The wind was horribly cold in his face as it blew fiercely over the rooftops, stinging like little blades. Sherlock didn't care. All he cared about was John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade…his friends.
"Your friends will die if you don't," echoed through his head as he stood at the edge of the rooftop, looking down onto the pavement beneath him: grey frequently coloured by passersby.
Sherlock had tried to wrap his mind around the fact that this was the final outcome, even though there had been hope. One heart-stopping minute ago he had seen a flicker of hope, that eventually everything would turn out a different way, but now there was only the echo of Moriarty's words in his head.
"Your friends will die if you don't." The echo was tumbling around in his mind and he wanted it to stop. The only way out of this was obvious. Moriarty had done really well, teasing him with the illusion of choice and then snatching it away. Tricky little bastard.
His phone was at his ear. He heard John. He heard the fear in his friend's voice, but he wasn't really hearing what John was saying. He felt himself answer then and now, not knowing what he was saying.
Everything he took in was John as he stood there on the pavement. He was sorry. Sorry that he had to go. Sorry that he had to leave John like this. It was for John's own good. There just wasn't another way, but it hurt nonetheless.
A tear slipped down Sherlock's face as he stood there on the ledge, his eyes still fixed upon John. His emotions were totally getting out of control and he wasn't even really and truly saying goodbye to anyone. He was just taking some time off, if you wanted to look at it like that. But even having to stay away from John and Mrs. Hudson set something free in Sherlock that he wasn't comfortable with or used to feeling.
Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, his own words echoed now through his head, replacing Moriarty's words with his own. As he spoke, the voice he heard sounded odd.
"Goodbye, John."
He heard John stuttering and he felt something strange spread inside him as he looked at his friend, standing on the street, looking up and seeing him. He knew John was probably an emotional wreck already, because that's just what people got reduced to when they witnessed someone committing suicide.
Sherlock felt on the brink of crying, which he actually hadn't been since his childhood. And then there was still that strange feeling spreading through all his limbs and filling him up. It choked him and he felt like he was going to break, even though that was physically impossible.
Taking his eyes off of John, he let his phone slide out of his hand, hearing the crack as it hit the concrete. He spread his arms, looking straight ahead, but in front of him he didn't see the sky and the clouds and the grey houses and skyscrapers. He saw Mrs. Hudson. She had always been there for him. Always caring. Always just herself around him. Scolding him and repeating his name over and over again in that way only she could. He saw Lestrade, how he sighed over him. How he shook his head over the incredible (but to him always ridiculous) deductions, which had always proven to be right. And he saw John. Saw him laughing. Saw him screaming. Saw him just as the person he was. His friend.
He closed his eyes. This was it. Now was the time to stop staring, to stop being sentimental. He couldn't change things anyway, and when had he started caring about what other people thought?
But still…As Sherlock fell forward, one last thing, one last thought danced through his mind.
I'm sorry, John, was what shot through his mind before the pain came. The unbearable pain that suddenly spread though his body, starting at his shoulder blades.
In the distance he heard John scream his name, but Sherlock knew that he was going to be silent in mere seconds, knocked over by the cyclist.
The air hitting his face was cold. It felt like it cut into his face, but it was nothing compared to the still spreading pain. But then he heard the crack, felt his back bend awkwardly and suddenly it was all over. The pain was gone.
Perfect timing, Sherlock noticed as he opened his eyes, seeing himself hanging a few feet above the grey pavement. A glance behind him showed that Molly had set up everything perfectly. He saw John in the corner of his eyes as he sank down next to the corpse. The affirmation, that Sherlock had been right all along. John was strong, but Sherlock knew this would wreck him.
He hovered there a little longer, glancing backwards, and again the detective felt like he was going to break. He was really starting to ask himself what was wrong with him, when he decided leaving would be best.
The air around him started shifting again and Sherlock wrapped his coat around his body. He didn't fear anyone seeing him. No one could see him. And no one would ever see him. Not in this form. Because no one could see angels, even if they were fallen ones.