Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Unfortunately.
In the backseat of the cab, Sherlock pulls out his phone, re-reading the text.
Come and play.
Bart's Hospital.
JM
PS. Got something of yours you might want back.
The cab stops, and as Sherlock's foot touches the pavement his phone rings.
"Stay right there," Moriarty murmurs.
"And if I don't?"
"Why can't you do as I say? You have to admit that's sexier. Anyway, stay where you are or your pet will suffer."
Sherlock's stomach turned to ice. "Don't touch him."
"I made you a promise Sherlock, when we first met. But did you listen?"
The detective refuses to speak.
Moriarty sighs, and through the phone Sherlock can clearly hear him remove the safety from a gun.
"I'm waiting, honey. But Daddy only has so much patience," he drawls.
"Burn the heart out of me. You're going to kill him," Sherlock says softly.
"Oh don't be obvious darling. He's going to kill himself."
"No."
"Yes. Would you like me to explain the game to you?"
"Please," Sherlock managed to choke out. He struggled to keep his head clear as his mind races in a panicked frenzy.
"There are several snipers with their guns pointed at your head this very moment. And don't try to hide from them. Try anything and I will blow up the entire block. Now, if you look up you'll see John and me on the rooftop of Bart's. Understand the game yet?"
"Shoot me. Let him go and shoot me."
"Ah, noble now, are we? Unfortunately, you are not the one who will make the decision."
Sherlock's heart dropped. John, the doctor, the soldier. He would give his life for anyone's in an instant.
"I'll leave you two to discuss now. Have fun, my darlings." And then there is the sound of the phone being handed over, and a door slamming shut.
"...Sherlock?" His voice was soft, quiet. Apologetic.
No. No. "John, please."
"Sherlock, if you think you can convince me to let Moriarty shoot you..."
"John, if it weren't for me you wouldn't be a part of this. It's my fault."
"No, Sherlock, it isn't. Not at all."
"Shut up. Just shut up, John. For once in your life don't be the hero," he pleads tearfully.
John laughs humorlessly. "Thought heroes didn't exist?"
"I was wrong."
"God, never thought I'd hear you say that."
Sherlock's heart clenched. "John...please. I'm begging you. Please. Step down, let the snipers shoot me. Pl-"
"Sherlock. Let me speak. We're going to get this over with. Now. But will you just listen to me? Thank you, thank you so much. I was so alone, and I owe you so much."
"John-"
"Goodbye Sherlock."
And then several things occurred simultaneously. John dropped the phone, and Sherlock screamed his name as he had never screamed before, watching in horror as John stepped off the edge of the building, and fell.
Time slowed. His feet were frozen, unable to move.
And then they weren't.
He took off running, foolishly hoping that John had survived even as the involuntary calculations in his head told him how impossible that would be. As he rounded the small brick building, a man on a bike slammed into him, knocking him to the ground.
His head throbbed, his ears rang. But he slowly, clumsily made his way to his feet, staggering towards the body on the sidewalk that was already surrounded by hospital staff.
They reminded Sherlock of vultures.
When he reached John, he shoved his way in, nobody daring to argue. He looked so small. So broken. Sherlock reached for a wrist, remembering an eternity ago, how he had read the tan line on John's wrist to deduce his military history.
John had called him amazing.
There was no pulse.
He reached to cup the cheek of his brilliant, fantastic blogger, but then hands were gently tugging him away as others lifted John's limp body onto a stretcher, quickly wheeling him away.
Sherlock fought against the hands restraining him, sobbing and screaming.
And then he fell to his knees with a pathetic whimper.
For the first time in years, he was alone.
BLOGGER COMMITS SUICIDE AFTER DETECTIVE REVEALED AS FRAUD
John was loved. By army mates. By doctors. By patients. By the Yard. By readers of the bloody blog. By everyone he ever met. By Sherlock.
Sherlock was hated. Despised. Everyone was convinced that he was the reason the beloved doctor had jumped. And who was he to correct them? As far as he was concerned, he was to blame. John would have never been on that roof if not for him.
At the funeral, he could feel the glares upon him. He knew that they thought he had no right to be there.
He couldn't bring himself to care.
And then somebody he didn't recognize flew at him, fist slamming solidly into his face.
Somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too.
He clutches his bloodied nose.
"You killed him! He would still be alive if it wasn't for you!"
He looks at his attacker, and is shocked to find himself staring into familiar dark blue eyes.
Ah. Of course. The infamous Harriet Watson.
She began to approach him again, but strong hands pulled him away.
"Not here. Not now." Lestrade murmured.
The entire time, silent tears ran down his face. People stared, some with pity. Most with disgust.
It was dark now. Everyone else had left the cemetery hours ago.
He stood before the simple, black gravestone. John Watson. If it had been up to him the stone would have been covered in writing.
Blogger. Brave. Crack shot. Kind. Loyal. Friend. He could have gone on and on.
He placed a hand upon the stone that was all that was left of John Watson. It was cold, hard. Nothing like the warm, kind, gentle hands that would patch him up after he had been exceptionally stupid during a case.
"John. I know you can't hear me. But I need..." He pressed a hand to his mouth and turned away, looking out at the empty graveyard until he could breathe through his tears again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry John. It should be me in the ground right now. You should be with one of those dull women you brought home, living a normal life. With a house. Kids. I don't know. Not here.
"You thanked me. You said you owed me so much. As usual, you were wrong. Idiot. You've shot cabbies for me and risked your life for me and put up with every body part in the fridge...you owe me nothing, John. I owe you everything.
"But if you really felt that you owed me, if you truly did, you would stop this. Just stop it. Don't be dead. Don't leave me."
Sherlock knelt in the cold, damp grass, thumbing the letters on the stone.
"I'll come by soon. Like I told you, I'm lost without my blogger. Need somebody to listen. And you're much better than the...skull."
His voice broke on the last word, as he realized the meaning behind what he had just said.
"What am I supposed to do, John?"
From a dark area between the trees surrounding the graveyard, John Watson looked on with watery eyes as his notoriously stoic best friend fell apart.
Just hold on, Sherlock. I'll be back. I just have to take care of some things first.
I may continue this, but I feel that it also stands alone as a oneshot quite nicely. Reviews make my day, so please tell me what you think!