Platonic Soulmates

It had been two months since John had last seen Sherlock. A whole two months of anger, regret, frustration, and, inevitably, denial.

For the first week, John hadn't yet processed the fact. He had seen his best friend fall from the rooftop of the hospital – he had been there for the autopsy report and for the reading of the will – he had sat next to Mycroft, silent and still, as the funeral was planned. He hadn't spoken a word more to anyone than was needed, he had wanted to be in alone and in silence. Why would he need silence if he still hadn't accepted Sherlock's death? He wasn't sure. He knew something had happened, but he wasn't sure what. He just wanted to be alone.

It finally occurred to him, after the funeral, as he stood beside Mrs. Hudson and above a certain detective's grave.

Sherlock is dead.

Sherlock Holmes, he read on the grave. No.. it wasn't possible. And yet, there it was, staring at him plainly in the face.

Sherlock is dead.

He couldn't be dead, he just couldn't. A genius like him couldn't be dead. John would not allow him to be dead.

One more miracle. For me.

For the second week, all that consumed John's thoughts were images of Sherlock. In particular, a certain, horrifying image of him above the rooftop at St. Bart's, the last time he had ever seen his best friend alive. The second most common image was his bloodied, mangled face after the fall. The Fall. The greatest fall Sherlock would – or could – ever experience.

He screamed, he yelled, he cried. Any other landlord or landlady would have evicted him by now, and he was forever grateful to Mrs. Hudson for not kicking him out. Though, she wasn't coping with Sherlock's death very well either. Sometimes, when John went downstairs to slip an envelope with the rent under her door, he could hear sobbing.

Mycroft helped him with the rent. Even when he'd started working again, he wasn't the richest bloke. And besides, the second week, he quit. He couldn't go. Not when hospitals and death and scrubs all reminded John so much of him.

"I don't need help, and I'm certainly not going," he muttered, barely opening his mouth. It would have been incomprehensible to anyone other than the Holmes brothers.

Mycroft shook his head with frustration and waved his umbrella around. "John, you've been cooped up in here for a month. I'm sorry that I feel it's my personal duty to see my brother's best friend doesn't waste his life. I'm sending you to a pub. Get drunk, dance horribly. That's what I'm informed the masses indulge in to overcome a tragedy."

"Well you were informed wrong," John grumbled. "I said I'm not going. Get out of my flat."

"Think it over, John. You can't sit here forever."

He snarled menacingly. "Get. Out."

Mycroft shrugged, swinging his umbrella over his shoulder and backing up a step towards the door. "You're sounding like him more and more ever day."

That was the final straw for John, who stood up and turned around to face his best friend's brother. "God, do you not EVEN CARE?" he yelled. Mycroft blinked, a bit surprised at the outburst. "What IS IT with you people? You're ROBOTS! MACHINES!"

"He was my brother, of course I care," the tall man snapped, looking down at his feet. He brought his umbrella down towards the ground, nearly hitting John in the process.

"That's the POINT, idiot!" John screamed. "You've known him all your life, and I've only known him A YEAR or so, and somehow I've managed to care a HUNDRED times MORE than YOU DO!"

Mycroft's eyes met John's for a tense, uncomfortable silence, before turning on his heels and disappearing out of the flat.

Sherlock had been more than his best friend. John hadn't any romantic intentions for his former flatmate, he wasn't gay, as he had so often assured everyone around him. But Sherlock had been so much more than a friend. They were, rather, platonic soulmates.

He knew Mycroft had the flat bugged in case he did something. That was why the whole operation had to be so secretive. No one could know. No one would have known anyways, but John had been careful to give any hints about his plan. No note-writing, no goodbyes, nothing. Maybe Lestrade would even think it was a homicide. John snickered. Would he have ever liked to see that.

He stood on a small, wooden stool. A thick rope was pressed tightly around his neck, fastened tightly to the ceiling.

He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Here I come, Sherlock.

He was interrupted by a small noise in his pocket. He pulled out his phone.

'Dont do it just step down from there right now – MH'

A second later, another message.

'Hold still im coming over – MH'

He snickered again. Mycroft must really have been in a daze to forgo punctuation and grammar.

John let his phone clatter to the ground and squeezed his eyes shut. He ignored the device as it continued to buzz and beep at him. As his eyes were closed, he could never have guessed the content of its messages.

'STOP IT JOHN. Stop it RIGHT NOW. –SH'

'I'm alive, I'm fine, I'm not dead. I faked it. STOP IT. –SH'

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry John. You have so much to life for, please don't waste it because of my mistake. –SH'

'ANSWER ME JOHN. –SH'

'I did it all FOR YOU, can't you see? I did it because I couldn't bear to hurt you any more than I already had! I could never have forgiven myself! WHY CAN'T YOU SEE? – SH'

John, no matter how desperate he was, wanted to die alone and in peace. Removing his neck from the noose, he stepped down to retrieve his phone to turn it off, but not before glancing at the last message.

Wh–what.. No... It couldn't be...

'Nice try Mycroft. Now leave me alone. A man has to have some dignity. –JW'

'It's not Mycroft! IT'S ME! IT'S SHERLOCK! –SH'

'When we first met, I thought your sister was a man! In Baskerville I poisoned your tea for an experiment! On the rooftop of the hospital I told you I was a fake! You must believe me! –SH'

John stared at the screen. Mycroft could have deduced all of that, couldn't he? Found it out with his little government spies, heard it over conversations he had bugged in the flat?

Couldn't he?

It took John exactly three seconds to register a familiar, pale face slamming the door open to the flat. To remember the coat, the scarf, the curly black hair.

It took exactly one second to realize that he had slipped, and was now dangling to his death.

It all happened rather fast. He could see the look of shock written plainly on his best friend's face. It was one of those moments where he didn't even try to hide his emotions. Sherlock sprinted forward, and in one swift moment, removed the device securing the rope to the ceiling. John, previously choking and grasping at his aching throat, was now spread out on the ground at Sherlock's feet. A minute of silence passed as the wheezing finally died down.

"You idiot," the detective whispered.

"You annoying dick," the doctor spat back.

And for the first time in two months, John smiled.