So, I rewatched the Reichenbach Fall the other day. Feels ensued. Someone needs to take my season two DVD away from me. Clearly I cannot be trusted to watch it responsibly. Anyway, I wrote a thing.
Disclaimer: I own nothing recognisable.
She's dying, Sherlock.
His casual dismissal of Mrs Hudson's impending death, not even a flicker of concern. Busy. Thinking. Too busy to worry about their landlady, sweet Mrs Hudson, too busy to care about her getting shot. Not even a bit of worry, of fear, of grief. Even when he surely knew she was shot because of Moriarty, because of the game they played. His fault. Not really. But if it wasn't for Sherlock, Moriarty would never have looked twice at the sweet, dotty landlady. Surely he must of felt some guilt, however irrational, surely he wasn't so heartless.
You go. I'm busy.
His words, igniting the disbelieving fury within John, blinding him. How could Sherlock be too busy for Mrs Hudson? Anger burning in his veins, anger at Sherlock, at Moriarty, at the assassin who dared enter their home and attack their landlady. Sherlock's expression cold, voice blank, no emotion. Sociopath. Never had John believed him, not really, not even the first day they met. Not after knowing him, living with him, befriending him. Not until that moment. Not until Sherlock sat there and waved away Mrs Hudson's life, like it was nothing, like he didn't care. Disbelief and anger coiled within John, incredulous at the sight of the man before him.
Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her.
He was human. He was still human. He had to care, he had to feel something. John had seen proof that Sherlock cared, that he wasn't the sociopath he pretended to be, that everyone thought he was. Or maybe John had imagined it, saw feelings and emotions in his flatmate that weren't there, just so he could justify the horrible things Sherlock did. But no. Because John hadn't been with him when Sherlock threw the man out the window – there was no need for an act, for pretending. He had to care. So why not now?
She's dying, you machine!
John was furious now. How dare Sherlock sit there and not care. It was Mrs Hudson, who didn't deserve to be dragged into this game, who was innocent, and he didn't even bother to be with her as she was dying. Clearly Sherlock was just as unfeeling and cruel as he'd been warned from the beginning. Except. Except he wasn't. Because not an hour after John threw the words at him in a fit of blind anger, turning his back on him, Sherlock flung himself off the roof of Bart's. Just like that. Immediately after John unthinkingly confirmed everything Donavan and Anderson had taunted Sherlock with. Sherlock's best and only friend, and it was his words that pushed the detective to the edge.
No. Friends protect people.
But John hadn't. He hadn't protected Sherlock. Hadn't even realised his mistake until he arrived at Baker Street and found Mrs Hudson alive and well, not bleeding out from a gunshot wound. And suddenly John knew that Sherlock wasn't heartless, wasn't cruel, that maybe it was John who was unfeeling, even a little cruel. Because he understood in that moment that Sherlock had been protecting him. In a way, that made it worse. In Sherlock's last hour, he'd gone to the trouble of setting up a ruse to lead John away from Bart's, while in return John had tipped Sherlock over the edge.
John didn't know what happened on the roof. Didn't know what had been going through Sherlock's head when he stood on the edge. Maybe it wasn't because of John's words; there had to have been a reason Sherlock sent him away, so maybe… maybe he didn't jump because of what John said.
But what if he did?
And that's what kept John awake at night, afraid of the nightmares that plagued him. Over and over again, replaying the conversation they'd had in the lab at Bart's, and the phone call. Wondering if it would have been different if he hadn't thought the worst of Sherlock, if maybe his flatmate wouldn't have jumped if John had just stayed and listened. If he hadn't been like everyone else, like Donavan and Anderson.
If he'd been a friend.
Years later, and this episode still destroys me. I don't write much for Sherlock (at least I didn't; I have a feeling that will change) but here's a oneshot. Just because: feels.