So, here I am. The rooftop of Bart's, about to fall. About to sacrifice everything, for my everything. If I wasn't so sure that I wouldn't be coming out of here alive, I'd be making notes, because this really is rather fascinating. Someone should turn this into a drama novel; it's all quite thrilling.
Maybe John can read it; he's the one who reads, not me. I don't much care for it, save for checking the facts in the recent news. That's about as far as my attention span for it goes. But John, he just sits there all day, engrossed in whatever sad, pathetic little tale some talentless author has spun, forcing him to think as they do. How sad that such a mind should be so easily manipulated. If I were coming out of this alive, I'd warn him about it.
Maybe he wouldn't enjoy reading that book, on second thoughts. People don't like reading about things like that, do they? Memories and all that. Something to do with it all being 'too painful'. Can't be more painful that hitting a pavement from five or six stories up, can it?
He's calling me now, as if it will make any difference to the fact that I'm about to sacrifice all this for him. He won't understand, obviously; although I'd like him to. Maybe one day he'll deduce the coded voicemail I left for him earlier, and realise why I have to do this. He cups him hands around his mouth and yells up at me. I take another step towards the air.
"John, I'm sorry."
"Doctor Watson, I'm sorry. Are you busy?" I look up from the patient's chart into the fresh face of one of my interns who, although she is smiling, has an obvious feeling of concern gnawing away at her. Her nervous smile widens. I sigh, and turn back to the tiny old lady with a weak smile.
"I'll be back in just a second. Make it quick," I mutter to the intern as I turn on my heel and walk in the direction they came from, flipping the chart shut. She gulps, just about keeping pace with me. "Where are we going?"
"It's Mister Holmes, Doctor. His pulse is speeding up rapidly, and we think he might be gearing up for a heart attack." My heart skips a beat, and I quicken my pace as I run over a list of possibilities in my head. As I turn into the ward, I can already hear the machine beeping rapidly, like a time bomb about to explode. I draw back the curtain, and as usual, it never fails to surprise me that the patient's face is completely calm and still.
"Well, considering what the poor sod's been through, I can't say I wasn't expecting this to happen at some point; although I certainly wasn't expecting it now, after two months. Bizarre timing, even after everything I've seen." I press a finger against his wrist, adopting a statue-like stance as I double-check his pulse. It races faintly beneath my finger, like the last remnants of a raging river trickling over a once thunderous waterfall. Things seem grim.
"Name?" I ask the intern, not bothering to look up at her as I check the patient's fluids.
"Hooper, Molly Hooper," she answers quietly, hands twisted around each other in nervous habit as she watches me work. I glance up at her. She looks a little grey.
"Ever seen a death, Molly?"
"No, Doctor Watson. I've worked in the morgue, but..." ...she trails off. I nod, continuing with the checks and preparations.
"Well, you might be about to." I look down into the man's – Sherlock's – face, and sigh. "Sorry, things aren't looking too good for you at the moment. Try not to die, if you could. Cheers."
I don't bother to even take a glance behind me. I'm not faking my death, and neither is Moriarty. I could have guessed that from the start. I could have guessed that he'd be the end of me, too, although I preferred not to think about it that way until now, when I really have to. John might have noticed something was out of place otherwise.
What he won't notice, however, is the fact that there are tears streaming down my face in floods, blurring my sight, leaving a knotted feeling in my stomach and a lump in my throat. An emotion which has always interested me, sorrow – and now I can actually feel it, it's too late for me to do anything about it. It's hardly as if I can jump down, retrieve my phone, and leave a message for Lestrade to write down my thoughts and observations. Then they'd certainly think me emotionless.
But right now, at least I can feel proud to say that I'm not. I'm not feeling particularly selfish, either, which is nice. I can honestly say that I will in no way benefit from throwing myself off a rooftop, and that my actions can only help others. How odd; this is probably the single circumstance in which those variables all apply. But, yet again, there is no-one to write these thoughts down for me. Dull. Another reason why this should be in a book.
I can almost feel Death wrapping his icy hand around my shoulder as I step up onto the ledge and look over the city. Over the street. Over John. He's frantic now, calling me, screaming my name. Other pedestrians have stopped to see what all the fuss is about. Honestly, I can't see why he won't just let this be a moment between us, something private, rather than turning it all into a song and dance. I just want to get it all over with now.
I watch John's mouth form my name one last time. I see my foot step out into the air.
I fall.
I watch the screen on the heart monitor go crazy as it tries to keep up with Sherlock's pulse, the beeping filling the air and polluting the sound in the ward. I see the tiny red dot rise. I see it slow.
I see it fall.
It's all over.
There are a couple of nurses around the bed; a couple of doctors; a couple of interns. All holding various pieces of equipment, the names of which have slipped my mind. I'm not sure why this feels so important to me – I don't know this man. He's just a patient, I never met him. Never spoke to him.
Maybe he spoke to me.
Gradually, they all leave; doctors, nurses. Interns. And suddenly it's just me, standing there with gloves on my hands and a frown on my face. Because I've noticed something on his.
His eyes are open.
His eyes are open. They weren't open before. Which means that, at some point, he must have woken up, even if it was just for a split second; even if it was just to watch as his life faded away. Even if it was just to say goodbye.
I notice how intense they are. A brilliant blue colour, with flecks of grey and silver. The light's gone from them now, but I can still see the life that was once there. The life of an architect from Northern London, who got run over by a number ninety-two bus on the fifteenth of January, 2012, and died today, in St. Bart's hospital.
Swallowing the lump forming in my throat, I reach down and close his eyelids with trembling fingers, feeling my own eyes welling up with mysterious tears. I close them for a moment, and just let myself breathe.
Breathing's not so easy anymore. Not once you've taken a blow to the lungs.
But I think John's heart might be hurting, too.