A/N: So, fell asleep upside down on a couch about a week and a half after watching Reichenbach, and when I woke up, this was in my head. Typed it up, meant to post it, but then FanFiction wasn't working, and then it was but I lost my USB, and then I was super busy...
Anyways. Here it is. Crossover, as I said, with "On A Pale Horse" by Piers Anthony and Sherlock. I own neither.
One last thing. Review, please! It means the world to me!
Sherlock Holmes could not see a way out. Moriarty was dead, and he needed to protect his friends. He knew how. But still. He swallowed and allowed himself one last dignity. He called John and left a note:
I don't care what Moriarty says.
I need to do this.
Goodbye, John.
And then he was falling. There was the concrete-
Gentle hands lifted him away from the rubble that had once been his body. He felt himself carried a short distance from the mess and set on his feet.
"Quite a fall, there,"
Thanatos stood there, watching him, draped in black. There was the scythe, and there, behind him, was a bone-white Ferarri.
"It's time to go. You don't get a second chance, not even you, Sherlock Holmes,"
Sherlock nodded numbly and followed him into the car.
Just as they turned the corner at the end of the street, Thanatos, or Zane, as he'd introduced himself, pressed a button on his wrist and time started up again.
Oh, GOD no!
It was John's voice. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder. John was watching them wheel his body into the morgue. And then he understood.
He needed a second chance. What kind of friend was he, to any of them, if he would just die and leave nothing, no way to give them his love and esteem? Because in the end, if he left, he would always just be The Jumper. He would scar everyone who knew him.
And he couldn't let himself be the reason they stopped being the people he would die for.
Sherlock leapt across the seat and into Thanatos, surprising him. He scuffled with him for a moment, got what he needed, and fled over his lap out the driver's side door and onto the pavement outside, hitting shoulder first as the car sped away. If he's still had a proper body, that would have hurt like hell and probably killed him again. He had to hurry. He didn't have much time. Then he had to smile as he glanced down at the three-knob watch in his hand. No. He was wrong. Time was all he had left.
He selected the knob he had seen Zane use, and pressed it. It turned green. And the world stopped. Sherlock glanced around. Interesting, yes, but not useful. He left it there and moved on to the next one. Aha! Time restarted with a ripple of protest, because it was still being held in stasis, and then it grudgingly began to move backwards. Sherlock poked the first button and strapped it onto his wrist. Thank god he hadn't killed Death. He had more important things to do than collect souls. Things like live.
And so back he spun. This morning. Good. He paused time and headed for the flat. Back to bed. Relive this and make it right. You get one shot, Sherlock, he told himself. Make it good.
And make it good he did. All day, carrying the weight of what he had to do on his shoulders, he shifted first one thing, then the other. Set things in motion. Set people on a different course.
Now here he was on top of the building. There was John, running at him, then backing away, trying oh so hard to talk him out of it. Sherlock teared up a little at that. If only he knew.
I'm a fake… In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you.
It's just a magic trick.
Goodbye, John.
And then he was falling. There was the concrete-
Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this...
John nodded, then turned on his heel like the soldier he was and strode off. Sherlock blinked. Turned around.
Hello, Thanatos.
Yes, I apologize.
So it will work?
Very good.
Oh, not that long, I should think. He'll see me again.
Here you are. Not a scratch.
Sherlock watched Thanatos drive off in that bone-white Ferrari smiling. People were so scared of time, so scared of death. But at the end of the day, he, Sherlock Holmes, had bested Time the Whore herself. Who said time couldn't be rewritten once read?
Who said there was no such thing as second chances?