Author notes: Trigger warning for suicide.
He had been getting the phone calls for nigh on a week now.
At first it had been static, and then a laugh. A cold laugh. One that had shaken him to the very marrow of his bones, a laugh he had hoped he would never hear again, that threw him back to the fall. Then, slowly, it had progressed on to small fragments of conversation, and the man on the other end of the phone seemed to know an awful lot about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Or rather the former Sherlock Holmes. For he had been dead for three months now. This hadn't stopped him from unearthing painful memories and gleefully retelling them to John, who found himself unable to stop listening, as if in some way he deserved this.
The man on the other phone named himself as Jim Moriarty, but that couldn't be possible, it had been all over the papers – he had died the same day that Sherlock had. But still, here he was, calling John. It sounded like him, it seemed like him, John could come to no other conclusion - for a while he had assumed Sherlock was also alive, but it became apparent this wasn't the case. He did not particularly care as to why Moriarty had survived, either. And so he had been calling for a week, taunting John. And, it seemed, so he would continue to do so until he had finished his work, he was not one to leave a job unfinished. John Watson wasn't sure just how long he had been entertaining the thought of committing suicide. It had been three months since he had witnessed his best friend's suicide, and it had been three long months for him – he had been on a leave of absence from work, and out of contact with many of his old friends. It seemed as if Jim Moriarty was intent upon making him commit the act.
It wasn't enough that John felt guilt for what had happened, no. It seemed as if Moriarty wanted to pile on even more, wanted to push John off an edge he was already teetering on. John had been entertaining an idea for quite some time now, it would be so easy, so so easy to just give in. He couldn't do this without Sherlock, he wanted to give in to those human emotions that Sherlock had so despised. Mycroft had, in the end been right. Caring was not a sensible thing to do; John had cared, he had visited the grave every week, hoping, nay praying, for a sign that his best friend was still alive. But all that greeted him now were dead flowers and cold marble.
Every night John dreamt of Sherlock. But not of the pleasant memories, no, he dreamt of the fall and the sickening crack of a man falling to his death, he dreamt of the look in Sherlock's eye as he had whispered goodbye, his arm reached out to hold John. He no longer had pleasant dreams; he dreamt of all the things he'd wanted to say but had been too scared to. And all the time, he wondered whether if he had confessed his feelings, his best friend would still be here. Maybe if -
if he'd told Sherlock just how much he meant, maybe then Sherlock wouldn't have jumped and maybe he would still be here, it was thoughts such as these that John entertained.
It was nearly five o'clock now, the usual time that Moriarty called in. It had been five o'clock every day now. A routine John had come to loathe, yet one he waited for anxiously.
On the first day Jim had just laughed, a high pitched cackle that John had instantly recognised. He had thrown up when he heard the voice, bile bitter in his throat, unable to forget the pool and St Bartholomew's, Sherlock's hand in his. And when he came back the man was still laughing. Laughing at him.
And on the second the man had whispered his name, his name, he had dared to dirty Sherlock's name. And it had made John angry, protective of a name that only he should have whispered like that, like a friend might.
And on the third and fourth days, Moriarty had spent a good half an hour reminding John of just how he had beaten them both, of just how Sherlock had died a coward, bragging about how Sherlock still tried to selfishly save himself. John hadn't hung up out of some cruel need to listen, though he hated himself even more for it, and afterwards he hadn't been able to stop crying. He felt even more ashamed for that, Sherlock had never been one for emotions.
On the fifth day Moriarty had told John it was his fault. And John had known it was true, and he had agreed with the psychopath. It was John's fault for not confessing his feelings, for not being there for Sherlock, for being hit by the bicycle as he ran towards his fallen friend. He had so many options that could have lead to Sherlock's survival.
And so Moriarty had continued for the past two days. Now there was an ache in John's chest that painkillers could not rid, one that penetrated deep into his bones, one that stayed with him, weighing him down as he slowly drowned. And with the ache was the constant, nagging doubt that he – a doctor – should have done something on the day, should have protected his best friend, should have been there for him. He should have done more than take a pulse, one that had fluttered and died underneath his fingers. John had been a useless colleague, a terrible friend, and he was nothing of the hero that Sherlock was.
Tears already stung at his eyes as he waited for the dreaded call, his eyes rimmed red and bloodshot from a day spent contemplating a fate he had tried to avoid. When the phone called out to him, he found himself picking it up without a second thought. Sherlock's gun was on the mantelpiece. The police had returned everything after the investigation, out of pity for John. He walked over to it as he answered.
"Yes?"
"Why hello there! What a surprise, you answering the phone like this."
John did not speak, he only swallowed and checked the chamber of the gun for any bullets. There was one left. That was his bullet, he had since decided; his bullet, one he had reserved for this moment. He had made up his mind. There was a large lump in his throat, he could feel it, it threatened to choke him and he tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry so he just stared out of the window, down at the road – Mrs Hudson was out at the café, and she would be back soon. He hated that she would be back to a corpse. He had written a note, it was on the fridge along with the groceries. He just couldn't do it any more.
"Today I have a very special story for you. It's the tale of the lovestruck doctor." there was a pause, probably more for the theatrics than anything. "You see, there was once a doctor, a lowly assistant, who fell in love with a man far too involved in his work for him to notice the small fry in his life. And this doctor pined and this doctor fawned, and made puppy-eyes and this doctor looked at the detective when he thought the other man wasn't looking." And there was another laugh, making John flinch with the sound that cut through like steel to the bone.
"And this detective harboured some feelings of his own, you know. The detective wanted to show off and so he took a little running jump because you see, he wanted to fly. But the silly old detective couldn't, he failed, he lost. The problem was that he lacked the one thing he needed. He lacked the support of a colleague and friend, he lacked the love that his only friend was so eager to hide. And that meant that the detective, his heart heavy, fell to the ground. Splat! Flat as a pancake, fancy that."
There was another pause, and a click as John pulled the revolver closer to him, pressing the cold iron to his temple. He squeezed his eyes shut, more to stop his tears from flowing than anything. Last night he had dreamed of Sherlock, but he had spoken with Moriarty's voice, and teased John about his feelings. John had woken in a cold sweat and the dream had been in the back of his mind ever since, the dream had been what spurred him on to write the note, he had given this outcome enough thought.
Moriarty wasn't going to stop. Sherlock wasn't here to stop him, and John was now too far gone to even try and fight back, he just swallowed everything that Moriarty told him without question. The gun barrel pressed a ring of gunpowder into his skin, it smelled like war and death to John, who had no good memories left of anything. They had all been poisoned. Moriarty had again paused, savouring the noises he could hear on the other side of the phone but soon he started up again.
"And you see, the doctor felt so much guilt for his feelings that he realised that it was all his fault! He should have been a better friend and he should have confessed his feelings to the detective whilst the detective was still alive, not at his grave. Silly old doc!" John opened his eyes and glanced across at the smiley face on the wall, too bright and yellow, then took a shuddery breath.
He pulled the trigger.
There was a bang, and smoke unfurled from the barrel, and blood coated the wall behind him and pain blossomed in his head and the phone fell to the floor – out of his outstretched hand and someone burst into the room, grappling for his wrist where they pulled at his jumper and checked his pulse.
There was a flash of white and then two cool grey eyes in his face.
Someone shouting his name and pulling him on to a stretcher, someone holding his cold hand as he was pushed in to the back of an ambulance. Someone again checking his pulse, amidst the protests of other medical staff trying to wire John up to transfusion machines, and then there was a whisper in his ear as he blinked once.
The blackness was creeping into his vision and he could barely make out the words, but the voice was Sherlock's. He knew that much. He blinked furiously and turned to the source of the sound, and there he was, there was his best friend, sitting there in the ambulance next to him – there was a slight transparency to Sherlock, but this did not bother John.
He blinked again and Sherlock was closer, directly over John, barely visible, holding his hand. A screaming Mrs Hudson was on the step, shouting after him, but he couldn't hear that either. He just turned towards Sherlock, pulling the hand closer and pressing his face to the skin. Rough callused skin. And his scarf, Sherlock was here, Sherlock was alive.
He blinked again, and smiled a little. Sherlock smelled like he always had, like tobacco and tea. And John blinked again, the dark in his vision spreading across even further as his breathing became shallow and his heart pumped hard, and he felt blood across his face warm and wet and sticky.
But none of that mattered because Sherlock was here. He grasped at the hand and stroked his knuckles, spluttering out small words that nobody could understand. His mouth was too clogged with blood.
And then he blinked again, and closed his eyes, a smile on his face. Someone shouted that they were losing him and somewhere a harsh beep shattered through his senses, and he felt dizzy, oh so dizzy, and everything was growing darker but he didn't mind, because he could feel Sherlock there next to him and he didn't pay attention to anything else. Everything grew darker, becoming so dark that there was a flash of white.
Sherlock paused and then pulled him up with a grunt.
"It's alright John, it's alright. I have you now."
John paused and fell forward into Sherlock's arms, and surprisingly the other man held him back. "I missed you John!" He whispered, closing his eyes with a sigh. John did not say anything, there was a strange ache in his head.
"Don't worry John I'll guide you. It's always hard for the first few days but you get used to it."
John paused, slightly dizzy, stars swimming in front of his eyes as he stumbled out of the ambulance. Sherlock turned around and wiped a handkerchief across the doctor's face, wiping the blood from his eyes. John mumbled something and Sherlock smiled, though the smile was sad. "I hadn't wanted you to join me so soon. I was rather looking forward to seeing you settle down with a nice girl. I'm so sorry."
John had no idea what he was talking about, and looked up from Sherlock's chest to stare at the man questioningly, mouthing words that would not come. Eventually he managed to say something.
"Wha-what do you mean? You're alive Sherlock, that's all that matters."
Sherlock paused, and sighed.
"No John, we're dead."