Courage

Sherlock was not afraid of dying.

He enjoyed the thrill of the chase and the exhilaration of being in mortal danger. He had come within inches of death on numerous occasions, and never once had he feared for his own life. Despite what others may think of him, it was not because he was incapable of human emotion and could not feel anything. But of all the things to be anxious about, he could not see why the cessation of all vital functions of the body should rank among them. After all, for every moment of his life Sherlock's mind was and had been a constant whirlwind of activity, and while he would not choose to be possessed of lesser mental faculties that would relegate him to the mundane existence of normal people, the knowledge that someday, finally, all his frantic brain activity would come to an end was a relief – a comfort, even.

He did not want to die, of course. There were still far too many puzzles to piece together and mysteries to solve for Sherlock to wish to take his leave of the world prematurely. But when death did come for him eventually, he would not be averse to the idea, and he would certainly not waste his time in life fearing about death's inevitable approach.

Standing on the rooftop of St Bartholomew's Hospital, Sherlock knew that, for the moment, the contemplation of his own mortality was irrelevant. He would not die today.

It was all arranged. Molly had proven a willing and able accomplice to the plans Sherlock had for staging his suicide, and he stood now on the ledge from which he would appear to fall to his death. But while the world would bear witness to his fall, Sherlock had every intention of surviving with life and limb intact. The plan had been formulated to perfection and would be executed with precision; none but those already in the know would have any idea that Sherlock Holmes still lived.

Sherlock was impressed by his own brilliance. This way, he would no longer be harassed by the media, would no longer be in the public eye, would no longer be known to every person he passed on the street and every criminal stalking the alleys. Without a spotlight shining on him, he would be able to slip among the shadows and complete The Work far more effectively. He was eager to shed the mantle of the famous Reichenbach Hero and return to operating in obscurity.

Besides, his apparent death was going to save the lives of Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and John. What better, more worthy end could there be for the name of Sherlock Holmes? Of course, everyone thought he was a fraud, and no one would ever know that Sherlock's final act was to protect the three most important people in the world, but he had never cared what other people thought of him. He knew that abandoning his identity was the only way to keep his…friends… safe; that was all that mattered.

Sherlock was proud of himself.

But then, if he had nothing to fear from death, and if he felt no shame for how the world perceived him in the wake of Ms Riley's article, why should he be feeling this surge of emotion? This unsettling, uncomfortable feeling that was blurring his eyes from moisture excreted through his tear ducts and choking his voice?

The reason was staring up at him from the street below.

Sherlock had not meant for him to be here, to witness this. He intended to call, but had expected to leave a voicemail because John was supposed to be angry with him. The moment he had answered his phone and stepped out of the cab, Sherlock realised that one aspect of his carefully laid plan had gone wrong.

John was here.

Hearing John's voice, seeing him standing there with every line of his body radiating concern and distress, had caused these unwelcome emotions to come rushing to the surface. Sherlock was losing his clinical detachment, his rigid control, and it was all he could do to follow through with the plan when he was on the verge of breaking down and abandoning it completely.

Maybe he wouldn't die today. But he realised that life as he knew it would be over. There would be no more consulting with Lestrade at Scotland Yard, no more experimenting on cadavers in the mortuary with Molly, no more living at 221B Baker Street with Mrs Hudson as his landlady…

No more John.

When Sherlock jumped from this ledge, he would lose John. Probably forever. John couldn't know that he was alive, which meant that this was the last conversation they would ever have, the last chance Sherlock had to speak to him. And here he was, blatantly lying to him, trying to convince his most loyal supporter that he was a fake, giving John every reason to hate him but knowing, knowing, that for all his efforts John would never be fooled.

Sherlock wished he would use this time to say everything that had always gone unsaid between them in the past. He wished he could say all the 'thank yous' – for John's patience and understanding and unwavering faith, for John putting up with body parts in the fridge and not complaining about his playing of the violin at all hours and listening to his deductive rants and not calling him a freak, for buying the milk and making the tea and ensuring he ate and slept, for being his moral compass and handling normal people and watching his back and killing for him and sticking by him through everything… but most of all for being his friend. He wished, too, that he could give a real apology – for being so difficult to live with, for being insensitive, for being rude and condescending, for throwing John's friendship back in his face time and again, for putting his life in danger, for treating him so badly… for not being the friend John deserved. He wished he could tell John how much he respected him and valued their relationship. He wished he could say that although he had never thought he was capable of caring for anyone, he cared about John.

But he couldn't say any of those things. Not now, not ever.

This was the end of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

And it hurt.

Sherlock was going to miss John terribly. He could feel the pain beginning already, like the ache of a phantom limb after amputation, the knowledge that an essential part of him was missing and should be there, should always be there, but was gone for good.

But worse, so much worse, was the knowledge that John was going to miss him.

Sherlock was not as ignorant about human emotions as he used to be. Granted, the feelings of most people still remained incomprehensible to him, but extensive observation and analysis over the eighteen months they had known each other had given Sherlock an intimate knowledge his flatmate.

Sherlock knew what this would do to him. He knew that it would be far kinder to stab John in the gut with a rusty blade and leave him to bleed out slowly than it would be to force him to watch his friend commit suicide. He knew that his apparent death would rip the world out from under John's feet and send him hurtling into a dark abyss of anger and grief, knew that John would be lost, so lost, and he would feel so alone. He knew that John's psychosomatic limp would come back and every night his subconscious would assault him with new nightmares. He knew that John would not lean on anyone or let anyone see how much he was hurting; he would present the tough exterior of a military man and refuse to let well-meaning people in. John would suffer in silence, breaking little by little, and it would be Sherlock's fault.

The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was to inflict such pain on John. But if the snipers did not see Sherlock jump, they would follow through on Moriarty's kill order. John would die. He knew what John would choose, if he were given the choice – he had seen what John would choose that night at the pool, when John had tried to trade his life for the chance that Sherlock could escape. But Sherlock was selfish. He didn't want to live in a world where John Watson was dead. And he did not want to be responsible for the death of the best man he had ever known.

Sherlock was certain that there was only one course of action that he could take, and he was determined to see it through. But he was also terrified. Not of death, not of the fall, but of the future. Of a future without John as a part of his life. Without John as his friend. Nothing would ever be the same again, nothing would ever be right again. He didn't know how he was supposed to cope without his flatmate, his blogger, his doctor, his partner, his friend. He didn't know how he was supposed to live through each day alone, to take each step knowing that it was another step further away from the one person who had not only shown Sherlock that he had a heart but taught him to use it as well.

He couldn't do this.

He had to do this.

Sherlock did not remember the last time he had shed real, honest tears. But he was afraid that if he did not end this phone call now, the sobs he was barely holding back would become audible and the tears would escape.

Trying to maintain his composure for a few more moments, Sherlock said his final words in a voice that was as calm as he could manage.

"Goodbye, John."

He dropped the phone behind him, and all Sherlock could hear as it clattered to the rooftop was the sound of his entire would shattering into pieces that could never be made whole.

For even if, someday, Sherlock was able to return, he knew that his deception would have irrevocably broken what he and John had. He could not expect John to forgive him, not for this.

The thought of coming back and being rejected was devastating.

But the idea of never seeing John again…. that was unbearable.

So even as he shifted his body weight forward and prepared for the fall, Sherlock resolved that when his business was done and the chance arose, he would return to face his fears.

Because Sherlock Holmes – the Great Consulting Detective, the most brilliant mind of his time, the bane of criminals and the best friend of Doctor John Watson – was no coward.

Besides, John was worth the risk.