Notes
Chapter One
"So next time, when you're leaving,
Could you at least leave a note?
Next time, when you're leaving,
Could you tell us before you go?"
-"Leave a Note," Missy Higgins
John Watson's heart was pounding. His chest was tight. His hands were shaking, clutching his phone to his ear, desperate.
He believed, hoped with everything he was that he could talk Sherlock out of this... this madness. If he could only just keep him on the phone, perhaps he could-
"Goodbye, John."
"No." John was still holding the phone to his ear, speaking into it. "Don't..." He was still clutching his phone, begging. Never mind the fact that Sherlock had since hung up on him and tossed his phone to the side. Never mind the fact that John knew Sherlock was unreachable by that point. Everything was foggy, everything was a million miles away. He was so beside himself with fear, with disbelief, that he couldn't even scream. All he wanted was to shriek and shout and let Sherlock know that he just can't do what he is about to do, but no more words came out. No more sounds escaped his lips.
Keep your eyes fixed on me…
John was sure it was a trick. He begged his palpitating heart to slow down because there was no reason to be frightened. There was no possibility that what he feared was really going to happen. Sherlock was proving a point. He was proving a point to John, to Lestrade, to everyone. That's all it was- some sort of dramatic gesture that would end with a brilliant way to get out of the mess he had gotten himself into. That was the reason for Sherlock's words, John was sure of it.
This phone call... it's my note.
That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?
Those were his other words, though, and with those hollow syllables but heavy meaning, John's certainty wavered. His throat was constricted and his feet were frozen in place. All he could do was stare up at the roof of the hospital building and watch as the tall dark figure of his best friend, the infamous Sherlock Holmes, spread his arms, his eyes never wavering from John's, and fell.
"Sherlock!"
One beat of silence, two beats, three.
This phone call... it's my note.
Goodbye, John.
John's stomach and heart both took what felt like the same sickening plunge that Sherlock just had. Everything was frozen, everything was quiet. Then, suddenly, reality kicked in, life picked up speed again. John's heart pounded so hard he could feel it throbbing in his throat, his head. He could hear it booming in his ears. It was all he could hear. As he began to run towards the crowd that was now growing around Sherlock, he felt himself falling. Had he tripped? Had he been knocked over?
He didn't even feel the bicyclist hit him, didn't feel the crack of skull against pavement. He couldn't feel anything except his pounding heart and the overwhelming urge to vomit.
The blow to his head disoriented him further than he had been to start with. He was dizzy and confused. The world slowed down once more, and the cool pavement on his cheek calmed the waves of nausea that threatened to send him reeling should he take one more step.
By that point, the doctor knew he should have stood up slowly, steadied himself, sat down and awaited medical attention, just in case he had a concussion. Perhaps, under normal circumstances, he would have considered it. But these were not normal circumstances, not by a long shot. As he glanced up from the ground, he caught sight of the noisy crowd once again and he was able to push himself off of the ground and stumble into the circle of people.
He moaned, batted away at people trying to get him out of the way, away from the body. He moaned, spouted off useless excuses and explanations about being a doctor, being his friend. Eventually he managed to push his way through the crowd and instantly stopped dead in his tracks. The blood was the first thing he caught sight of. Naturally, it was the only thing he could fixate on until someone rolled Sherlock over onto his back, and John saw his face, his ice blue eyes staring blankly. He pushed through the remaining bodies and grabbed hold of Sherlock's limp arm. John clutched onto Sherlock's wrist, desperate for a pulse.
Please, Sherlock, give me something they can work with. Something I can hope for, something to hold onto.
But there was no pulse.
Hands were all over him. Hands and faces and voices, pulling him away, giving him looks of pity and shock, meaningless words of condolences and commands.
There was no pulse.
The words bounced around his head, echoed in his mind a half dozen times before the enormity of that even began to sink in. After a few more repetitious thoughts of it, he allowed himself to go limp in the arms of the multiple doctors and bystanders pulling him off of Sherlock.
No pulse.
It began to become a mantra in the doctor's head, no longer just a worry, a whisper, an echo, but a throb. A pulse of its own. With each beat of his heart, he heard it.
No pulse. No pulse. No pulse.
Dead.