As I clamber out of the taxi in front of Bart's I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. I start to reach for it, to see who is calling me, but I stop myself. It's probably just Mrs Hudson, or Molly. Not important, not now. I have bigger things to worry about; namely Sherlock Holmes. He must be facing Moriarty by now, maybe he's even already dead… NO! Stop it, John. You can't help anyone by thinking like that.
I race across the street, glancing up briefly at a vague movement I see on the rooftop. Is there someone up there? That would certainly be dramatic enough to satisfy them both. I speed up. The lift is, of course, broken, so I run for the stairs, wishing I was just a little fitter, just a little stronger.
Why did he send me away? Because it was him, without a doubt, one of his homeless network. How else could be have looked to calm at Mrs Hudson supposedly being shot? This is the same man who threw someone out of a window multiple times just for hitting her. And instead of realising this, instead of working it out, what did I do?
I called him a machine.
I hope that we both live long enough for me to be able to apologise.
And why does this bloody building have so many bloody flights of stairs? My phone beeps twice when I am nearly at the top. The sound is so urgent that I almost stop to check the messages. But Sherlock is more important. I reach the roof with just enough time to register that Moriarty is lying dead on the floor before I see Sherlock standing on the edge. I cannot speak. I cannot even breathe. Not even to scream when he topples forward, arms flailing. I sink to the ground, not caring at the blood that starts to soak into my trousers.
My phone falls to the ground, and I can clearly see the list of notifications. Two text messages, one missed call. It is the words that follow these that open up something inside of me and allow me, finally, to scream. And that is how Mycroft finds me a half hour later. Still screaming.
One missed call: Sherlock Holmes.