Summary: In which the roles are reversed. Sherlock tries to talk his friend, the brilliant sociopath John H. Watson, out of jumping off the roof of Bart's. Of course, John's motives are too great to stop him.
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He gripped the phone tighter with his left hand, readjusting it at his ear.
"Sherlock, I researched you. Why would I lie about this?"
Sherlock's voice was firm and confused in equal measure. "You tell me."
John tried one more time to make him believe, used his calm and cool logic again, wielded it to tell a falsehood because he was always just believed by now. "No one's that cleaver, Sherlock, really—your faith in me is kind but unfounded." Toss a bit of mocking in there, too, to help his lie along.
"You are," Sherlock insisted firmly back at him, trying to shove him back from the edge of the building with the force of his voice alone. "You're brilliant!"
John laughed, first in surprise at his friend's loyalty, realized how telling it was, and then laughed mockingly. It tore at his chest a little to do that. Up until now, he'd had no real reason to hide his feelings from Sherlock—Sherlock liked him anyway, despite his, well, himself.
"John, this is insane—get off the ledge!" Sherlock's anger was fiercer than he'd ever heard it before. He'd seen it, but it had never been so well displayed through shouting. John had the thought that he'd probably directed it toward Mycroft enough, what with the problems his brother's drinking caused him.
John worked his jaw and was silent for a moment. He heard Sherlock's heavy breathing through the phone, and for a few seconds he cherished it because he wasn't sure he'd ever hear it again. Molly was crying behind him, making little sniffling noises while she changed the clothes of the dead monster who'd shot himself—the real committer of suicide today, not himself. But Sherlock couldn't know that. Not if he was to stay standing without bullets in his head. He needed to stall until Molly was done and give her enough time to get to the truck.
"It's been fun, Sherlock," he said with a bit of wistfulness, sounding like a dying man to his own ears, even.
"No, no, don't do that, John—you are not going anywhere, do you hear me? Enough with the 'I'm a sociopath and hate myself for it' because it's crap and you know it. You love being brilliant and if it were fake, you couldn't have the kind of audacity that you carry around with you every fucking day like a shield between you and the world! It wouldn't make sense, John!" Sherlock's voice was desperate.
It was suddenly easier to fall, knowing that Sherlock understood him. At least one person in the world understood him, better than anyone he'd known twice as long—except perhaps Mrs. Hudson. Though, she more tolerated and loved him than understood him. He was proud of Sherlock for seeing through his lies. It didn't help keep him safe, but it did gain him the highest regard in John's eyes—The John Watson. The Reichenbach hero turned disgrace.
John heard the sound of a body being dragged and knew that it was almost time. The door to the rooftop clicked closed and his shoulders relaxed a little. Falling would be easy. It's the words that would be difficult.
"I made Moriarty up. I'm a fraud, Sherlock. I—I'm so ashamed." John winced at himself and mentally gave himself a kick. Sherlock would see through that later, he feared. John never stated his feelings so bluntly. But, then again, that might help him with his illusion if he "suddenly" decided to become his true self and confess all, including his feelings of shame and inadequacy, however manufactured they were. Sherlock was right—he was a machine—churning out lies and kicking his best friend in the balls as an added bonus. He was shit, but it was for his own good, Sherlock's that is. "The papers are true, you've known they are true, Sherlock. Don't pretend with me, I can see through it."
"Stop this!" Sherlock shouted at him, frustration the only emotion John could make out.
John saw the little dot of Sherlock on the ground start moving closer to Bart's, running. John's heart leapt into his throat and a violent shiver of fear made his legs a little weak. He forced words out of his mouth somehow, bypassing his fear, thankfully. What he said was so forced that his arm came up involuntarily to reinforce it even further. "DON'T!"
Sherlock's dot stopped abruptly and John's fingers relaxed but his arm stayed outstretched with his final plea. "Stay where you are," John gasped, some residual fear spiking his nerves. His voice sounded desperate now, too. John saw Sherlock raise his own hand in some sort of reassurance, in supplication of John's request.
"Okay," Sherlock croaked through the line. "Don't, don't jump, John. Please. I—I need you. You're the only thing keeping me going, sometimes. If you do this—I won't be the same."
John swallowed at a sudden feeling of nausea. Molly was probably ready, waiting in the truck. He had one shot and that shot would likely be straight at whatever tangible bit of friendship that was between him and Sherlock.
John took in a ragged breath and heard himself speaking words he didn't want to hear. "Keep your eyes on me, Sherlock. Watch me." Because if he didn't, he might figure it out or he would see the cyclist coming and dodge him. He couldn't miss that collision. It was a choice between a concussion or dying, and he knew which Sherlock would probably prefer, if given the chance to choose—though he would never choose in favor of himself if it meant John's life in return. Well, Sherlock didn't have to know that bit.
"Why?" Sherlock's voice conveyed his confusion.
"Just—" John broke off from the cursing he was going to do and immediately started again. "Just do it, for me, Sherlock. This…" he trailed off and lowered his outstretched hand and watched Sherlock to the same from so far away. "This is my note. Isn't that what people normally do, leave a note before they leave the world?" John asked without meaning to, a final question about the ways of how people were supposed to act, ways he couldn't understand. He knew Sherlock forgave him for asking those kinds of questions. Focus, focus.
Sherlock's voice was level and calmer, as if he held the key to keeping John from jumping and knew it. "And since when have I cared whether you were normal or not?"
Sherlock didn't understand. It was true, if John had been jumping truly because he wanted to die, that might have given him pause, and he applauded Sherlock for realizing that. Such a good friend, Sherlock Holmes. His first, last, and only best friend.
John said into the phone, emotionlessly "Sherlock." Then, brusquely, voice sounding dead of emotion, and utterly, utterly convincing, "'Bye."
John took the phone from his ear and tossed it behind him, the signal to the gifted graffiti artist and avid cycler. John saw the two dots, one of the boy, one of Sherlock, nearing collision, and he knew his moment was now. He took a breath, spoke the word, "Sorry" into the air, leaned back, and gracefully fell off of the rooftop. The air rushed in his ears.
