John stepped up to the ledge. Don't look down, don't look down, he reminded himself, his military training taking over, making sure he had complete control over every muscle, every bone.
A cab pulled up below. John broke his rule and looked down to see who it was.
Sherlock.
The ex-army doctor grimaced at having to face his best friend. Then he realized, Wait, I'll just call him instead. His phone was in his hand then up against his ear before he had time for another thought.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
Ring ri-
"Yes, John what is it?" The detective's voice had a slightly bored tone to it. John sighed as he watched the tall figure begin to stride into St. Bart's.
"No Sherlock, stay where you are. I need you to stay exactly where you are."
"John?" Sherlock's voice came out sounding worried. John pinched his nose. I'm doing this for you. Don't worry about me, worry about yourself. If I don't do this just right, you'll die, Sherlock! And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade will die too!
"John, where are you?" The slightly younger man frowned and started walking towards the hospital again, only to be stopped by his best friend's voice.
"No, Sherlock, stay there. Look up." The former captain had a slight hint of army creeping into his words, making Sherlock shiver with pleasure. John had no idea what that did to him. John had no idea what feelings swirled beneath his cold exterior. When Sherlock did finally look up, he gasped and put his hand of his mouth in horror.
"JOHN, stay there, I'm coming up. Don't move a muscle." He hung up, running as fast as he could into the hospital and up the stairs.
John was about to shout, "NO!" but Sherlock had hung up on him before he could get it out. Now there was only one thing left to do. He shuffled closer to the ledge, fear starting to build in him. Captain John Watson, the only thing you need to fear is fear itself, right? There is no need to feel afraid. Yes, you still might die, but death would've come anyways. At least this is for a worthy cause.
Taking a deep breath, John closed his eyes and jumped.
At the same moment, Sherlock burst out of the roof door.
He fell to his knees, screaming unintelligible words to the winds, uncaring for anyone who might hear him. John, his John, had left him. Voluntarily. Not letting him fix whatever it was that was the problem.
Why John, why would you do that? Why, why, why, WHY?!
Sherlock stumbled back down the stairs and out to the sidewalk where his best friend lay, broken and bleeding. He knew John was dead already, fall of 169 feet, turned midfall, landed on upper back and smashed in the skull. He grabbed the doctor's hand and checked for a pulse anyway. There wasn't one. His hand tightened over the limp wrist and he screamed.
They found him three hours later, curled in a fetal position in a back alleyway, shivering and rocking. His voice was gone from shouting, swearing, screaming at anyone who got anywhere close to him. DI Lestrade sighed and motioned his team to step back, away from the shaking genius. He himself went closer, sitting down next to Sherlock, leaning his head back against the wall.
They sat like that for several minutes, no one speaking or moving except for Sherlock's incessant rocking. Suddenly, however, the detective spun around and curled in Lestrade's side, surprising the older man. After a second, his arms curled around the long body, pulling him closer, and the silver head rested on the dark one.
Still no words were spoken. Only tears fell.