One Last Choice
Sherlock stood on that rooftop, lying to the one person he held closest of all, and he realized that he did have a heart. He could feel it breaking. Sherlock/John. Spoilers 2x03.
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The second of my Reichenbach Fall stories/ficlets. This one is deeper than the last one I posted, more focused on the actual events of THE SCENE. And seriously, if you haven't seen it, BACK OFF. I've included actual lines of dialogue in here so there is absolutely NO MISSING the spoilers. So don't read it if you haven't watched the episode!
Title was taken from a line in The Fray's "How to Save a Life," though the song in no way effected the writing of the story - chose the title afterward.
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It was all according to plan. Granted, not everything had gone quite the way he'd hoped, but that didn't mean it was ending any different than he'd predicted.
He didn't feel so broken by Moriarty's death. He'd expected to. This was the man who'd played the great game with him; forcing them both to work to the extremes. This was the man who'd taunted Sherlock and made him doubt even himself. And yet, his death did not hurt the way Sherlock thought it would. Instead, he felt an emotion he had not felt in over three months; an emotion he rarely felt in his entire life.
Fear.
John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade.
Everything had to pan out now. He had to do it. He had to jump. There was only one thing he had to do first. It was the one thing he'd planned on doing from the beginning; the thing he'd been ready to do when he asked for a moment alone from Moriarty before he realized the truth - a truth that made him so relieved, because maybe he didn't have to go through with his plan. He didn't have to make that phone call.
Then Moriarty died.
Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the most important number in his phone just as the cab pulled up. He knew John would show up right when Sherlock needed him. He always did. He was the one person Sherlock always turned to, always trusted; the one that never failed or disappointed him. What Sherlock was about to do to this man - this wonderful, unique man...
Sherlock's chest ached and he frowned, not understanding, as he lifted his phone to his ear.
"Hello."
"John." His voice was strained. He didn't understand. Why? Why was this so hard to do?
"Hey, Sherlock, are you ok?"
Get him into position. "Turn around and walk back the way you came." Every step John took, every moment closer to the end, Sherlock's chest constricted further and further. It hurt.
"No. I'm coming in-"
"Just do as I ask. Please," he half begged, surprising himself.
His body shook. He ached all over and he didn't know why. What was this feeling?
"I-I...," he stuttered, and held his eyes tightly together for a brief moment. "I can't come down...so w-we'll just have to do it like this." He couldn't stop his stuttering; couldn't stop the dreaded emotions welling up in himself.
"What's going on?"
Deep breath. "An apology." It felt like all of Sherlock's time on Earth, every possible road he could have taken, all coalesced into this one moment. For that moment, he couldn't hear anything, smell anything, do anything. All of his senses were locked on John. Only John. Then the moment passed, the world rushed back to him, and he inhaled deeply.
Time to lie.
Every word was harder than the last. Every lie burned him worse. But he had to make John see; had to make him believe it. In these moments before the end, he had to spare John. Dear John, who cared so much for the world and the people in it. Doctor John, always trying to fix the wrongs he saw every day. Sherlock had to make John hate him. He at least had to try. He had to push John away.
A crack. Unbelievably, but unquestionably, he felt it. A crack deep in his chest.
Sherlock's vision turned blurry, his voice wavered and cracked. The pain was terrible, shaking him to his core, but he stood firm. A single tear slipped down his cheek.
"Ok. Ok. Sherlock," John said quickly, and Sherlock pulled himself together as best he could, listening to the sound of that voice. "The first time we met...The first time we met," he emphasized," you knew all about my sister."
"Nobody could be that clever."
"You could."
Such conviction in two words. They were like an arrow, deadly sharp, that dug deep into him. Sherlock laughed and couldn't stop his tears. They burned his cheeks. He'd never cried before in his life, but now he couldn't stop.
"I researched you."
And suddenly Sherlock was undeniably aware that he had a heart, just like any man. He knew because he could feel it breaking as he tore it, still beating, from his own chest. He was breaking John, and so breaking himself. The realization was so staggering that he almost fell off the roof right then.
His heart was breaking.
He'd set out to undo John...and he'd undone himself. This lie, this final lie, was killing him.
John moved and Sherlock panicked. He needed John right where he was. He needed to see John and he needed John to see him. "Keep your eyes fixed on me," he ordered, his tone as determined as ever. "Please," it trembled, "will you do this for me?"
"Do what?"
"This phone call, it's...um...my note." How long had his heart beat for another man? How long had it been in John's care; growing and learning? How long had it been since John had unraveled him? He could barely speak. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
"Leave a note when?" John's voice shook as much as Sherlock's did, and Sherlock stopped breathing.
Did John's heart beat for his in return?
Sherlock shut his eyes. Everything was going according to plan...everything except this. But this had to happen. Sherlock died or John died. There was no way around it. And Sherlock's bleeding heart cried out loud in his ears, pulsing to the beat of another's heart.
"Goodbye, John." The phone snapped shut and slid from his fingers.
This had to happen. He had to do this. He had to.
Sherlock took a deep breath.
He stepped off the edge.
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fin.