Lots of angst, assisted suicide, and established John/Sherlock.
The air was a flat dull grey, punctured by a few wandering birds. The wind picked at Sherlock's dark curls as he stood by the water, hands buried in the pockets of his heavy tweed coat. He had come to America, following a lead on Moran, and it had led him to the rocky coast of northern Maine. But it was yet another dead end, or so it seemed. He had wandered to the ocean, the beaches and lighthouses deserted in late September.
He missed John, missed him so badly. Mycroft had been keeping in touch, giving him occasional updates. But it hardly helped. Hearing that John was barely coping, that John had quit his work, that John had moved out of Baker Street, that Lestrade had arrived at his tiny flat just in time to save him from an overdose was almost too much for him to bear. When he heard that John had tried to kill himself, he was in Paris, and he had wanted nothing more than to rush to London and tell him everything. Even now, after almost a month, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to jump on the next plane to Heathrow and scoop John into his arms and never let go.
But I can't, Sherlock though sadly. Not until I get rid of Moran for good.
A long cry from one of the birds spiraling above him seemed to match the pain in Sherlock's own heart. It was long and shrill and lonely. Sherlock picked up a rounded grey stone, the same color as the sky, and dashed it into an oncoming wave. The stone spat white foam into the air, where it shimmered for a moment before it broke on water darkened rocks. The sound of crunching footsteps made him look up sharply.
"I'm not here to kill you, Sherlock." Sebastian held his hands up. "I heard you were looking for me."
"Yes," Sherlock replied simply. There was something around Moran's eyes, Sherlock decided, something that looked a lot like he felt. There was something bowed and defeated about him, in the way his shoulders were set, in the way he held his hands together, his right thumb running over a simple gold ring.
"Well, I'm ready to be found," Moran said, a soft crack in his voice. "I thought I could run on revenge and anger, and I did, for a while. I can't forgive you for killing him." He stopped the words on Sherlock's mouth with a hard look. "Oh I know you didn't pull the trigger, but if it hadn't been for you, I would still have my husband." Sherlock blanched and turned away, sending his gaze across the water.
"Years. I've loved him as long as I've known him. I was never sure if he loved me back, but it hardly mattered. I had always been his, even before we put our names on that piece of paper. And now, more than anything, I want you to send me to the place you sent him."
"I have no gun," Sherlock said softly, still not meeting Moran's eyes.
"I do," came the simple reply. "Catch." It was a simple compact pistol, sleek and black. Sherlock ran his hands over the barrel, before sighting on Moran's steady body.
"You couldn't do this yourself?"
"No." Sherlock sighed. The gunshot was deafening. Birds spiraled up in alarm, and Sherlock turned back to the sea.
"I'm coming home, John."