Disclaimer: Ooooooh, this is going to be FUN! So, Sherlockians, I made the horrible, atrocious mistake of rewatching... wait for it... THE REICHENBACH FALL! I'm a masochist, what can I say. So, after rewatching said episode, I watched the phone call on top of Saint Bart's FOUR TIMES! Gah, why? So, I did this, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I don't own Sherlock. Please, forgive me.
"Sherlock, are you OK?" John asked, walking towards the hospital. No. I'm not.
"Turn around, and come back the way you came," he ordered in a dead tone. Best block out emotions. It would be less painful for John, less painful for himself.
"No, I'm coming in," John argued.
"Just..." Sherlock took a breath. "Do as I ask. Please." He rarely said please. Not to anyone but John, in any situation but this situation. Now, in these coming moments, he would say what needed to be said. No matter how much it killed them inside.
"Where?" John asked, walking back towards where he started.
"Stop there," Sherlock told him.
"Sherlock-" John started in agitation.
"OK, look up," Sherlock interrupted. There would be measly exchanges, not now. This needed to be done, and it needed to be done as briefly and harmlessly as possible. "I'm on the rooftop." John looked up, and Sherlock could practically hear the blood rushing out of his face.
"Oh god," he muttered. Sherlock was suddenly finding it very hard to breathe evenly. Damn it Sherlock, don't lose control.
"I-I-I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this," he said, and he forced himself to keep the trembling out of his voice.
"What's going on?" John demanded.
"An apology," Sherlock answered. The words stuck in his throat, but he managed o push them out.
"What?" Sherlock had never believed in a higher power, in a God, but he found himself praying silently. I can't say this to him. Stop me from saying this.
"Everything they said about me," he breathed. And now, he would fulfill Moriarty's final wish. Sherlock glanced down at the psychopath's rapidly cooling body, at the blood pooling on the stone as his pale eyes stared up, wide and empty. "I invented Moriarty."
"Why are you saying this?" John asked, hurt plain in his voice. Sherlock, much to his surprise, found tears falling down his face, white-hot on his icy cheeks. He glanced at Moriarty's body again. Don't make me do this, he begged silently. Please, I'm begging you, whoever is the higher power, please don' make do this! But he had to. No matter how much it was going to tear the two of them.
"I'm a fake." His voice cracked on the last word.
"Sherlock-" John began, but Sherlock couldn't let him continue. His resolve was too fragile as it was. If John began to try and persuade him not to do this, to fall, it was all too possible Sherlock would listen. And then the people he loved would die.
"The newspapers were right all along." His voice trembled, dipping up and down with emotion he didn't know he had. "I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you! That I created Moriarty." Another deep, shuddering breath. "For my own purposes."
"OK, shut up Sherlock, shut up!" John said viciously. "The first time we met- the first time we met- you knew all about my sister, right?" John was clever, Sherlock would give him that. But if this was a battle of wills, John Watson would not win.
"Nobody could be that clever," Sherlock retorted, his voice still slightly tearful. There was a short pause.
"You could." Sherlock laughed, a new round of tears and barely repressed sobs coming on. Oh John. John, forgive me. I'm so sorry, I never wanted this.
"I researched you." If John believed that lie, he would believe anything. "Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you." The words were thorns in his mouth, daggers twisting into him as he struggled to force them out. "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."
"No." John's stubborn refusal was doing him no favors now. "Alright stop it now." He stared walking towards St. Bart's.
"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move!" Desperation tinged Sherlock's voice, an emotion he wasn't faking. He wasn't doing this, this display of sentiment for show. He was doing because there were so many things he couldn't keep bottled up anymore.
"Alright," John said in a placating tone. Sherlock kept his hand outstretched, as if his yearning to tell John the truth was physically manifesting itself.
"Keep you eyes fixed on me!" Sherlock pleaded, voice cracking, splintering. "Please, will you do this for me?"
"Do what?" John asked, fear clear in his tone. Sherlock swallowed.
"This phone call," he began. "It's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they?" Sherlock felt as if something was tearing him in two, the same way he was ripping John.
"Leave a note when?" Sherlock could hear the fear in John's voice, the absolute terror. It was time for the grand finale, for the curtain to fall.
"Goodbye John," he choked out.
"No. Don't-" Sherlock tossed his phone away before he had to suffer through John's plea. He was doing this for them. For the brother he pretended he hated who was always there for him. For the good, honest Detective Inspector who gave him purpose in a drug-hazed nightmare. For the kindly landlady who loved him like a mother that he would protect with his life. For the blogger/army doctor who was his world. Those were the people he loved.
Sherlock raised his arms and let himself fall.