Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock - obviously. But I have borrowed a lot of dialogue, as you will see.
Warnings: Mild language, (apparant) suicide/character death.
...
Aftermath
1. THE DAY THE WORLD STOPPED
"Stop there!"
John obeys, confused at the urgent tone of voice. "Sherlock..."
"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop".
He turns his head in that direction, and his eyes widen. Sherlock is standing on the edge of the roof.
"Oh, God". What's going on?
"I-I.. I can't come down, so w-we'll just have to do it like this".
Do what? In the midst of his confustion a terrible thought enters, but John pushes it aside.
"What's going on?"
"An apology". Pause. "It's all true".
"What?!"
"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty".
John's mind freezes, and his heart rate picks up.
"Why are you saying this?"
The voice down the line breaks. "I'm a fake!"
John stares in disbelief at the figure of his friend on the rooftop.
"Sherlock..."
"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. 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".
No! John is getting angry. Desparate. He has to find a way to get through to him.
"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"
"Nobody could be that clever".
John's reply comes immediately: "You could".
A short, strained laugh comes from the other end of the line. John holds his breath in anticipation. Please just come down, Sherlock!
His heart drops at the next words.
"I researched you".
Angrily, John clenches his teeth, blood rushing through his veins.
"Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick, just a magic trick".
This has to stop!
"No, alright, stop it now!"
Sherlock is too far away. John has to get through to him! He starts walking...
"No, stay exactly where you are!"
Stops.
"Don't move!"
"Alright".
John can hear Sherlock heave for breath. His voice is urgent, and it's sending John's brain into turmoil.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?".
"Do what?"
In the back of his mind, the thought from before is again creeping up on John. A vile, threatening thought.
"This phone call, it's... it's my note".
All air seems to have left John's lungs. This isn't happening...
"That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note".
Panic sets in.
"Leave a note, when?"
Terror grips him.
Time seems to stand still.
Then, the words that tear apart his last shred of hope:
"Goodbye, John".
No!
"No. Don't".
Every nerve in his body is on edge. His eyes watch Sherlock intensively, never leaving him.
Sherlock's figure stirs.
A crashing noise sounds through the phone, then a beep.
John lets his arm fall.
"No - SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock lifts his arms and leans forward.
John's heart stops. Cold dread washes over him.
"Sher -". His voice falters.
A few terrible moments of seeing him fall, then John hears the sickening sound of impact behind a building.
For a moment he stands frozen on the spot, and the world stops. Then his legs move, carrying him towards Sherlock. He needs to see his friend. But when he does, his heart sinks further. There, ahead of him, on the pavement Sherlock lies, unmoving.
Something hits John hard, and he falls heavily to the ground, momentarily stripping him of the consciousness of what just happened. It hurts. His head is spinning, but he gets back up, disoriented. His eyes catch the horrible sight again. "Sher - Sherl...". Choking up, he runs forward, stumbling, until he reaches the nurses and onlookers standing in the way. Crowded around a lifeless body.
"I'm a doctor, let me come through". John weakly pushes his way through the crowd. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend, please". His throat is burning, tears sting his eyes. He pushes through. Then reaches down to find out what he already knows.
No pulse.
His body slumps to the ground. Someone rolls over Sherlock's body, and his lifeless eyes stare into nothingness. Only then John registers all the blood, in a pool flowing from Sherlock's head.
"Jesus, no. God, no".
It's over.
Sherlock is gone.
...
The paramedics take his body away. Someone supports John and helps him to his feet. Slowly he pulls away. Then they leave. John stands there, panting. His mind is a fog. His senses are dulled. He moves in a blur, but the world around him stands still.
...
Sirens wail, and two police cars pull up. Footsteps approach in a hurry. John barely registers.
"John". Greg. The DI reaches him and puts a hand on John's arm.
John pulls back, without saying a word. He doesn't even look at Greg. Absentmindedly, he turns and walks away.
"John!"
...
He walks blindly around the city for hours, without purpose. Suddenly he registers how dark it is, and a light drizzle is falling from the sky. Sighing, he hauls a cab and gets in.
"Where to, mate?"
Something triggers in John's mind. The empty look on his face is replaced by one of pain.
"2..." The words won't escape him.
"What was that?" the cabbie asks.
Out of nowhere, an image flashes through John's mind - "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street".
John practically falls out of the cab, gasping for air. Tears well up in his eyes, and he gets on his feet and starts running.
...
Outside 221b, John finally slows down and heaves for breath. Trying not to think about what's awaiting him upstairs, he reaches for the door handle. Then a thought hits him. Mrs. Hudson! She doesn't know. Unless... of course. Hours have passed. The police will have already been here.
Exhausted and anxious, he opens the door. Barely inside, he hears sobbing float out from the kitchen, and then from the same direction heavy footsteps approach. Greg turns up, his expression like nothing John has ever seen on him before. His face drawn in grief, his clothes a wrinkled mess. He looks fifteen years older than usual.
"Thank God you're here". Greg's voice is low and tired. "Mrs. Hudson and I were worried. I wanted to call you, but..." He seems to try to say something more, but then just hangs his head, hands on his hips. John just looks at him, his own grief evident in every feature. Mrs. Hudson's quiet sobs wake him up, and he heads past Greg into the kitchen. Greg follows slowly behind.
The older lady is sitting on a chair, elbows on the table, and face resting in her hands. As John comes in, she looks up. "John", she chokes, and tears flow down her cheeks, as she gets up and quickly covers the distance between them. Her arms wrap him in a tight embrace. Hesitating, he slowly does the same. No tears come.
Greg shifts his glance between them and the floor. When John catches his gaze, Greg moves slowly out into the hallway. John pats Mrs. Hudson's back. "I'll just be a moment", he whispers before following after Greg.
Clearly Greg does not know what to say. Or how to say it. He clears his throat, but the words still come out thick and strained. "I'm sorry, John". He looks down. Whether he's sorry that John lost his best friend, or that Greg had Sherlock arrested, or both, John does not know. At this moment he doesn't care. He gives a short nod and is about to turn around, when Greg continues, "We found Moriarty". John freezes and looks intently at the man. "On the rooftop of St. Bart's". Greg pauses. "He's dead. Shot himself". This makes John's head reel again. He can't make sense of what he's hearing. "But - was he up there with -". He can't bring himself to say the name. "Apparently so", Greg simply states.
John stays up long after Greg has left and Mrs. Hudson has turned in. She was still crying, and John's tears still won't come. Neither will sleep. His heart is pounding. There's not a clear thought in his head, just a whirl of foggy impressions. He sits in the kitchen for hours, until finally being so tired that he drifts off to sleep, arms and head resting on the coffee table.
...
Author's Notes: I know - this is horribly sad, but that's the point, isn't it?!
The next chapter will be up in a few days. I will deal with the next couple of days in John's life.
This story is more or less a prologue to the other story I'm writing, "He's Gone", which deals with the time up until and including the reunion. The first few chapters for that fic are posted. For those of you following "He's Gone": My apologies to keep you waiting. I got tangled up in the immediate hours and days following Sherlock's "death".
Please do leave constructive criticism, as I want to improve my writing!