It's Not the Fall

Chapter 2

John ignored the activity around him, his attention focused solely on the man lying dead on the pavement. He barely heard the orders to move, to vacate what was now a crime scene and roughly shrugged off any hands that touched him in an effort to get him to follow those orders. Finally a familiar voice penetrated his misery and he glanced up at the grey-haired man standing over him, a rush of fury washing over him when he saw the expression in the man's dark brown eyes.

"What happened, John?"

John let out a soft huff of humorless laughter. "Moriarty."

He sensed Lestrade shift uncomfortably. "John, Moriarty isn't-"

"Oh, he's real. He's real, and he… He killed Sherlock. I saw him."

"Where?" Another voice, one that caused another surge of fury broke in. He glared up at Sally Donovan and she flinched in response to the clear anger in his gaze.

"I'm telling you, I saw him. If you don't believe me, there was another witness. Ask her."

Lestrade glanced at Donovan and tilted his head towards the building where a couple of officers and the woman John had seen earlier were waiting. She gave a quick nod and hurried off, briefly glancing over her shoulder at John as she departed. Lestrade crouched down next to John, wincing as he gave the body lying next to him a quick once-over.

"What happened?"

"I… Someone called and told me that Mrs. Hudson had been shot. We...Sherlock and I were in the mortuary waiting for…something that would help prove that Sherlock was right about Moriarty. I tried to get him to come with me, but he wouldn't and I… Anyway, I went back to our flat and Mrs. Hudson was fine. I thought… I thought Sherlock had arranged the call to get me out of the way so he could deal with Moriarty on his own." John huffed again and shook his head. "I was right about that. I took a cab back here and was going in to talk to Sherlock when I heard a woman scream. She was looking up at the roof, and… I saw Sherlock fighting with someone up there, near the edge. I heard a gunshot and...Sherlock fell. Moriarty was up there with him. He shot him, and…" John took a deep breath. "He's gone."

"John, we need… You need to let us handle this now. We'll take care of...him, I promise."

John laughed bitterly. "Now you care?" He looked past Lestrade at Anderson, who was standing just inside the barrier the police had set up, along with two other forensic technicians. He met John's gaze and looked away, a hint of guilt in his expression.

"I'm sorry, but we need to do our job, and-"

"Well, I guess there's a first time for everything!" John staggered to his feet and glared at the detective inspector. "All those times where he helped you, all of those lives he saved, and you turned on him! Moriarity played you like that goddamned violin, and you-" He turned to Donovan, who had rejoined them with an aura of guilt now surrounding her as well. "What was it? Jealousy? Revenge? You were pissed off that he could suss out your affair with a married man?" Anderson flinched as John's voice carried over to where he stood.

John turned back to Lestrade. "You knew him for years. You knew he'd never do something so evil as to kidnap children. He saved them, for Christ's sake! And you thought he was just trying to make himself look more clever?"

"I didn't think that...not really."

"But you let those two convince you, didn't you? It had to be them. They've had it in for Sherlock ever since I've known him. They were just waiting for a chance-"

"John, you need to calm down."

"Sod this. And screw you. All of you." He took one final glance at the body, a look of devastation crossing his features before the stony anger returned. He pivoted on on heel and started to march towards the street.

"Let me get an officer to take you home," Lestrade called, receiving a rude gesture in return as John made his way past the reporters that had gathered, ignoring their shouted questions. With a sigh Lestrade turned to Donovan. "Make sure he gets home safe, alright." She nodded and quickly called one of the patrolmen over, who listened to her brief orders and followed John as Anderson joined them. He crouched down next to the semi-supine form and moved the coat back with one gloved hand to reveal the bloody wound in its chest.

"Witness confirms what John said," Sally admitted softly. "She said the other man looked like 'the one who tried to steal the crown jewels'. Gave a pretty good description, too. It fits Moriarty… Richard Brook...whatever his name is." She stared at the body. "We screwed up, didn't we?"

"Yeah. We did. And we don't even have him around to fix it this time."

"So what do we do?"

"Find Moriarty. And restore Sherlock's reputation." He sighed. "It's the least we can do."

"But it won't be enough. For John. Will it?"

"No. No, it won't."

XXX

John tried to hail a cab but the street around St. Bart's was packed with cars and onlookers, preventing any of the cabs from getting through. Finally he gave up and headed for the nearest tube station where he boarded the next train that would take him back to Baker Street. He noticed the officer following him but ignored him. He didn't need, didn't want anything to do with the police right now.

Finally he reached his stop and headed up to the surface, pausing when he reached the street level. The task ahead of him weighed heavily on his mind as he slowly made his way to 221B. He wasn't looking forward to breaking the news to Mrs. Hudson, not at all. As much as she had complained about Sherlock's antics, John knew she cared for him deeply, and he in return had allowed his human side to surface in his concern for her.

John noticed a few people milling around the entrance and felt a renewal of the anger he had experienced at the scene when he realized they were reporters. No better than vultures and jackals, he thought as he straightened his posture and strode towards the door to his flat, ignoring their shouted questions as soon as they noticed his approach. He roughly shouldered his way through the crowd, taking some grim satisfaction in the yelps of pain he caused in passing. He managed to reach the door and slipped inside, slamming it behind him and effectively cutting off the barrage of questions. Mrs. Hudson and the repairman were still at the base of the stairs, both looking up expectantly as he entered.

"Back again? What's going on, John? Did Sherlock get everything straightened out with the police?"

"Not exactly," he replied, unwilling to break the news to her in front of a stranger. "We need to talk."

"What's wrong? Is Sherlock in custody? Do we need to call Mycroft to get him out?"

"No, he's not in custody." He glanced at the repairman, who apparently decided to occupy himself with packing up his tools. "Mrs. Hudson...I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but Sherlock…" He took a deep breath. "Sherlock is dead."

"What?" she gasped, her hands moving to cover her mouth as she stared at him in horror. John carefully embraced her and she clung to him as the tears started to flow down her cheeks, soaking his shirt. He noticed the repairman silently move towards the front door and he quickly guided Mrs. Hudson into her flat before the door opened. He heard the shouts of reporters die out quickly as the repairman slipped through the opening and closed the door behind him.

John managed to get Mrs. Hudson seated at her kitchen table and put the kettle on to make tea, the simple task helping him focus his energy on comforting the woman while keeping his mind from lingering on his own pain.

"What happened?" she sobbed as he handed her a kitchen towel which she used to blot her tears.

"Moriarty shot him," John replied, intentionally leaving out the rest of the horrible scene he had witnessed.

"Have they caught him? They're going to catch him, right?"

The bitter anger he had felt when the police arrived on the scene resurfaced and he clenched his jaw to keep from shouting at her. "That's their job."

"High time they did it, then!" she snapped. "How many times did he do it for them, and they...treated him like some sort of criminal! It's not right!"

"No. It's not."

Her anger faded and she looked up at him with tear-laden eyes. "He...he's really dead?" John nodded. "Oh, God…" She buried her face in her hands and John forced himself to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. She latched onto it and pulled him in close, her tears wetting his shirt again.

John held her, taking some small comfort in the fact that he was helping her in some way, which paled in the face of how badly he had failed his best friend. His final words to Sherlock rang through his mind and the guilt that accompanied the realization of what he had done-and failed to do-threatened to overwhelm him. He knew that he had one purpose now, one thing upon which to focus all of his energy: find Moriarty, and make him pay.

XXX

The fog that had seemed to cloud his mind for an eternity lifted and he found himself standing in front of St. Bart's hospital, the fading light telling him the day had passed into the twilight hour. He tried to remember how he had come to be standing here but the memories refused to surface. His last recollection placed him six stories above where he now stood, on the roof of the hospital. A few more moments of searching and he remembered he had gone up there to confront Moriarty, to thwart his plans…

A quick scan of the area showed the absence of his nemesis and he tried once again to remember what had happened during that confrontation. He remembered the gun, and trying to stop Moriarty from using it on himself. He remembered the fight that had propelled him to the edge of the roof, and then...nothing.

With a sigh he scanned the area again, a flutter of crime scene tape in the soft breeze catching his attention and he moved towards it. He observed further evidence of the forensic team's presence, as well as multiple officers and police cars. What had happened? Had they finally captured Moriarty? And if so, why couldn't he remember it? He studied the tape again, deduced the direction in which it had been unrolled, and moved towards the area that had been cordoned off. He noticed the tell-tale signs of blood that had been diluted by a light rainfall and bent to closely examine the area. Someone had impacted the pavement here and the blood had come from a shattered cranium, clearly indicated by the minute traces of grey matter and dark, slightly curly hairs clinging to the sidewalk.

He looked up, quickly calculated the distance the person must have fallen, and winced slightly. The poor sap had had time to be aware that he was about to die, unless of course he was already dead when he hit. He checked the blood spatter again, huffing in annoyance when he could not make that determination. If this person had been alive when he landed it had been only barely. The pattern had not spread quite enough to reflect a rapid heartbeat, something one would expect when facing imminent demise with full awareness.

Following the most likely position of the person when they landed, he crouched down and noticed some dark wool fibers, likely from a coat. An expensive one. He spied a few lighter fibers, navy blue, probably cashmere, and a few combed cotton fibers from a pair of inexpensive trousers. The incongruency intrigued him, leading him to believe there was another person present on the scene, perhaps someone what had tried to help the unfortunate victim. He'd been unsuccessful, of course. The lack of fibers from emergency personnel uniforms, as will as the obscured marks of Tyvek-covered shoes told him the only ones who had tended the body had been dealing with the deceased. He recognized the faint prints of Lestrade's and Donovan's shoes as well, and…

He peered closely at the faint marks near the center of the body's position. Loafers, well worn. The tips compressed by someone kneeling next to the body. He reached into his coat pocket for his magnifying glass and was surprised to find it missing. He hissed in annoyance and leaned closer, tracing the contours with his gaze. Suddenly he straightened, surprise flashing across his face when he recognized the tread and deduced its owner.

John…

Why had John been here, kneeling next to the victim? The cotton trouser fibers were clearly his, but who…

He slowly looked down at the blue scarf slung around his neck. Navy blue. Cashmere. His gaze traveled to the coat he wore. Wool. Dark. Expensive. He slowly raised a hand and ran it through his hair. Dark. Curly. The cranium beneath his hand was thankfully intact, but…

He reached down to touch the sidewalk and let out a short cry of surprise as his fingertips sank into the pavement with no resistance. He jerked his hand back and felt nothing, as if the pavement hadn't been there at all. He repeated the action with the same result and slowly straightened his body, peering down at his shoes which were clearly resting on the surface. He did a little hop and watched as they came to rest on the ground again.

After a few moments of staring at his feet his raised his head and looked around, blinking. Had Moriarty slipped him something? Some sort of hallucinogen? Clearly he needed to find a mirror to check the state of his pupils. He strode towards one of the cars parked nearby and leaned down to gaze in the side mirror.

He saw nothing but the street behind him, reflected in the mirror's surface.

He waved a hand in front of the glass but registered no movement. Finally he tried to fog the mirror with his breath, leaning and opening his mouth wide before emptying his lungs on the glass. He leaned back slightly and scanned the mirror for signs of condensation, but the reflection was clear. He'd had no effect on it.

After a quick look around he spied a young woman in hospital garb leaning against the building. He walked over to her and gave her his most charming smile while fighting the feeling of unease that was starting to creep into his mind.

"Good evening. I was wondering if you could help me. It seems my…" She didn't even turn in in his direction. He waved a hand in front of her face, coming dangerously close to smacking her nose. She didn't even blink.

Clamping down on the first wave of genuine fear he'd felt since the Baskerville case, he strode towards the hospital entrance and grasped at the handle, only to see his hand pass straight through. He noticed an older man approaching the door from the inside and desperately tried to get the man's attention but again he was ignored. The man opened the door and he managed to slip through in the other direction before he ran towards the mortuary, hoping to find a familiar face, or at least someone who would acknowledge his existence.

A few moments later he reached the hallway and stopped in shock as he took in the scene in front of him. Molly was standing outside the mortuary, leaning on Lestrade, who had his arms wrapped around her shaking, sobbing form. He slowly approached, listening to the sounds of her anguish as his own started to take hold.

"Molly?" She didn't even flinch. "Greg?" He hoped the use of the man's real name would get his attention, but Lestrade ignored him, clearly focused on consoling the pathologist. He watched them for another minute before turning and slowly walking back towards the entrance, his situation becoming perfectly, horribly clear.

He, Sherlock Holmes, was no longer among the living.

And yet he was still here, in London, able to see what was going on around him but unable to interact with others. He had heard enough tales, stories he had waved off with dismissal fueled by a scientific mindset, of those who had passed on still being able to communicate with the living. His current situation now made it clear he shouldn't have been too quick to dismiss such an idea, although his limited experience has shown it was not as common, or as easy as one would be led to believe. Surely, somewhere in this city of 8.3 million people, he would be able to find someone with whom he could communicate.

Sherlock managed a weak smile. He had an idea, no, a hope, of where one of those people might be.

TBC...