Author's note: I was crying for practically this entire episode. I just can't even do it anymore. This is my therapy. John's POV.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The sight of him on the ledge isn't real. It's another one of his daft plans, his brilliant tricks. It's not real.
Sherlock had always had a flair for dramatics, so why should this – the resolution of the final problem, the defeat Moriarty – be any different?
The memory of it all is hazy, like a dream. I often wake in the dead of night, hoping – praying – that it really had been a dream, a horrible nightmare.
But I am wrong to think that I should be allowed this one miracle, this one last revelation. The image of his grave, black and reflective like obsidian, is forever etched into my mind. It's in my subconscious and it's in my soul; the image flashes in front of me without warning, a looming cloud and permanent fixture. It's knotted into my brain, inextricable from the sound of his name.
Sherlock Holmes. Phonetically, it's familiar on my tongue. But the sight of it on paper is too much to bear. The letters are nothing more than the engraving on his tombstone, neatly carved and mockingly innocuous.
The sight of him on the ledge, though, is not so concrete. I saw him from afar, as he stood majestically over the side of the 70ft building, brooding like a hero from a comic book. His long, trademark coat billows out behind his back, cape-like. He cannot be real.
He once told me, "Heroes don't exist, and, if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." This was the only lie he ever uttered, or at least the only lie he ever meant for me to believe.
What he said to me over the phone – I can hardly fathom that the words were his. His voice had been entirely devoid of its usual confidence, but his tone was firm as ever. His words shook and his sentences quivered as he tried desperately (and to no avail) to make me believe that it had all been a lie, that it had all been a sham. Brilliant as he was, I was quite sure he knew I didn't believe him. But he tried nevertheless, tried to make me hate him, tried to ease my suffering. In his last moments, he was thinking of me.
I heard the tears in his voice as he begged me to spread the word, to tell everyone that he was a fake. I don't know why he bothered. Never for a moment did I suspect him a liar. Indeed, Sherlock Holmes was many things, but a liar he was not. I'd proved myself to him before, proved that my loyalty was unwavering. I never doubted him. Not. Ever.
So, when he flew from the ledge, when he fell, I knew why he did it. Or, at least, I had a general idea.
He did it for me.
It seems as though I watched him fall for forever. His descent was graceful, as all his movements were, and, although I could not see his face, I am sure that his ice-blue eyes were serene.
The scene is beautiful until he hits the pavement, when the flight becomes a fall.
That's when the memory really starts to get sketchy.
My mind shuts down, my eyes deceive me, and my body betrays me. I cannot think, I cannot move, and I cannot live. The air is stolen from my lungs. My legs turn to rubber.
Everything I have ever endured – the war, the death, the pain, is nothing compared to this moment. I would relive it all again just to erase this event from history.
But I cannot do it. In fact, there is absolutely nothing I can do. I am utterly helpless.
I am a doctor, I am his friend, I am useless.
His blood stains the sidewalk. His pulse is gone. Even in death, he is beautiful. Everything about him is beautiful. His face is beautiful, like a sculpture carved from marble. His eyes, wide open, are beautiful. They are sharp as razors, they have not dulled. I suspect that they will never dull. Nothing about Sherlock will ever be dull.
Even his blood is beautiful. Crimson threads dance across his pristine face, looking more like artwork than injuries. None of it is real.
He is torn away, ripped from me, by the paramedics. I let them take him. There is nothing anyone can do.
In the papers, they call it suicide. It doesn't bother me, what they say about him. Nothing bothers me anymore. I know the truth. I may be the only person on the face of this planet who still believes in Sherlock, but it doesn't matter.
He didn't care what others thought of him. I used to care. But now, I've had to absorb parts of him to keep him alive, misanthropic philosophies included.
So, if the world thinks ill of him, I will think ill of the world. I do not try to convince anyone of anything. If their stupid pea-brains wish to believe lies, so be it. The real Sherlock was a hero, whether he knew it or not.
Author's note: I don't even know. Review if you'd like, I would appreciate it.