her side to face him. "You can stick 'knows useless facts about star signs' in my room." She tapped her finger against his forehead.

He grabbed her hand and moved it away from his head before leaning in to kiss her. "I don't think I'll bother saving that one," he said against her lips.

She smiled before pulling away and climbing off the bed. He lay there watching as she rummaged through the dark, her bare skin glowing in the moonlight shining through the window. She held up his shirt and turned to him.

"Would you mind?"

He shook his head.

She slipped it on and fastened a couple of buttons, flicking her hair out from the collar.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Toilet. Is that okay?" she said sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes with a smile and turned over, burying his face in a pillow.

Margaux stepped out of the room, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the light of the hallway. She made her way into the bathroom, flicking on the light and taking a moment to stare at herself in the mirror. Her hair was wild and tangled, lips puffy, neck covered in red marks. She liked how she looked - completely and utterly satisfied. But still, she decided to turn on the shower. She took off the shirt and folded it neatly, tied her hair up and climbed in.

When she got out, she dried herself off with a towel before slipping Sherlock's shirt back on. She bundled the material in her hands and brought it to her face, inhaling the faint scent of him that clung to the fabric. She made her way back down the hall and pushed open the bedroom door, her heart sinking as she laid eyes on the empty bed. She hurried across to the living room, but he wasn't there either. Her breathing quickened as she rushed towards the kitchen, letting out a relieved sigh when she saw him there. He was at the counter with his back to her, standing barefoot in his unbuttoned trousers. He turned around with a glass of water in his hand.

"I... I thought you left," said Margaux quietly.

"I can't leave," he replied plainly, as if he hadn't registered her panic. "You have my shirt."

She looked down at the shirt hanging loosely off her body. "Oh, right yeah."

He took a large gulp of the water and leant back against the counter as she wandered over to the window. She peered down onto the street below, counting the cars.

"Are they still there?" he asked.

She nodded, trying to fight the wave of sadness that was building up inside.

Sherlock chuckled to himself. "I'm being exiled from the country for killing a man. Can't help but feel like it's a bit late for all the surveillance."

She didn't reply, instead she stayed put staring out the window.

"Margaux? What's the matter?"

"I'm just..." she took a deep breath, wiping away a tear that had escaped onto her cheek. "Wondering why I keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Letting myself get close to you to just be pushed away again."

"I'm not pushing you away, I'm being... taken. By force."

She giggled softly through the sadness. "Let's not pretend you'd stay if you weren't."

He was puzzled, his brows coming together over his eyes.

"You know what I mean by stay," she added as she turned to look at him.

He sighed. "Margaux, you are one of the most important people in my life."

She'd never heard him say that before.

"They tried to get me to leave today and I made them halt the flight just so I could come here first," he said.

"Because your son is here."

"And you."

"I want to believe you, Sherlock, but-"

"Margaux, I just made love to you and you're questioning where my motives lie?"

'Made love'. She wondered if it was another slip of the tongue.

"Sherlock, you say I'm important to you... You come here telling me you're making me a room up there so I'm always with you. But I've been here. All this time."

"You know I don't... work like that."

"But the way you kiss me, the way you touch me."

He covered his face with his hands as if he were growing irritated. She watched as he began walking towards the door.

"Sherlock, if you leave, I will never forgive you."

He stopped, pivoting on his heels to look at her. "If me staying here is just going to make this harder on you, then what is the point?"

"The point is that you should want to stay!"

"I do!" he raised his voice more than he had meant to.

He walked across the kitchen towards her, taking her face in his hands. "Don't do this, Margaux, please."

"Nothing between us has ever felt normal. Except when we're doing what we just did in there. So for you to tell me you 'don't work like that', it feels like every time we've slept together it's meant something very different to me than it has to you."

He didn't know what to say. So he said nothing.

"Okay," she sighed. "Listen, maybe it would be better if you go. Say goodbye now and save the hurt."

His eyes darted across her face, looking for signs that she was bluffing, that she was testing him to see what he would do. But there was nothing. It was killing her, but she meant it.

He began to shake his head. "I don't want to leave."

She sensed a sadness in his voice; if she didn't know him better, she would be sure he was fighting back tears.

"Sherlock..."

"Please don't do this," he whispered. "Just... give me this night. Please."

He leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. But she remained still. He continued to lay desperate kisses over her face; across her cheeks, her lips, her jaw.

"Margaux, please."

"I want you to stay," she whispered.

A relieved smile curled the corners of his mouth.

"No facades," she continued. "No editing yourself or holding back things you want to say."

He nodded. "Okay."

"I mean it, Sherlock. Because you might be here to gather information for your bloody mind palace, but this night is for me too."

"Yes, you're right. You're completely right."

"And I want to remember it like this. With you holding me, telling me what you're really feeling."

He nodded. "I can do that."

"Can you?"

"Yes."

She took a deep breath. "Okay."

He remained quiet, looking down at her and stroking her cheek with his thumb.

"I'm going to check on Vaughan," she said, taking his hand and lowering it from her face.

He nodded, stepping aside and letting her go.

III

She slipped into the bedroom, closing the door gently behind her. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, typing on his phone as the screen illuminated his face.

"Is he okay?" he asked, his eyes never leaving his phone.

"He's fine. Fast asleep with his teddy." She walked over and sat down next to him. "Who are you texting?"

"John. He's coming to the airfield tomorrow to say goodbye."

"That's nice. I'm glad you'll get to see him one last time before you go."

He locked the phone and slid it into his trouser pocket. "He should be furious with me. You all should."

"You said yourself you did what you had to do. You saved Mary."

He was silent, staring ahead as if he were thinking deeply. She placed a hand on his shoulder and rubbed it gently. He turned to face her, his eyes falling on the bruises he'd left on her skin. He reached out and touched her neck, rubbing his thumb over them.

"I lost control..." he said.

"I liked it," she replied with a shrug.

"Even so, it's not how I wanted it to go."

"How did you want it to go?"

"Slow, thorough, forbearing..."

"Not really our style."

He gave a short laugh in the back of his throat. "I wanted it to be."

She waited a moment, deliberating with herself before speaking again. "Can I tell you something?"

"Mhm."

"You're the only man that's ever given me an orgasm."

"Really?"

She nodded. "So you're clearly doing something right."

"Or the other men you've been with are just idiots."

She laughed.

"Actually," he said. "Can we not... get into that. I don't like imagining you... with other..."

She pointed to her neck. "Is that why you did this? To brand me as yours?" she joked.

"You're not mine."

She dropped her hand into her lap, pressing her lips together awkwardly.

"Sorry," he added.

"No, you're right. I'm not yours." She replied as she stood up. "So I should probably give this back to you."

He inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the shiver running down his spine as he watched her unbutton his shirt and hand it to him. She gave a subtle smirk as she walked naked around the side of the bed and climbed on, lying down on top of the duvet.

She had made her move; if it were a game of chess, this would have been Check. He looked over his shoulder at her as she rolled onto her side away from him.

"There's a blanket on the couch if you get cold," she said.

She closed her eyes and hugged her pillow, waiting patiently to see what he would do. A smile crept across her face as she felt the bed shift, and suddenly he was behind her, pressing his chest into her back and cupping her breast in his hand. Check.

She pushed her backside into him, feeling his growing arousal as she looked over her shoulder. "I thought I wasn't yours..."

He nipped at her earlobe, soothing the sting with a kiss as he ran his hand down her side and gripped her hip, pulling her against him with a growl. "Tonight you are."

Checkmate.