His Last Vow (headcanon)

Moments after Sherlock is seated and the jet’s door shuts quietly behind Mycroft—no ceremony there—and the plane begins to lift off the ground, he collapses.

His face pressed into his hands, breathing ragged, muscles stiffening under the strain of superhuman effort for control. Between frantic breaths, he scoffs at his outburst—but there is none of his usual sharpness of self-criticism.

He sits like that for long moments, letting his heart slow down, then he slowly decompresses his hands from his face thinking—


“Can’t you see what’s going on?”

—an easily missed crack in his voice as he whispers to the loneliness around him.



” It is not what we are but the choices that we make that defines us” – Albus Dumbledore


“Killing, it is the very definition of instinct. Everyone is born with the instinct to kill, but society and morals subdue it. War coaxes it out of the shell we force it into. War unleashes the instinct to kill.”
He stared at her with big, round eyes, his mouth slightly agape, “But where is the line between a murderer and soldier?”

“Survival. If I don’t kill them, they’ll kill me.”

She noticed the way he visibly tensed, a soft smile graced her lips, sighing quietly she squeezed his shoulder in a gesture of comfort, “In war you only have two choices, to become a corpse or to kill”

He looked up, “What about Law…what about honour?”

She smiled broader at his beguiling innocence, a part of her broke at the thought of how this very nature would altogether disintegrate, soon.

Too soon.

“There is no law, anymore”

He looked to be deep in thought before the grip over his weapon tightened, “I suppose not…”

Beyond the parapet, the vile cacophony of the bloody chaos could be heard once again