Chapter 1
John Watson stepped wearily onto the train in the Tube. He was tired. Not only because of the number of patients he had seen today. Not even primarily because of his sleep-deprived nights. No, there was another reason, a deeper form of tiredness that wore him out. All his energy seemed to be gone since that terrible day when…
John closed his eyes and tried to keep his breathing regular. He couldn't think of that. It was definitely enough that he couldn't stop himself from thinking about that day at night, whether awake or in his dreams. He really shouldn't torment himself with these thoughts during the day as well.
So why couldn't he stop thinking of Sherlock?
He snorted. Thank goodness people couldn't read his mind. If they could they'd definitely now think that they'd been a couple.
But what did it matter now anyway?
Today it was a year ago that they had buried him, and it still seemed utterly unreal to John. It still felt wrong to return to his small flat, not to Mrs Hudson and Baker Street. It still felt wrong to sit in the doctor's practice he'd joined instead of solving cases with Sherlock. And it still felt wrong that Sherlock had gone with so many things left between them that should have been done and said.
Against better judgment, John's thoughts wandered back to the day of the funeral. It seemed as though a lifetime had passed and still he could see everything as clearly as if it had been only yesterday. He remembered the immense grief he'd felt when he'd begun to realize what Sherlock's death meant, that he wouldn't come back, that he had lost his best friend. He remembered seeing Mycroft and he remembered the anger that had flashed through him when he had seen him standing there rigidly at his younger brother's grave. He, in his immaculate clothing, his almost casual movements and his expressionless face, as if he had nothing to do with the matter. He remembered his desire to punch his fist into those stony features, to take revenge for Sherlock, to make Mycroft feel what he had done by giving Moriarty all the ingredients to destroy his brother's life. And he remembered how this desire had died when he had gotten a better look into Mycroft's tearless, yet grief-stricken eyes.
The anger at the elder Holmes brother hadn't been the one that tormented him the most, though. His anger at Sherlock was much more difficult to bear, partially because the man wasn't there to defend himself. To answer John's questions. To explain. To explain why he… why he had had to end his life.
He mounted the stairs leading to his flat. He felt old. He felt as if it was his own life that was over, not Sherlock's. What was his life about, anyway? Work. Work and thinking over things that had passed. And missing the things he had lost.
He opened the door, took off his jacket and stretched. His shoulder began to hurt again. It made him feel even older.
He entered his living room and was just about to let himself fall on his couch when he stopped short. He had to be dreaming. It had to be exhaustion. Probably the stress. And of course his train of thoughts. He had to be hallucinating. For this – this – couldn't be real.
"Ah, John! Can I borrow your phone?"
John was breathing in rapid and shallow gasps. He felt hot, his brain was burning. There was a noise in his ears, his vision became blurry and he had to cling to the doorframe.
So he wasn't dreaming. Sherlock was indeed lying on his couch, hands laid together on his chest, palm against palm, eyes closed, as he had done so many times on their couch in Baker Street.
But this wasn't Baker Street… and it wasn't one of the times during the years they had been sharing rooms, this was now! And it couldn't be, because Sherlock was dead. He just couldn't be lying here the way he'd used to, it just didn't make any sense!
"What…"
John didn't know what he wanted to ask. He didn't even know whom he addressed. For he couldn't ask Sherlock, could he? For Sherlock was dead, John had seen him die, Sherlock had made him watch… It just... It didn't make sense…
The man who couldn't be there sat up. "I have to admit, I would have preferred if we could have met again under different circumstances, but the way things have developed it didn't seem possible. And I really need to borrow your phone."
The doorframe was pressing against John's back, and maybe it was good this way for it prevented him from collapsing.
Sherlock looked at him, an annoyingly pitying look, and sighed. "Right, you've got questions. I guarantee you that I'll –"
"You're dead."
The 'dead' man cocked his head slightly as if he were considering the possibility. "Well, obviously I'm not," he then said in his old, slightly mocking manner. "But I'm glad the performance left such a lasting impression."
"You are glad –" John couldn't go on. All of a sudden anger rushed through his body and overtook the numbness in him. "What's going on here? You can't be here. I saw you –"
There, he couldn't go on. He still saw the image, it was a recurring nightmare, incessant and infinitely cruel: Sherlock on that roof, talking to him, literally on the verge of death. He had known then what would happen, but he just hadn't wanted to understand, not even after seeing the dead body on the pavement.
By now he had begun to accept that he wasn't hallucinating, that this was real, even though it was impossible. Sherlock ha d always been able to do the impossible, so there was a certain inner logic in it all. So although John didn't comprehend what was going on and why and how, he did know that it was going on – for real.
"It was a trick," Sherlock said, shrugging, as if this were just about pulling a bunny out of a hat. "I had to disappear for a while and my death was the most appropriate solution to the problem."
John shook his head. He still couldn't believe this. Even if Sherlock was standing here in front of him, there was still something odd that didn't fit into the general aspect of things. Sherlock had never been the sentimental type, God no, but this behaviour of his was more than cold. He was being more than oblivious to other people's feelings, this time, he was being cruel – deliberately cruel.
"I don't understand," said John, and a cold tone had entered his voice. He didn't understand – neither how Sherlock had performed this magic trick, nor why he had to torture him like this. "Why didn't you tell me you were alive? I mean, you've been alive all along. I suppose sometime during the last twelve months you must have had the possibility of sending me some sort of message. An SMS would have been okay."
"Could we talk about this later?" It might have been a question, but there was that demanding tone in Sherlock's voice that John recognised from the years he'd spent with him and that didn't leave him any possibility of disagreeing with him. "Now – your phone."
John just stared at him. Then he took his mobile out of his jacket and tossed it into the other man's open palm before he made his way to the couch where moments ago his dead, but not dead, best friend had been lying. Fortunately, his knees buckled only once he had reached it.
There was still chaos in his mind and he felt as if he had a fever. He watched Sherlock texting as he'd done so many times when they'd lived in Baker Street and he wondered if he was really angry. He knew he should be, but somehow, he couldn't, not now that he was beginning to realize what was happening. Sherlock wasn't dead. He hadn't jumped off that building, at least not to kill himself. He hadn't given up. He hadn't let Moriarty win. He wasn't dead.
"Thank you," Sherlock's voice made John come back into that unreal reality.
He took his phone back and looked at the sent messages: '51 Thames Road, 22:30h. You should come. Life and death situation. Can't tell you more. John Watson.'
He glanced at Sherlock critically, his eyebrows raised. "To whom did you send it?"
"Lestrade. By the way, you should turn it off now."
With raised eyebrows, but with some of that old faith in Sherlock's plans, John did as he was told. "And you really think he's gonna fall for this?"
"Well, there is nothing to fall for. We do have a life and death situation and you can't tell him more, can you?"
"Not yet," John said, although he did hardly dare hope that the other man would initiate him into what was going on. Sherlock had never really gotten into the habit of doing so.
John sighed with suppressed anger. While the first shock was slowly wearing off, he got more and more annoyed. "So why my phone?" he asked. Maybe that way he would finally get some information. "Why didn't you use yours?"
Sherlock looked at him as if John were an idiot, and the tone he answered in had a similar sub-text. "I'm supposed to be dead. Dead people can't text."
If Sherlock was going to continue like this, there was a good chance he might be dead for real very soon. "So why are you still pretending to be dead?"
"Now come on, John, this time it's really obvious. Even someone with deductive powers that are as limited as yours should be able to figure that out on his own. And if you'll excuse me now, there are some things I have to do."
He made a step towards the door, but this time, John was faster, and he blocked his way. "Wait – that's it? You're leaving? Just like that?"
Sherlock looked at him with mock surprise. "I understand that's the common way of movement. Flying would be another option, but I heard you needed wings for that, and since I can't show everybody what an angel I am, I'll stick to walking."
John clenched his teeth. He waited until Sherlock was at the door. "So I don't deserve an explanation? About what happened when… on that roof?" It was unbelievable. He still couldn't talk about it, although he now knew that Sherlock hadn't died.
Sherlock sighed, impatient and annoyed, with his hand on the door-handle. "What do you want to know?"
John didn't have to think for an instant. "How can it be that you're alive?"
"It was a trick, simple and efficient."
"I saw you jump. I saw it. And I saw your body."
"That was exactly the point!" Sherlock called out with exasperation. It seemed a bit strange to John that after his extremely calm report he would flare up like that, but then what about this whole conversation was even close to normal?
"I needed a reliable eye-witness, and you came in very handy," Sherlock explained, now calm again. "There had to be someone who could confirm without a doubt that it had been me who'd jumped off that roof and no one else. Everything had to seem like a clear case. Still, I'm surprised that this somewhat improvised plan worked out so well. I mean, didn't you notice the truck with the rubbish bags that stood there when I jumped? You must at least have seen it driving off, although I was told that my friend did a pretty good job with his bike to prevent you from getting to me too soon. But did you never wonder why there had to be that brick house between you and the spot where I was supposed to crash on the pavement? Did you really not see? For I was actually afraid you might notice all those suspicious circumstances, but thank God you've never been very good in deductive reasoning. After all, I'm very obliged to you, John, without such a trusting and malleable witness like you, my neat plan wouldn't have worked half as well. Are we done now?"
John stared at him. Then he nodded, slowly and slightly. "Oh yes. Yes, we are, Sherlock. We're definitely done now. Goodbye."
Sherlock didn't even as much as look at him before he was gone.
