Sherlock stands on the edge. Waiting.
Below him, people and buses and pigeons pass by, not knowing or caring what events this day holds for the man above. Hear that? That's the sound of life, Sherlock. – JM
Not for him. He feels as if his heartbeat has stopped already, his lungs ceasing to function. His mind races, the damned machine not ready to quit today. He wonders if it ever will be, if anything could cause its surrender.
It has all gone by too fast. The revelation, the planning, the deceptions, the plot twist. Moriarty's blood is on the soles of his shoes and he's standing on the edge and there's not enough time, minutes slipping by like sand through fingers, seconds whipping past him more rapidly than the wind, brain whirring at top speed, it cannot be time, please dear God if you exist just give me a little more time.
He can't do it.
He has to.
The cab is here. Sherlock Holmes, the man on the ledge, nearly loses his balance as his breath really does stop. Then he regains it, cursing himself. Control, Sherlock, control is the key. You've always been so self-assured, a machine, executing perfectly, never allowing yourself to feel. Don't you dare stop now.
He lets go of the trembling that is everything in him and forces his mind to focus on the plan. The horrible hurtful disgusting perfect exact crucial plan that will save him and John and ruin them both. Calmly, swiftly, he dials the number as John – looking so unbearably small, he might as well be miles away – gets out of the black cab. He gets his phone out of his left jacket pocket, snapping it open as he walks towards the door of St. Bart's.
"Hello?"
Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. "John."
He watches him look both ways, begin to cross the street.
"Hey, Sherlock. Are you okay?"
God, he's shaking. John's voice is too familiar and it conjures up too many memories – John sitting on the sofa while sipping tea and blogging, John attempting to crack a case despite his lack of observational skills, John laughing, John shouting, John Watson – and Sherlock's walls are broken down and he has to put every ounce of his concentration into not letting his voice betray him.
He can't do it.
He has to.
"Turn around and walk back the way you came."
"I'm coming in –"
No! He wants to shout. "Just do as I ask! Please!" He can hear the desperation in his voice and he's cursing himself for it in seventeen languages.
"Where?" The small black figure turns around, obeying. Just as he always does. For all their fights, John has never been able to refuse Sherlock. Such stupid loyalty. He should have run away by now, left Sherlock and found a normal life. So stupid. They should have never met. Sherlock doesn't think he can stand to hurt him like this – not when he's already done so much damage to this man who he knows will never be whole again. Stop it. Focus.
"Stop there."
Again, he complies. "Sherlock?"
"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."
He turns. John turns around and he sees. Sherlock, surely seeming as far away as he does, perched on the edge, a dark shadow waiting for him. "Oh, God." And he knows, Sherlock can hear that he knows and realizes that something's terribly, terribly wrong but that he refuses to admit it to himself. He can almost see him pushing the thought away, telling himself that it's Sherlock, it's just another one of his magic tricks.
Too painful. This is too much pain and hurt and lying. Make it stop. He gets ahold of himself again, bracing himself for the most difficult part.
"I – I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."
"What's going on?"
"An apology." Deep breath. "It's all true."
"What?"
"Everything they said about me. I…invented Moriarty." He looks back at the dead man behind him, at the blood on his shoes. Just another magic trick.
"Why are you saying this?" Disbelief.
"I'm a fake." Again, he almost breaks. It hurts – he freely admits that it hurts to lie about himself, about his work. The most important thing in his life besides John.
"Sherlock –"
"The newspapers were right all along." Another deep breath. Now comes the important part. "I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly –"
Molly. Her name makes him choke too. Molly Hooper, the girl who sacrificed so much for him, the girl who counted. On this day more than ever before. How can he leave her, too?
"- in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty, for my own purposes."
John Watson will not accept it. Of course not. "Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met – you knew all about my sister, right?"
"Nobody could be that clever."
"You could."
Sherlock, the man on the ledge, laughs.
Amazing.
Fantastic.
Clever.
Not anymore. None of it anymore.
Just desperate.
"I researched you. When we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It was a trick. Just a magic trick."
The figure on the street shakes his head. Stubborn as ever. Still refusing to give in. "No. All right, stop it now – " He starts towards the doors again.
"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move."
He raises his hand in surrender, stops moving. "All right."
Sherlock stretches out his free hand. They are too far apart. Sherlock wants his John, his doctor. He wants nothing but to reach out and touch him once more.
He lets his hand fall back to his side. He can't. He will never hold John Watson's hand again.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"
"Do what?"
He is ruined. But he gets the words out. Nearly done, Sherlock. It's almost time for the easy part – falling.
Just like flying.
"This phone call, it's…It's my note."
John is still as stone on the pavement.
"It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
Everything is out. They both know what is going to happen and they both know they can't stop it but they both try.
"Leave a note when?"
He just shakes his head. Says the last words. The final line of his script.
"Goodbye, John." I love you. I will miss you. I am so, so sorry.
"No. Don't – " But the play is over and the phone is flung aside and it's time for the fall. John's futile cry – Sherlock! No! – echoes through the street as his Sherlock, the man on the ledge, takes a deep breath and jumps, and at that moment he doesn't care if it's his last breath.
As he plunges down toward the cold pavement and the shattered future, he twists his head desperately to get a last look at the man on the ground's frozen, disbelieving face. And he sees a man falling apart in front of him faster than he himself is descending. John Watson. His roommate. His colleague. His friend. His doctor.
Not anymore, Sherlock.