A/N: I know it's been forever since I've updated, and I want to sincerely apologize. I'm going to update my other Twilight story in the next week. Anyways, this is my new fandom. I think this will be a multi-chapter story, depending on the response I get. Please read and review!
Falling, falling, the smack as that head hits the pavement, someone else he couldn't save, just another casualty. All his fault.
Dr. John H. Watson was a celebrated war hero, a marksman, a very good doctor, but for all his accomplishments he could not save the one person who had meant the world to him for the longest time. The person who had saved him, and he couldn't repay the favor. Sherlock's jump had triggered his PTSD with a vengeance, and his limp was back full force. His best friend, the only person who he had trusted completely, was gone. And now that he was gone, now that he could no longer be told, John had finally realized that he had been in love with him.
When will you stop? When will you stop this? Stop being dead, please, for me. John knows that he is avoiding saying, or thinking his name, he knows that he is in denial. He has seen the stages of grief, but he cannot seem to care.
John Hamish Watson is a broken man. He knows it. He knows that it is not normal to grieve for so long, to be so unable to get on with his life. But he took John's life with him when he jumped. So her has no life to get on with.
He slides a finger up and down his wrist, feeling the ridged scar tissue that had formed, from months of pain, and loneliness. John hasn't gone back to the surgery, he can't bear to. Mycroft has been supporting him, and no matter how guilty he feels, he cannot bring himself to do anything to stop it.
And then there's that voice in his head: Look at yourself. A cripple. Do you LIKE depending on Mycroft? You are so pathetic, not really of any use to the world now are you. You don't work. At least you were important in the army. Not anymore.
John knows that the voice is right. He is a cripple, he can't even walk. Now that he's gone, no one needs John Watson for anything. And that thought numbs John from the inside. That's all he is now. Useless.
John has long ago stopped seeing the point of living, had long ago decided that he wanted to kill himself. He had only been waiting for the right day, and time. Today was the third day of his death, and John wanted to go the same way. John gets up for the first time in days. He hobbles to the door, pauses, and then hobbles to his desk, retrieving his gun.
Just in case, he thinks.
Johm has gone to the roof of St. Bart's hospital every year since his death, he knowsthat no one will stop him. He hails a cab.
"St. Bart's hospital please"
Kilometers away, in Mycroft Holmes' office, his blackberry buzzes.
Finished. I will be home in an hour. Where will John be?
SH
Mycroft sighs. He knew this day would come eventually. He had just hoped it wouldn't be today, of all days.
On the roof of St. Bart's. Do not alarm yourself, Sherlock; he goes there every year, on the anniversary.
MH
Mycroft looks over at the CCTV stream he has of 221B Baker Street. Something he sees makes him gasp and stretch an arm out blindly for his phone.
Disregard my previous statement. He took his gun with him. I think he means to kill himself, Sherlock. I will send Lestrade, in case he jumps, they will have a trampoline ready.
MH
Sherlock gapes at the phone. No, not John. Not his John, his soldier. After the shock comes crushing, sticky guilt.
I turned him into this. My fault. John is going to kill himself. My fault. Always my fault. Please, God, don't let me be too late.
Sherlock does not reply to the text, choosing instead to run to the edge of the pavement, and urgently hail a cab.
"St. Bart's hospital. Double the fare if you get me there is 20 minutes." Sherlock knows that John is ever the soldier. He will wait for the exact time, to honor Sherlock in his own way. He knows that John has realized his feelings for him.
The cab arrives at St. Bart's, and Sherlock wastes no time in bounding through the doors, and up the stairs, thinking of nothing but John. Hoping, and praying that his deduction about timing was correct.
He bursts onto the roof, casting his eyes around frantically for John, relaxing finally when he sees John standing on the roof, at the exact point from which Sherlock jumped.
"John?" Sherlock is tentative. He knows that John thinks he is dead, and that seeing Sherlock would be a huge shock.
John whirled around, surprise on his features.
"Sherlock?" He can hardly believe it. No, he cannot be alive. John had taken his pulse. It wasn't there. He had been gone, his brilliant brain crushed from the impact. Gone, forever.
"No. NO! You're DEAD! I took your pulse! You were GONE! And I couldn't save you." The last words were almost whispered. Sherlock finally realizes. John feels guilty, that he was unable to save Sherlock.
"John, no. It wasn't your fault. Please, please get down from the ledge."
"Sherlock, why?" John's voice is broken. It breaks Sherlock's heart to see his friend, his soldier so very depressed. Now that he's looking, he can see that John's lost quite a bit of weight, he hasn't shaved in quite a while. He looks heartbroken, and Sherlock wonders if he has been going to the surgery. He doubts it.
"John, just step away from the ledge, and I'll tell you, just please." Sherlock hopes and prays that John will listen to him for once.
John slowly steps down from the ledge, and Sherlock practically tackles him in a hug.
"Don't ever do that again!"
John is looking at Sherlock, still in shock.
"You're real. You're here. Sherlock –" John's voice breaks, and Sherlock cannot bear to hear it. He feels very much out of his depth. Emotions are not his area and he knows it. So he deals with it the only way he knows how. By being sarcastic.
"Excellent deduction, John. Maybe I'm rubbing off on you."
Sherlock doesn't know quite what to expect, but what he certainly does not expect is the impact of the doctor's fist against his face. Sherlock is thrown back, and looks up at John in surprise. John looks furious.
"SHERLOCK! YOU BASTARD! YOU COME BACK FROM BEING DEAD AND NOW YOU'RE BEING SARCASTIC!" John then proves his military background by swearing profusely in both English and Farsi before pulling Sherlock up by his coat, and hugging him tightly.
"Please, don't ever leave me like that again, God, please."
"John, look at me." Sherlock can feel John's tears dripping onto his shirt, knows that John is breaking down, because of him.
John looks up at Sherlock, his face tearstained, a desperate, lost look in his eyes.
"John, I only jumped for you." Sherlock holds up a finger to stop John's questions and protests.
"Moriarty threatened you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I had no choice. I've been hunting down Moriarty's gang. Now that I'm done, I've come back."
John hugged Sherlock again, crying.
"You IDIOT! You could have said something! A note, a call, ANYTHING would have been better than… what you did."
"John, you had to believe that I was dead. There was a sniper assigned to you. If there was any indication that I had contacted you, you would have died."
"Sherlock—" John sighs and buries his face into Sherlock's coat, smelling that familiar smell. Spice, leather, and Sherlock. This is where he belongs. John knows, then.
"Sherlock, I… I think I'm in love with you."
Sherlock looks at John in shock. It couldn't be that John returned his feelings, could it? Ah, that explained John had fallen apart.
"John, I love you too. You're the only person who puts up with me, who won't judge me, or ignore me because I see the world differently."
John cannot say anything. His knees buckle, and black spots dance across his vision.
"John? John!" Sherlock lowers John to the ground as his knees give out.
"When was the last time you ate, John?" Sherlock knows that the doctor hasn't been eating since his 'death'.
"I think… a week ago? Mycroft forced me to eat."
Sherlock is shocked. A week? Even Sherlock can't last that long without passing out.
"Oh, you foolish doctor." Sherlock sighs and scoops John up, and carries him down the stairs. He is surprised at how light John has become. When Sherlock walks out of the hospital, he is greeted by Lestrade sputtering at him.
"But… I didn't believe…You were DEAD! Do you have ANY idea what you did to John?!"
Sherlock sighed and gestured with his head to the bundle in his arms.
"Lestrade, I am very aware of what I did to John, don't think for one minute that I don't regret it. Now if you will excuse me, I need to take John back home. Please tell Mycroft that I appreciate his help, but I need to fix this myself from now. I don't want him to interfere."
Lestrade was shocked. "How did you know about…"
Sherlock cut him off. "Please, Lestrade, don't insult my intelligence. Mycroft texted me, naturally. Please pass my message on to him."
Sherlock did not wait for the Detective Inspector to respond, turning on his heel and stalking off in the direction of 221B.
Sherlock looked at the unconscious man in his arms, sighing. Logically, Sherlock knew that he had only done what was necessary, but it had destroyed his closest friend, his only friend, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he would ever recover.
A/N: I hope you liked it! Review please!
-Potterfan2013