A/n: Alright I'm stepping out of my comfort zone here by not writing a Supernatural one shot, but hopefully my first attempt of trying my hand at a different show isn't too bad.
This one shot is actually dedicated to the extraordinary LilyBolt.
This is more-or-less written from Sherlock's point of view (though he is way smarter than me so I can only hope it isn't too bad) and takes place during season 2 episode 3 "The Reichenbach Fall." So spoilers if you haven't seen it.
Not a slash fiction.
Sadly I do not own Sherlock.
You're Making Me Live
"I'm a fake."
His voice cracks with emotion through the phone and although Sherlock does it to put on a show intended for the unknown threat of his friends, well unknown to anyone but him and the body laying behind him, he does feel something real build up within him. "The newspapers were right all along," the words Moriarty had used to describe the very form of media is still fresh in his mind. Fairy Tales. "I want you to tell Lastrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes." Maybe they aren't all here, but John was a good source to break the news and the news needed to be broken for all this to work.
"No shut up Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister right?" Sherlock detects hope in his friend's shaky voice, hidden in the need for what he's saying to be a lie.
"Nobody could be that clever."
"You could."
The sociopath laughs and it isn't part of his act, but a genuine reaction to the words said. It's a sign of relief.
Since the day a seemingly ordinary Englishman with a limp entered the lab at the very hospital he was standing atop now, Sherlock had been able to impress him. But it wasn't the same kind of impression he'd left on everyone else and he quickly learned the man wasn't an ordinary Englishman. He was a 5'6" Army doctor who weighed approximately 136 lbs, home from Afghanistan where he was injured, a bullet wound to the shoulder. The man has an older brother, well no it turns out the detective had been wrong it was actually a sister, who's worried about him though John doesn't approve of said sibling. The limp the ex-military man had had upon their first meeting had indeed been psychosomatic, like Sherlock had deduced. But John Watson is more than that.
The Army doctor had been Mike Stamford's solution to the problem the consulting detective had brought to him earlier that morning. The need of a flatmate. Sherlock was and still is aware that he's not exactly the easiest person to get on with and he had, has, some peculiar habits such as playing the violin whilst thinking and the hour of the day didn't matter. Another was his ability and tendency to spend days not speaking or doing much else for that matter, too locked away in his mind palace to be bothered by trivial things like eating and sleeping. He stores things in strange places such as at times a good handful of cigarettes stacked up in the toe of a slipper, and the flat smells of various chemicals that constantly occupy their space. Not to mention the gasps of surprise whenever his friend finds a disconnected body part or parts in places such as the refrigerator, the sink, or even the microwave. Further more, on a slow day when there isn't any work for him, he takes out his boredom by shooting the smiley face spray painted on the wall or he shoots himself up with cocaine. It helps his brain and is at times an asset and even a necessity when it comes to cases. Of all these quirks, it's the drug use that upsets the doctor. Taking it upon himself, or contacting his nosy older brother to find, convesgate, and terminate every bit of what was found. But John Watson is even more than that still.
He fills a void that Sherlock had intended to keep empty. The loss of a good friend had changed him forever. He never wanted to endure a deprivation like he had with his beloved Redbeard. The pain had been unbearable and so he made it a point to keep himself shut off emotionally from others as a means to protect himself. However this ordinary man, this flatmate, had filled this void he'd tried and successfully kept for years. This man who puts up with the detective's habits and ways, follows him everywhere he's requested and helps him with cases, spends most of his time with him, offers his thoughts and/or feelings (sometimes against the wishes of Sherlock), and even teaches him what is and isn't acceptable among other people (most definitely against the wishes of Sherlock). In short, John completed, completes, Sherlock as a person. He makes him human. And if everything that's been said in the past wasn't evidence enough, those two simple words that left his mouth with all the confidence in the world shining through certainly were. Whatever Sherlock was saying about himself, that he lied, that he had made it all up, that he wasn't the clever man he made himself out to be; John Watson, his flatmate, his best friend, trusted and believed in him and wasn't going to be swayed otherwise.
As honourable as it is however, Moriarty's men still need to see him and his reputation and credibility come crashing down in order for John and the rest of them to be safe. Literally.
"Your friends will die if you don't."
The smile on his lips fades.
"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick." His words aren't a complete lie. There is definitely a "magic trick" in the works as he stood at St. Bart's rooftop with the tips of his shoes hanging off the edge slightly.
"No Holmes, stop it now."
His friend can take no more of Sherlock's "confession" and moves towards the entrance with every intention on coming up to him. The so-called mechanical man's heart leaps into his throat at the thought of what would happen if he's found out and he immediately throws out his hand gesturing for the man on the ground below to stop for the sake of not just his own life but those he was trying to protect. "No stay exactly where you are. Don't move." His friend obeys and stops but the detective knows that he's still contemplating approaching or at the very least would very much like to. "Keep your eyes fixed on me." His tone is urgent now and he knows that his flatmate is doing what is asked of him, giving him his full and undivided attention. "Please can you do this for me?" He pushes emotion through the phone once more as he wraps up his call.
"Do what?" The ex-military man sounds nervous.
"This phone call it's uh...It's my note." He takes a dramatic pause. "It's what people do don't they? Leave a note?"
"Leave a note when?" Sherlock can hear the fear, the plea in his tone for him to prove him wrong about what he thinks is coming next and seriously reconsider. Although the man standing on top of the roof would like to clue him in on what's about to unfold, he knows he can't. All the same, it's a reaction that he's not accustom to seeing from others. Mycroft is generally annoyed or unimpressed by him, the Scotland Yard and many others find him to be a know-it-all freak who gets off on the misfortune of others, and others still are wowed by him but in a way unlike the man he'd come to share 221B Baker Street and a plethora of adventures and cases with is. John Watson's different and if anyone deserves to be saved, it's him. Even if it means his own death.
He glances quickly below and sees the stage is set and it's now time to say his final farewell to his best friend, John Watson. Or at least it's his farewell until he knows for certain the news of his suicide has spread to the ears of those who await the confirmation and more importantly, that his friend was safe and out of harm's way.
"Your friends will die if you don't."
"Goodbye John."
~ The End ~
A/n: Thank you so much for reading!
LilyBolt: So exactly two years ago today, I left a review on an amazing story called "Remembrance." I've marked that date in my head as our friendversary. For two years now you've been my Watson I didn't know I needed but now know that I would be lost without. You haven't only been there to support my writing (which I still say you think is better then it really is), but also to support me as a person. Much like Sherlock, I know I'm not always the easiest to deal with (having quirks and habits of my own), but much like John Watson you put up with me none the less. Really thank you doesn't cover how appreciative I am but as you also know I'm terrible at saying sentimental things in person. Although I often times think them at you or tell others lol. Know you aren't just a phenomenal friend, and I consider you one of my best friends, but you're also the kindest, most caring, and most open hearted person I have had the pleasure of knowing. To wrap things up, much like how John Watson completes and makes Sherlock Holmes human, you do the same for me. Thank you for being a best friend and the Watson to my Sherlock.