A/N: This started off as a simple little bout of inspiration and has grown into much more than that. I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. The writing, however, I do own. This first chapter is more of an introduction, as it more or less just recounts the fall and the immediate happenings thereafter. Chapter 1 is heavily inspired by this image (25).(media).(tumblr).(c)(o)(m)/tumblr_lxtm23SkYW1qzcw37o1_ (please remove parentheses to see) by weavile over at tumblr, for which I take no credit.
He can pinpoint the moment his life had begun to spiral. It had been such an unremarkable day for John Watson until that point.
The sun had been shining, not particularly brightly, but it also wasn't a rainy day or even cloudy day by any means. He'd fallen asleep in St. Bart's hospital (relatively normal for Sherlock's flatmate), and he hadn't dreamed the night before, not even once. Completely average, completely mundane, completely unremarkable. And yet John can remember it all in painfully clear detail. A coat that isn't his is draped over his shoulders, and blood that isn't his is draped over the concrete. He remembers it all.
He remembers waking up to his phone ringing. A voice telling him Mrs. Hudson had been shot—that's when it happened. That's the point everything fell apart. He remembers everything that was said between him and Sherlock—the words "You machine" echo through his mind like some sort of demented chant. The anxious cab ride back to Baker St, the way his leg was bouncing, the number of times he'd asked the cabbie, "Can we hurry up?" (which happened to be twelve). It's all there. His mind runs into 221 Baker St after himself, sees the way Mrs. Hudson is standing—perfectly normal. Perfectly alive. Altogether very perfect. He'd scared her, gave her a fright when he'd ran in, but that was the worst she'd had for some time. She was by no means shot. John remembers—experiences, even now—the confusion of why he'd gotten that call and the sudden realization when Mrs. Hudson mentioned Sherlock in passing. As quickly as he'd gone into the flat, he remembers leaving the flat. The almost-as-anxious cab ride back again to St. Bart's. The thirteen times he'd asked the cabbie, "Can we hurry up?"
Sherlock's phone call as the cab comes to a stop nearly a block away, how eerily perfectly timed it was. It makes sense now, in hindsight, that Sherlock watched the cab pull up. The exact tone in his voice, how it only took a few words before he was begging John to follow his instructions.
The way his voice broke under the weight of the word, "Please."
"Okay, there." He remembers stopping dead in his tracks. "Turn around-" his shoulder leads and he turns to see "-I'm on the rooftop." His heart is stopped for a moment, time slows down, as John realizes just what this suggests.
Sherlock Holmes, accused of being a fraud and a criminal, is standing on the edge of the roof of St. Bart's hospital.
About to jump.
And John is his last phone call.
"Oh, God," he mutters before Sherlock explains that he can't come down, so they'll just have to do "it" like this. Whatever "it" is.
"What's going on?" he asks, and it echos. He hears it twice, but the second time it's not him asking.
His mind jolts him back to reality—the reality that's right in front of him. He's been swallowed up by his memories. There are sirens flashing and blaring, people walking around and talking about how the once-great Sherlock Holmes is...
How many hours has it been? It's dark now. It wasn't dark before.
John doesn't even know how lost he looks as he glances around the scene, his eyes widened somewhat, eyebrows turned up in the middle, tears still in his eyes or otherwise caked to his cheeks.
A uniformed man walks up to him and holds his hand out expectantly before saying something. It doesn't immediately process in John's mind, so the man thrusts his hand out more firmly and says something about a... a boat? No. A throat? Certainly not. A loat? … Is that even a word?
"Let him have the coat, officer," a familiar voice instructs the uniformed man. Oh. He was asking for Sherlock's coat.
The man goes to argue, "But, Detective Lestrade it's evid-"
"He's been through enough," Lestrade explains, watching John carefully. John turns to try to thank him, but the Detective-Inspector just offers a small, evidently-forced smile and goes back to his work, leaving John only to his memories.
"An apology."
What for?
"It's all true."
But it's not. It can't be. John knows this. He knows it's not true. Knows that the press is lying—that Moriarty was lying—that Richard Brook is not real. He remembers his conversation with Mycroft—that Mycroft knowingly told Moriarty all these things. Mycroft knows he's real. He's real. Moriarty is real. He is. He is. He is.
"What?" he asks.
"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." Sherlock looks away—glancing behind him—why? The thought is gone as soon as it's there.
"Why are you saying this?" he asks the first thought on his tongue, leaving the rest as of yet unspoken. Why is he lying like this? Why does he feel the need?
Who's put him up to this?
What are they threatening?
Is it really worth it?
"I'm a fake." God, the way he says it. It hurts even John for Sherlock to say this—true or not. And it's not.
"Sherlock!" He wants to tell him to stop. To step back off the edge. To think, for God's sake, think!
"The newspapers were right all along." He thinks he can hear tears in Sherlock's voice. Tears. Actual tears. "I want you to tell Lestrade." No. "I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson-" No. "-and Molly." Certainly not. "In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you-" He can't be asking this of him. He just can't. "-that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." He's had enough now, and what he's been wanting to voice finally comes.
"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met—the first time we met," he stumbles over his words, emphasizing, "you knew all about my sister, right?" Any other day it would seem silly that he's trying to convince Sherlock Holmes of his own brilliance.
"Nobody could be that clever."
"You could." The response is out before John even realizes he's said it, but it's true. It's there. If anybody could be that clever, it's him. John knows this, has faith in it.
And it makes Sherlock laugh—he laughs. It's the most relieving sound John can imagine in that moment. It's hope. A tiny breath of hope for John that maybe Sherlock won't jump. Maybe he won't—no. He isn't going to. Sherlock is going to be fine, and John isn't going to lose his best friend. He laughed. John's jaw sets with determination.
But the hope doesn't last.
"I researched you." No. "Before we met, I discovered everything that I could-" No. "to impress you." No. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."
But there were times that John knows all too well, times that Sherlock made deductions that had nothing to do with cases, deductions that had no research. His schoolmate who'd gone around the world twice in one month—Sherlock couldn't have known about that. Anderson and Donovan, that first night 18 months ago—Sherlock couldn't have known about that. The driver from the boomerang incident—that had nothing to do with Moriarty.
"No," he says aloud. "All right, stop it now." He sounds like a child—he feels helpless like a child. If he can't convince Sherlock to walk away of his own accord, he'll just have to go up there and pull him down. So he starts toward the hospital.
"No," Sherlock immediately says, "stay exactly where you are. Don't move."
Fearful that his friend might do something John will regret, he steps back and puts a hand up in a signal of surrender. "All right," he concedes.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me." He's asking John to... watch him? Something so simple?"Please, will you do this for me?" His voice cracks again, and it is what concerns John the most.
"Do what?"
"This phone call, it's, uhm... It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
No. No, this... This isn't happening.
John snaps back to reality—to the present. The street is even darker than it was the last time he woke from his reverie, and it takes him a moment before he realizes it's because everyone else has gone, and there's no police lights or cars. He's left there, all alone, only Sherlock's coat giving him any comfort, and it feels so wrong to be wearing the detective's coat. But he doesn't take it off. He can't. It's all he has left except for the blood on the pavement, and John will never be capable of seeing that—not ever—so he just pulls the coat tighter around him, wishing that he was not the one wearing the coat. It's too long for him, too broad in the shoulders. He doesn't have the cheekbones to pull it off. It's too dark, too bright and brilliant and...
He shudders as his phone rings in his pocket—he hasn't received a call or a text at all since the jump.
"You coming home tonight, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks weakly on the other end of the phone. John stays silent. "You really ought to come home. I-I can make you some tea. Biscuits." His silence continues. "Please, dear. Come on home."
"Later," he says, and his voice is thick, and it cracks, so he clears his throat and licks his parched lips. "I promise."
"Okay... You know, I can't bear to lose both of you..." He wants to laugh at how sweet he is, but he just nods. "It's hard... Being alone in times like this."
And still it takes him a thought or two before he understands she can't hear him nod. "Okay, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be fine. Take care." And he hangs up before she can say anything else.
He has to pull the phone away from his ear. He wants to be able to talk to Sherlock face to face, for Sherlock to see every part of his expression. He can't deal with this. This is not how John handles conflict. But, no, he can't lose Sherlock. Not now. Not like this. "Leave a note when?" he says into the phone, forcing it back against his ear.
"Goodbye, John."
Those are his last words. That's the last time John Watson hears the voice of Sherlock Holmes.
He begs, "No, don't." He remembers watching helplessly as Sherlock tossed the phone aside, eliminating John's only communication with the man. He couldn't hear himself, but he knew he was screaming, "Sherlock!" He had to try. He had to at least try.
He wished he'd tried harder.
Sherlock stepped off the edge of Saint Bart's, and the next thing John said was in a whisper; "Sherlock."
"Goodbye, John," repeats in the doctor's mind, and he forces himself to blink back to the present.
There's a man standing there, with his hands folded behind his back.
John looks over at the form slowly, black dress shoes lead to long, black trousers secured with a black leather belt.
"Goodbye, John," echoes in his mind.
The black trousers lead to a white dress shirt that frankly should be re-tailored, outlined by a black jacket.
"Goodbye, John."
The white dress shirt lands just below an unmistakeable face, cheekbones, hair, with eyes focused on the doctor.
"Goodbye, John."
To cover the entire form is a long, black coat, with the collar popped.
"Hello, John."