From Sherlock's Point of View at the end of/post Reichenbach. John/Sherlock. Thanks for reading!
There had been no clever plan.
Sherlock had not intended to survive the fall off the hospital building. He had intended to die. Sherlock Holmes had decided to save John Watson.
So when he woke up in a room (medical, private, probably kept for only the government judging by the walls…Mycroft) he was, to say the least, surprised. He tried to stand up, setting off multiple alarms—including the one in his head. Nurses raced in (unmarried, paid well, unfriendly) and adjusted his pain medication despite his violent attempts to dissuade them.
Mycroft (mourning outfit, lost a less than half a stone, new haircut) came in about half an hour later. "I was concerned for a while there. You've been out for three days."
"John?" Sherlock only managed to make a croaking noise. Mycroft laughed and shook his head.
"I'll get you some ice."
Once the ice was procured and Sherlock had put up with the indignity of being spoon-fed, he asked again, "John?"
"Better than you."
"You should have let me die." Now that the ache in his throat was subsiding, he continued to talk, "I had planned to die. Moriarty—"
"You are dead, Sherlock. Every record proves it. The only one that doesn't will be burned on your discharge here." Mycroft smirked (smug), "Sherlock, if there's one thing I know about you it's that you wouldn't kill yourself. However, whatever your reasons for wanting to be dead, I decided to grant your wish. Your funeral is in two days."
"Moriarty?"
Mycroft shrugged.
"How is John?"
"He got hit by a bicyclist racing towards you, but he's fine now. Mrs. Hudson is letting him stay on in Bakers Street for the time being." Mycroft reached over for a bag, "I brought you a new laptop. Is there anything I can get from your apartment?"
"No. No. Leave it with John. He'll take care of it." Sherlock looking meaningfully over at the ice again, and Mycroft fed him some more, "Some clothes, maybe. And cigarettes."
"You can't smoke here."
"For later then." Sherlock leaned back as he felt the drugs attempt to pull him back to the sea of unconsciousness, "I want to see—" he never finished his sentence.
The next time he woke up, there were clothes on the end of his bed. His head felt better, and hidden under the sheet, in his hand, was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He was able to stay awake the two hours it took for Mycroft to come. He met his doctor (divorced, five years, no children(verbally abusive)) and was eating a small meal as his brother walked in.
"Thank you." He said stiffly, with a nod to the end of the bed.
"It was no trouble."
There was a moment of silence—they never had been good at talking to each other—before Mycroft said, "You're being discharged tomorrow morning. You should have a headache for a while, as a result of the concussion. There was no massive brain trauma, but they induced a coma for the first day anyway. You had quite the fall. I've also been asked to tell you to stop terrorizing the staff."
"When is my funeral?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. There will be a small service while we bury the casket, and then whoever wishes may come visit the grave afterwards."
"I want to go."
"It will be dangerous. You could be seen."
"I won't be seen. I just want to see for myself that John is okay."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, another one of his insufferable habits, "I would hardly call him okay."
"Alive and breathing." Sherlock paused, "I also want my will changed to give him access to my bank account. Whatever money I have in there. I want him to be able to stay at Baker's street."
"Is there anything else?" Mycroft picked up his umbrella, "I have to be at a meeting in half an hour."
"I need to start another investigation and may need some of your resources. Moriarty has a network, and I need to destroy that."
"Why?"
"Because there was a reason I jumped off a building, Mycroft." Sherlock looked over at his brother disparagingly.
"I'll come for you about an hour before the service," With a nod he is off, and Sherlock is left to brood. The medications which had kept him sleeping have been reduced, and he is left alone in a room with a laptop that he has only used to check one blog.
He waited patiently for an update; and when it came, the simple sentence broke the heart he had only just found out he had.
The next day, he was dressed and waiting at the door to the hospital entrance for Mycroft. It was raining, and he was quickly covered from sight by his brother's umbrella. In the graveyard he watched well paid men bury another corpse in a casket meant for him beneath a gravestone with his name on it.
He waited.
The two mourners arrived, John holding his leg stiffer than Sherlock had remembered (Psychosomatic once again, cause unknown). He couldn't hear the words his only friend, his best friend, the only man who had ever—
He wasn't surprised John cried. He was surprised he had.
Mycroft picked him up two blocks from the graveyard, and they drove out to a country house where Sherlock would spend a few days before moving on. Mycroft handed him a bank card and a suitcase full of clothes. They didn't say anything beyond a few words until Mycroft was leaving.
"I'll keep in touch with him, for you."
"Thank you." Sherlock almost smiled, "I hope I haven't caused you too much trouble, these past few years."
"I look forward to you causing more."
Again, they shared an almost smile. They had never been raised to say goodbye.
"Where will you go now, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, "Can't go back to London, not now."
"I might go to France for a while. Bulgaria."
Mycroft guffawed, one of the various noises that always bothered Sherlock, but today Sherlock couldn't find the energy, "And find another John Watson?"
"There's only one John Watson, Mycroft."
"Yes. There is."
Sherlock watched his brother's car drive away before he started to work at the puzzle that kept him from the best and bravest man he had ever met.
It would be three years before Sherlock could talk to John again. He had traveled throughout the world and locked himself in a room for three months when Mycroft phoned him that John had gotten engaged. He read John's blog six months later to learn the engagement had fallen apart. He had kept busy, of course, clearing up the network, making sure that his bank account stayed afloat, and planning the day he would come home to John at 221B Bakers Street.
There were several reasons he decided to return to London yesterday, and he would tell John all of them.
Well. Almost all of them.
Thank you again for reading this story; it's my first Sherlock fanfiction, so if you can, could you drop a review? Thank you all so much.