I just watched the final episode of Sherlock, season 2. And I must say, this is like a treasure trove for plot bunnies, though the number of Reichenbach fics I have seen so far is rather disappointing.
Cue me writing my own Reichenbach fic.
This is written by me, and also edited by my bestest buddy Beersmoo. It's time we both made a contribution to the fandom that is Sherlock isn't it? Nod your heads now. She helped me angst this baby up to Anne Frank proportions. Thanks (wo)man!
Though I do love me some slash, this fic doesn't seem to have any. Yet. Yet. Should I expand this or just turn my other bunnies into their own stories? I NEED YOUR OPINION, a.k.a PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW. I know what you Sherlockians are capable of, I've seen it myself. =.=
Warnings: This fic can be a little sad. And there are some swears, so it's not very clean either.
Enjoy!
The goddamned cab finally arrives after what seems like forever and John pulls out the wad of bills-he didn't bother to count-that was stuffed in his pockets and thrusts them in front, letting the disgruntled cabby pick up the bills that fall from his cupped hands. Despite his initial haste to get out and find Sherlock, John gets out calmly (or as calmly as he could when his entire body seems buzzing with adrenaline) and closes, not slams the door.
John has no idea where to go from here, and if he did he would have run the second he was out of that cab, find and possibly save Sherlock, bring the idiot back to 221B and have everything back to normal. They would have a cup of tea or two, John would lecture Sherlock on his stupidity, Sherlock would get bored and then they would go on another case and he would chase Sherlock everywhere again.
John heads right and picks up his phone, which has been buzzing in his jeans since he got out. He hopes to God that it's Sherlock, or Lestrade, or even Moriarty that calls. He doesn't know what he's thinking, really, he just wants a clue as to where that tall pale man could be now so that he could be there too.
"Hello?" He asks, and begins increasing his pace, from a brisk walk to a jog that borders on running.
A deep and familiar voice replies, "John," and John feels so relieved that he doesn't know what to say, Where are you or What the hell is happening now or Come on, let's just go back to Baker Street and figure out what to do next from there, but he settles for simply asking, "Hey Sherlock, you okay?"
"Turn around and walk back the way you came from," Sherlock commands.
"No I'm coming in-"
"Just. Do. As I ask," Sherlock pleads, and he sounds so desperate that John can't quite believe his ears. He stops dead in his tracks.
"Please." Okay, John knows that things are serious when Sherlock begs you for something. He quickly obeys, swiveling around and walking back the way he came.
"Where?" John asks, and his curious tone is laced with concern and worry. He turns his head left and right, looking everywhere for a sign of dark curls or a darker trench coat with an upturned collar or a blue scarf, just something that looked like Sherlock.
"Stop there."
"Sherlock-"
"Okay look up, I'm on the rooftop." Why does his voice sound so dead? John feels something settle in his stomach as he dreads what he will see when he turns his head upwards, and hesitates for a fraction of a second before doing so.
The first thing that comes out of his mouth is a cross between "No" and "Oh god".
John blinks several times to clear his vision, as if what he's seeing is just some dirt in his eye that's in the shape of a man in a coat. The worry that had never really quite left begins to morph into panic, and he only knows that because he can feel the phone shaking slightly on his ear.
All of John's senses are focused on Sherlock: Sherlock's voice coming out of the phone (oh God why does he sound so final about what he says), Sherlock's silhouette against the afternoon sun (why are you standing on the edge get away from it already).
"I-I can't come down so we'll-we'll just have to do it like this." Like what? Like what, Sherlock!
John's first attempt at speaking doesn't produce any sound, just him mouthing the word. So he tries again.
"What's going on?"
"An apology."
Feeling sick that after all they've been through and he of all people is the one to reduce him to swallowing his pride, Johm thinks, no, you don't need to apologize for anything, anything wrong you've done I'll forget it all as long you just get off that fucking edge and come down right now-
Sherlock's lips open with a barely audible pop, but to John it's as loud as a gunshot.
"It's all true."
"What?"
"Everything they said about me; I invented Moriarty."
John strains to hear Sherlock over the blood that furiously roars through his ears. He could've sworn that Sherlock said he invented Moriarty, and surely Sherlock wasn't as big a git to play such a sick joke, to actually say that while standing like a tree rooted to that ledge.
But he did, and John realizes that he has to respond sooner or later. He steps back a bit more as if doing it would literally help him see the big picture or something.
"…Why are you saying this?"
"I'm a fake."
The words seem spit out, and not for the first time since this conversations started John wishes that he were close enough to see Sherlock's face right now. He can almost hear the pain and effort it took to say those words and he wishes he could give something to have Sherlock take back those god awful words.
"Sherlock…"
"The newspapers were right all along." John's heart sinks to the pit of his stomach, to join everything else that's already residing there. At the same time, he feels anger rise up within him, but he resists the urge to yell Sherlock to cut the crap because he's still on that very ledge, so piteously far away from safety. When he comes down and John is absolutely sure that the prat is safe and sound, he'll give him a huge slap and berate him for worrying him and-
After a brief pause that feels like hours but could have only been seconds, Sherlock continues. "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 for my own purposes-
"Okay shut up Sherlock," John mutters, because he just can't keep the words inside anymore. "Shut up. The first time we met, the first time. We met. You knew all about my sister right?"
"Nobody could be that clever." Sherlock deadpans.
"You could." John doesn't know anymore if he's trying to convince Sherlock or himself.
Sherlock lets out a breathless chuckle, as though he finds John's statement funny. John might have even believed it if it didn't sound so hollow.
The muscles near the crook of John's elbow are beginning to ache, as they are wont to do when being made to support an arm holding a phone for a prolonged time. John shifts the position of his elbow, but his phone never leaves his ear the entire time.
The next few words that come out of that bulky black phone causes what's left of John's world to shatter.
"I researched you."
The words are spoken in a tone of disbelief. As though Sherlock himself couldn't believe he was saying that.
John purses his lips in an effort to stop himself from screaming out. In frustration, in fear. He listens closely, waiting for Sherlock to continue explaining what has to be an elaborate lie, because he didn't think his heart could take much more.
"When we met, I discovered everything I could about you. To impress you," a small pause, "it's a trick."
John shakes his head in denial, and he closes his eyes, and he tries to will time to stop, just for a bit.
He can't take this in.
"No," John protests, "alright, stop it now." as he begins to make his way across the street.
"No, stay exactly where you are!" Even when every fiber of his being is telling him that it is wrong to do so, John obeys. Because no matter when, or where, Sherlock could tell him to stay in the path of an oncoming bullet and John would obey.
John resists the urge to cry when he steps back.
"Don't move!" Oh, how he hates himself for making Sherlock sound so desperate to make John do what he says.
"Alright." Despite himself, John finds his hand in front of him, fingers splayed. He hears harsh pants on the other end of the line, and just barely makes out a tiny arm also outstretched.
John wonders, if he wished hard enough, that his hand would meet Sherlock's.
The next command comes, and it is said in a surprisingly steady tone.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me."
"Please," the sweet, sweet baritone that he never tires of hearing finally cracks as it pleads, "can you do this for me?"
"Do what?" Anything, anything at all if you will just PLEASE step away from that ledge.
"This phone call, John. It's my note." Sherlock sounds calm once more, as if he was finally going to stop pulling this awful, this awful…
John's mind is racing. Note? Why a note? A note for what? He knows one possibility that is staring him right between the eyes but absolutely refuses to acknowledge it. It isn't any easier when Sherlock's sentence holds an air of finality.
Oh god, oh god ohgodohgod no please he doesn't not that kind of note
"It's what people do, don't they?"
NO
"Leave a note."
John has to bring the phone away from his ear now because he needs to shake his head again. He still can't accept it, he just can't, the great Sherlock Holmes does not do this. His flatmate does not do this. His partner does not do this.
But apparently his best friend does.
"Leave a note when?" He knows himself that the question is stupid and wonders if Sherlock is thinking, no, scratch that, he knows Sherlock is thinking that too. But he has to buy more time, maybe if he can get Sherlock to just listen-
"Goodbye, John."
"No- don't-" Why are you stepping backwards, John? Go forwards, forwards god damn you-
Sherlock drops his phone and you can hear it clatter to the roof on your end of the line.
"Stop-SHERLOCK!"
Then Sherlock leans forw-
The dark clad figure rushes towards the ground at an alarming speed, limbs flailing around while the head just continues to stare down.
"Sherlock," John mutters, staring with unseeing eyes as the body descends closer to the ground.
Closer, closer.
A soft thump is heard as the mass of bones, flesh, clothing and everything that was SHERLOCK reaches the pavement but to John it is not the sound of a man falling to the ground.
It's the sound of something precious to him being lost forever.
thump
Done :D
