Posted this on Tumblr with a graphic. At first I wasn't going to post it here since it's too short for my liking. But this way I'll get more feedback. Not really sure this will be a thing I should pursue. What do you guys think?
John can't stop thinking about it. He replays the scene - Sherlock, arms spread wide, diving off the roof at Bart's - rewind, play rewind, in a torturous loop. He sees his friend's blood-streaked face and feels the absence of a pulse.
He wants to stop. He knows he should if he wants to preserve his mental health. But he can't seem to. He feels like nothing is in his control anymore. His limp is back and Sherlock is dead. Rewind, play, rewind, rewind. He remembers how it was when he thought he was going to die. He knows it's true what they say – your life flashes before your eyes. And John wonders what Sherlock had seen. Rewind, rewind. He moves through his memories backwards. He remembers…
…Sherlock on the roof, the heavy weight of confusion and dread.
"Goodbye, John."
…a moment he wished he could change.
"You machine."
…Dartmoor and an apology.
"Coffee. I made coffee."
"I've just got one."
"I don't have friends."
…New Year's and the gentle tunes of violin strings.
"So she's alive then, how are we feeling about that?"
…the warehouse and a sudden flare of rage.
"I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."
"You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you."
…Christmas and an outpouring of concern.
"You have to stay with him, John."
…Buckingham palace and hurting to laugh and giggle.
"Are you wearing any pants?"
…a darkened swimming pool and the atmosphere of danger and fear.
"I will burn the heart out of you."
…an argument and a resolve.
"Heroes don't exist."
…a regret.
"Colleague."
…their first case.
"Because you're an idiot."
"Not good?"
…their first meeting.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Tell him you're alive."
John shakes his head and frowns. He doesn't know why his thoughts abruptly returned to that warehouse where he had seen Irene Adler back from the dead. He laughs bitterly, thinking, as if Sherlock had somehow – but the laughter dies on his lips quickly.
"No, that's impossible," he says aloud, hoping to convince himself.
He shakes his head again, trying to stop the ridiculous thought from taking root.
No, I saw him fall. He's dead. He didn't have a pulse.
But even as he tried to make himself see reason, he can't stop entertaining the possibility. When you have eliminated the impossible… And pretty soon, John is looking things up on the internet, trying to find a solution or some kind of trick to hide a pulse. He is not disappointed.
His mind is moving faster now and it is all he can do to keep up with his train of thought. Sherlock was… is brilliant, fantastic, amazing, more so than Ms. Adler. Surely, John thought, surely if there was anyone who could fake his death, it would be the world's only consulting detective.
Sherlock had acted strange that day. Someone had called and told me Mrs. Hudson had been shot. He didn't seem to care at all. He knew it was a hoax. Did he orchestrate it? Was it all a part of his plan? He could be that clever. And he's enough of a bastard to do it too. But why? And how did he survive the fall? 'It's a trick, just a magic trick.' Was he telling me all along?
John is putting the pieces together, his body wired and his blood pumping, as his mind settles on the final piece – Sherlock is alive.
It all fits, he thinks to himself.
Or am I in denial?
He shakes the thought off, successfully this time. He's alive. He has to be. He's Sherlock Holmes. The only one in the world.
He doesn't allow the doubt to poke holes in his newly acquired theory. He takes any hope he can; if there's a chance, any chance at all that Sherlock is alive, John will take it.
He fishes his phone from his pocket and sends a text, his finger doesn't hesitate before pressing send.
I KNOW HE'S ALIVE. I'M GOING AFTER HIM, EVEN IF YOU DON'T TELL ME WHERE HE IS. I'LL FIND HIM.
John doesn't wait for Mycroft to reply. He grabs his coat, tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans and leaves.