Catch Me If I Fall
The story takes place after "The Reichenbach Fall". John is grieving over the loss of his friend Sherlock Holmes. But his life takes a dramatic change when he finds his friend's phone which has been forgotten at the rooftop of St. Bart's Hospital. A little puzzle has been left behind and maybe everything isn't as hopeless as it might seem?
I will hopefully upload this story every weekend.
Chapter 1: Falling Is Just Like Flying
„Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"
"Do what?"
"This phone call, it's … It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
The words echoed in John's head over and over again, whirling through his mind.
"Leave a note when?" He tried to remain a calm presence but his quavering voice betrayed him tremendously.
A few long seconds of silence followed with John still trying to find out where all of this was going. He wanted to make it all stop. He wanted to prevent his friend from falling. But he was at a loss of words.
"Goodbye John."
"No. Don't-". It was less than a whisper but it didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered anymore except- "SHERLOCK." Now he screamed. His own squeaking voice drowning everything else out.
But it was too late.
Too late.
It's funny how minutely his mind observed everything, every little detail that was burned into his mind like a brand mark, as if to make sure he would never stop remembering the worst seconds of his life.
The spreading of the detective's arms, like if he was just about to soar far away instead of dropping on the ground, the fluttering of his coat in the wind, the way his arms and legs struggled for a halt while rushing through the cold air.
John felt horror-struck. He had no control over himself as he suddenly found his numb legs moving into his friend's direction. His mind was spinning, there was not a single clear thought, just something hammering inside of his head and chest. Was it his heart beat?
He didn't know what hit him as he all of a sudden found himself on the ground. His head ached like hell. He groaned in agony. A few seconds passed by until he finally got up again, still unsteady on his feet but not wasting one more look at that cyclist who had bumped into him and smashed him on the ground. Now, of all times!
"Let me through! Please! I'm a doctor." He cried out but when nobody seemed to let him through, he tried it another way "Please. He's my friend." He stumbled again and again. "John, pull yourself together!" he harassed himself harshly while trying to make his way through the little crowd that was already gathered around the detective.
Like in a rush, like in a trance, John kneeled down next to his friend, almost plopping on the cold ground. Reaching out to Sherlock's wrist, he blended out everything else around him. The screaming shocked people, trying to get him away, and the paramedics rushing in. Everything around him disappeared in an instance.
He felt his chest tighten and his mind going blank. There was no pulse. No pulse.
"God, no."
Now he let them. Let that woman behind him grab him harshly on his arm, pulling him away. Let them get Sherlock on the mattress of the ambulance. Let them get on his feet; let them get Sherlock out of his sight.
Though his eyes followed every move the paramedics made he could not understand.
Couldn't understand, couldn't take anything in, he couldn't feel.
Once in a lifetime Sherlock allowed his mind not to think straight. If he let just one single rational thought cross his mind he would end up … yes, end up doing what? And that was exactlythe point. He did not know. He did not know what his next step should be. He had laid everything on the line and yet lost.
Having reached, an impasse, the point of no return, he knew no other way out buttaking the fall.
He swallowed hard, concentrating only on the little spot on the pavement. Sherlock reminded himself that this was his solely purpose he followed through with all of this. And it was worth it. He'd do anything in his power to save the, from far away seemingly small man, who now looked up to him, disbelief written all over his face.
"I'm a fake."
"It's a trick. Just a magic trick."
"This phone call, it's … It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
The hints were so easy to deduce, so easy to understand and yet he knew that nothing was going to become easy. Not as he watched his friend, his one and only friend, clinging desperately to every word he was saying.
"You're a soldier, John. You're strong. Remember, you went through worse?" Sherlock pleaded silently in his head.
"Goodbye John."
He gave it two more seconds until he threw his phone away. With a little bounce it landed next to his feet, only a few meters away.
He did not take a look back, did not waste a single glance at the dead corpse of Moriarty nor at the threateningly faraway pavement beneath him.
His arms were spreading out naturally, his eyes focusing solely on the blue, clear sky above.
Falling is just like flying except there is a more permanent destination.
His hands and his chest were the first that reached the bottom of the truck. With a dump sound his whole body crashed into the soft and caving mass of hay.
Without bothering whether he was uninjured or not (not that it would have been severely anyway, the hay was after all comfortable enough) he jumped off the track, plopping on the ground in an instance. A few guys from the homeless network were running out of their hidings, appearing as if out of nowhere, crowding and shielding him. He recognized a few familiar faces. There were Jack and Scarlet. And a bit further away, hiding and peaking out behind a corner, Jimmy, the cyclist.
While the detective skimmed over all of the faces, taking in as much data and information as possible he pulled out the rubber ball of his pocket pressing it under his arms. It would help to slow down his pulse immediately. One of the homeless men splashed fake blood all over him.
All of this had happened in no more than a few seconds. It all went so fast, almost too fast to perceive anything, but still fast enough for Sherlock to close his eyes and put on a motionless and vacant expression.
And then he perceived a strangled, shaking voice.
"I'm a doctor. Let me through."
He wished he had something to cover his ears with.
"He's my friend. Let me through. Please."
There was a gentle touch on his wrist, by increasing the pressure, Sherlock noticed that John tried to take his pulse. It felt warm and pleasant on his too cold skin but then his friend's fingers began to shack and slipped away.
"God, no."
Guilt overwhelmed Sherlock like a wave. He tried not to swallow or show any other indications of his consciousness and awareness.
His nerves were strained to the breaking point. It was a thousand times worse than he had dared to believe.
He wanted to reach out to John. Touch him. Tell him it'll be okay. Tell him it's all just for his own good.
But what choice did he have? One visible hint and it would all be over. Three lives were on the line. There was no way he could risk it.
Hands were suddenly all over him, putting him gently on the mattress. Paramedics were surrounding him. The heat and comfort of John's body disappeared. His voice faded away.
"Find the note, John. Find my note. You are capable of it. I place all my trust in you." Sherlock's last thoughts flashed through his mind before he was being rushed around the next corner, leaving John Watson and his whole existence behind.