[Spazaroth: Apologies if none of this makes sense/is crap. I blame it on writing whilst in the throes of Reichenbach-related angst.]
Falling, Sherlock mused, was probably nothing like flying.
They had been on the top of St Barts hospital, him and Jim Moriarty. Irony upon irony right there. The place where he had met his only friend was going to be the place where he left him. Sherlock didn't think about that, of course, because Sherlock Holmes didn't 'do' sentiment. Sherlock Holmes was 'too cool for sentiment' as John had once said in a bout of frustration. He could only agree.
He hadn't told John. That had been easy; horribly effortless to lie straight to him.
"I'm going to the morgue. Won't be back until late."
"Rightyohs. I'll leave lunch and dinner in the fridge, next to the jar of eyeballs. "
"Delicious."
"I hope you mean the food and not the eyeballs."
John turned another page of The Guardian. Sherlock snorted.
And he had left in a swish of coat and scarf and John didn't think anything of it because Sherlock was just going to the morgue to beat a corpse or something and that's what Sherlocks do.
Did.
That's what Sherlocks did.
That's what Sherlock did.
An hour later and John got a call from a crying Molly Hooper.
"J-John! Y-you have to c-come! To B-Barts! P-please! Oh, G-God!"
"Breathe, Molly, breathe. What's the problem?"
"S-Sherlock!"
Shit.
On the top of St Barts, Sherlock placed the phone with its unsent message to John Watson on the ground.
Jim Moriarty's impatient toe tapping stopped.
Jim Moriarty clicked his fingers with a grin.
As he ran from the cab, John saw the bullet from the unknown sniper tear through the superior thoracic artery in Sherlock's right shoulder.
He saw Sherlock stumble backwards, closer to the edge. Blood bloomed across his shirt.
He saw Jim casually lift his hand to push Sherlock.
John raised his gun. John fired.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Carotid artery. Ulnar artery. Heart.
He cherished the look of surprise Jim gave him.
John hadn't seen Sherlock slip the syringe out of his sleeve and pour the modified tetrodotoxin in his veins.
[te·tro·do·tox·in:
A powerful neurotoxin, commonly found in pufferfish. Puts the body into a death-like state; lowers pulse and body temperature, induces coma.]
Sherlock grabbed Jim's arm with his last bit of strength before the poison kicked in. He glanced at John.
I'm sorry for this.
They fell.
The air rushed into John's lungs. The air rushed out of John's lungs and he shouted, "SHERLOCK!"
Falling, Sherlock mused, was probably nothing like flying.