"You need to tell him you're alive."
You stood before your brother, a slightly too see through sheet wrapped around your naked form. Mycroft looked out of place in your new apartment, awkwardly shuffling his feet.
You knew without any deductions who he was talking about.
"Why? You were so keen on me leaving him alone just a short while ago. Why the sudden change of heart?"
Mycroft refused to meet your eyes. "That was before I knew he was dying."
Your voice caught in your throat and you mentally slapped yourself when you let your emotions get ahead of you. "Dying?" Fear unlike you had ever experienced before gripped your chest; you had thought you would have been able to see him again after your mission was over.
"Well, abusing his body more like. He barely eats, barely sleeps, and very rarely leaves his apartment. He talks to nobody when he does come out; he just goes to the store and goes right back home. He's stopped going to his therapist, stopped taking his anti-depressants. Not even Mrs. Hudson can get him to talk. It's like he just gave up Sherlock."
"Yeah, well, whose fault is that?" You say bitterly, walking to the window. Mycroft flinched; he had told you a week after your so called "death" that he was responsible for giving Moriarty your life's story, for destroying the life you had made in the first place; you had to forgive him for it.
He let you think for a long time at the window before he came up behind you and grasped your shoulder.
"If you don't do it for me, or yourself Sherlock, do it for John. He'll die if you don't."
You whip around and face him then, face red. "You think I didn't want to Mycroft?! That every day since I left I didn't want to turn around and go back, send a simple text saying that I was alive? That I haven't stayed up for nights on end because every time I close my eyes I see him gaping at me in disbelief as I tower on the edge of St. Bart's getting ready to jump? That I didn't see him, didn't hear him at my grave as he pleaded for me to still be alive, and I just had to stand ther-" You take a deep breath then to get back hold of your emotions and continue. "That even now, when I miss him so and would give anything just to make things right again, that I love him too much to do that to him? Because I know seeing me now would kill him just as much as it did when I fell?"
Mycroft looked at you in shock, his mouth open in a comical, fish-like expression. "He was my best friend Mycroft, " you whisper now, "but I'd rather him hate me in death then hate me in life."
And you turn and walk away from him, back into your bedroom, and he's still standing there long after you slam your door shut, his heart in his throat.
-
You try your best to forget your conversation with your brother the following day, and you almost manage to until your phone beeps, alerting you of a text. Intrigued, you pull it out; who would be texting you now? Anyone who knew you were still alive was nobody to be texting you.
You're shocked at who it is.
John.
You shouldn't be surprised really though, he texted you for a whole month after your suicide; but that was almost a year ago. What could he want now?
Mycroft came by today. He was acting all funny. Kept talking about you, which was weird because whenever I tried to bring you up before he tried to change the topic. He kept asking me if I was alright, and that if I was still texting you. How could he know about that I wonder... But maybe I'm not alright, you know? Twelve months isn't really a long time in actuality, but in a way it seems like a lifetime. I know how you were about sentiment, but I can't help but think about you, can't seem to move on. So if I can't forget you, maybe I should just join you instead...
No, you thought, he can't, he won't. But he thinks you already have, you realized; he doesn't know that you're still alive.Your thoughts are interrupted again by your phone.
So even though I know you'll never get this Sherlock, this is my note. After all, that's what people do in this situation huh, leave a note? Doesn't matter that the reader has to sit by and watch as his best friend kills himself, just as long the person is free...Fear and guilt grips at your heart. Mycroft was right; you needed to tell John you were alive.
Before it was too late.
-
You barely registered your flight to your old apartment, your thoughts too flooded with John.
What if he wasn't here? But then, where Did he already go through with it? With what? Jumping off a building would be too cliché, so would using a knife. He's too afraid of pills to take them, guns are too alerting... Damn it! Nothing makes any sense!
You flew up the stairs and skidded across the landing, ripped the door open.
"John!"
He was sitting on the couch, staring at his gun, tears streaming down his face. He leaped up though when he saw you.
As a reflex the gun was pointed at your head.
You stopped short in your tracks. "John..." you breathed.
"Who are you?!" He shouted, almost hysterically. "How do you know my name?"
You realized in horror that he didn't recognize you. Whether it was because he was so shocked to see you or because of your different hair style and changed choice of clothes, you couldn't tell. All you knew was that if you couldn't convince him soon that you were indeed Sherlock Holmes, you were going to very dead very quickly.
"John," you speak to him as if you're speaking to a wounded animals that's about to attack you-in fact, that's what you were doing.
"It's me, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."
His eyes widen at this. He took an involuntary step back, shaking his head. "No…Sherlock's dead. He's dead. I saw it happen. His head hit the pavement, there was blood…He had no pulse." His back hit the wall. His hands were starting to shake violently, causing the gun to fall to the floor; the guard must still have been on though because it didn't go off. He just continued to stare at you, all the while slowly retreating into himself.
You took a step forward. "John…"
Fear took over his eyes and he grasped frantically for the gun. "Stay away! Please! Just stay away."
"Alright," you say quickly, calmingly. "Alright. I'll just stay where I am."
You stand there in silence for a long while listening to John taking deep breathes in order to calm himself. It must have done the trick because the gun eventually fell again from his lax fingers and his emotionless eyes locked with yours again. "You look like him in a way I guess. But if you're really Sherlock then you'll have no problem convincing me you are indeed him. If not, then just kill me and leave now; I will not fight you."
Your heart constricted at that; he looked so hopeless sitting there on the floor, his shoulders slumped and his mask gone. But it was his eyes that made him so sad, they were void of life and drive; he honestly didn't care if he died, you could tell. You had to convince him otherwise.
"Okay…" you say and take a deep breath. "Your full name is John Hamish Watson. You served in Afghanistan as an army doctor; you were shot in the shoulder and sent back home where you proceeded to develop a limp in your right leg. Your sister's name is Harriet, Harry to most because she is a lesbian. You worry about her because of her constant drinking. I first met you at St. Bart's when Stamford introduced us; you needed a cheaper place to live and I wanted someone to share my flat with. Our first case was "A Study in Pink," or so it was called in your blog. You saved my life when the cabbie-"
He cut you off then, getting up and coming to stand in front of you. "You could have found all this out online. Sherlock Holmes was a real publicized guy. You're just an assassin that looks somewhat like him that did a lot of research and knows someone with a lot of money and power."
You just gape at him. He really didn't believe you.
"So if you're going to kill me, kill me already." He whispers close to your ear. "I have nothing to fear."
You could think of nothing to do, nothing to say to convince him. You just stare at each other for a long time. It's when you notice the short distance from your bodies, that's it's the closest you've been together for the past year, that it finally hits you.
"I don't have friends John—"
His eyes widened.
"—I only have one."
His mouth goes slightly open, his voice forming nonsense words, his body swaying dangerously.
"Sherlock." He finally breathed. "Sherlock. It really is you."
Suddenly his legs could support him no longer. It was only your fast reflexes that saved him from face planting onto the ground.
"I've got you." You whisper in his ear as you lower the both of you onto the floor. "It's okay John. I've got you now."
After a while, he sat up enough to wrap his arms around you and burry his head into your shoulder. "Sher-Sherlock." He gasped and you felt his wet tears soak into your shirt. You tighten your hold.
"I've missed you John."
He laughed pathetically, his body shaking. "You don't believe in sentiment Sherlock."
"No, you're right, it's too human of a thing. But do you know what John?" You pull back so you could look him in the eyes; they were vibrant again, full of life. You smile at his child-like look.
"That's alright. I'm okay with that."
He looks at you quizzically.
"Because it's you that makes me human."