Messages- Sent- To: Sherlock Holmes-
Sherlock... I don't know. I just don't know. All I am sure of is that I can't do this any longer. I just can't. It's been over three years. I think Lestrade knows what I have to do. He knows, but he can't stop me. I... I suppose this... This is my note. This is my goodbye. I love you, Sherlock. I always did. From when you asked about Afghanistan or Iraq, I loved you, and I loved you as I watched you fall. I know you think, -or rather, thought- that love is a disadvantage. If that's the case, its a disadvantage I am glad to have, if it means I can love you. We all have our disadvantages anyway.
And Sherlock, I'm still waiting for that miracle.
Goodbye, Sherlock.
JW
Reply- To: John Watson-
There are always miracles, John. Always.
SH
Reply- To: Sherlock Holmes-
Sherlock... You.. Can't be alive. I've been too long without you and my sanity has reached a low. That has to be it. Why else would I be talking to a dead man? No. You're not alive. I saw you fall. I cried for you. I died inside for you. You're not alive.
JW
Reply- To: John Watson-
'Can't be' and 'aren't' do not mean the same. You say I can not be alive, that doesn't mean I are not -or from my perspective, am not- alive. But do you really think it was easy, what I did? Fall off a building, falling, falling, but never landing because I am still here in the falling phase. Falling. Where is the more permanent destination, I dare ask?
SH
Reply- To: Sherlock Holmes
You're alive. Really alive.
JW
Reply- To: John Watson-
Alive, yes, but so unwell. Far too long away from you. John. I-
Reply- To: Sherlock Holmes-
Sherlock? You what?
Reply- To: John Watson-
Come outside.
SH
Messages- Received- John Watson (2)-
(1/2) I can't walk, Sherlock. My limp came back, apparently its worse now.
JW
(2/2) You come here.
JW
Reply- To: John Watson-
Coffee, John?
SH
Reply- To: Sherlock Holmes-
Just hurry Sherlock.
JW
Reply- To: John Watson
On my way.
SH
John sat in the chair that Sherlock had once so often occupied, his long-since-used cane resting beside it. He waited, and waited, and after five minutes he checked his phone to see if the messages were still there, if it had really happened. He did the same every five minutes for the better part of an hour before starting to doubt Sherlock was actually coming, that he was still alive. Soon he lost almost all hope. He restarted his plan where he had left off. All he needed was the gun. The flat was still in a state of disarray from the many times John had torn the place apart, looking for some sign of Sherlock, something to hold onto. He scanned the room and could not remember the last place he had seen the gun. So he reverted to his other alternative: simply sit and die.
Sit he did, and waited, and waited. After a day of sitting, staring at the door, he began to feel tired. More tired than he had ever felt. He wondered if that meant it would be over soon. He waited, and waited. And then he closed his eyes.
Sherlock burst into the flat looking weary, emaciated, and his skin was a pale greenish pallor. His eyes, the only part of him unchanged, searched the room and came to rest upon a sleeping John.
"John!" He yelled and ran to him "I'm alive. I didn't really die, I had to fake it so I could stop Moriarty's loyal crimin-" He was hugging John now, but John wasn't hugging back.
"John..?" Said Sherlock in what was likely the most scared sounding voice he had ever used "John are you awake? Wake up, John. I'm home." His voice faltered at the last word as his mind unraveled what was happening.
"No.. Not you John! No!" He was crying now, cradling the small form of John in his lap. He stayed like that for hours, probably trying to get a last lingering sense of love, which he wouldn't find. John had not loved in his last moments. He had mourned, because he thought Sherlock was dead for sure and that he would never come to see him. All Sherlock got from John was a broken heart and a reason to die, for real this time.
Sherlock found his spare coat not in the closet where it should have been, but instead found it amid the blankets in Johns room. His heart gave a pang of immense loss and he thought a terrible thought- 'was this what it was like for John, thinking I was dead?'
He put on the coat with none of his old flourish, and he gathered John into his arms and left Baker Street for the last time.
By the time he had made it to St. Barts he had a throng of police following him, not daring to believe their eyes and accept that Sherlock Holmes was alive. He didn't look it, and neither did the small figure in his arms.
Sherlock used the lift to bring himself and John to the roof, where the end began. Seemed fitting for what he was going to do. He slowly walked across the rooftop towards the ledge that a year prior he had let himself fall off of. He untwined the rigid arms of John's body from himself and whispered in his ear 'John-' but he never finished the sentence. He stepped forward off the rooftop and clutched John tight, kissing his cheek on the way down. Just before they hit the pavement, Sherlock whispered again "John-' and blacked out.
This time, he died happy.
John awoke with a start upon hearing his name whispered in his ear. He had just had the most terrible dream, that Sherlock never showed up until it was too late, and he couldn't take it. He blinked multiple times in rapid succession to clear those images from his mind. He looked up and saw Sherlock standing above him, dangerously close.
"Sherlock-" he breathed, before he was silenced with three year's worth of overdue kisses all at once. He evidently forgot that he was unable to walk and stood up to get a better angle. Three minutes later the two pulled out of the kiss and simply stood there, being. Being desperately in love, being there in each other's arms, just simply being.