I am dead.
As dead, as dead can be. That's clear to me now.
In my hands I hold the evidence, it's undeniable. It's the truth. No one looking at this vital clue could reach any other conclusion. I am dead, and so much so that my death is advertised on the cover of Time magazine. My death's validity is so irrefutable that it merited being the cover story of the June issue. None of the readers doubt it, why should I?
'Sherlock's Suicide' reads in small white print agents a razor sharp image of me. When did they take that photo? I should be able to remember if a camera was pointed in my face, shouldn't I? I can't place where I am in it, which is ridiculous because I remember everything. However, all I can see is a dark pattern of wallpaper behind me. Can't place it anywhere. Think it reminds me of the wallpaper in Adler's home.
I also can barely recognize the man in the picture, doesn't look anything like me now. Hardly looks like I remember myself to be, back when I was Sherlock Homes. The name even sticks to the roof of my pallet uncomfortably. That's what happens when you don't hear your own name in a year; it becomes foreign to you, like an aged body. I'm not sure if I can even place all the syllables in the right order. How did John used to say it? Yes. Now I remember how it sounds. Long and angular. Like long digits rubbing a caller bone, or when honey meets steaming water. He said it so well, sure he still does. Hope he does, say my name I mean, or at least think it. It would comfort me if he did, though he probably doesn't.
Think back to the photograph. I'm glaring strait into the lens, the eyes are penetrating. My gaze is both nefarious and extra-terrestrial; my mouth is subtly curved into an iniquitous smirk. I'm using one hand to pull the caller of my jacket across my chest, it's a defensive pose. The entire image is very dark, making it appear as if my face and hand are floating, both features hold an equally truculent demeanor.
Is that what they thought of me, as dangerous? Probably.
So now, they're using photographs like this one to brand my bad-boy image? Pedestrian, predictable, dull. To be fair I was the one making that expression, they just took a shot at the right moment. Hit, click, snap. Type up a few phrases filled with superlatives to accompany the incriminating photographs, and exto-presto, they have a thrilling cover story on a fraud that fooled all Britannia. Now all the Americans, and whoever else that reads this imbecile magazine, will think that I was not only a fraud, but that I was dangerous. Grunt. Why does that bother me? That's what I want, right? That misconception is what keeps John safe. It's why I jumped off Bart's, to complete Movriaty's story.
Chew on my bottom lip. It's like a stab in the pride though, for media to drag my name threw the dirt, it's somewhat enraging actually. Makes me want to- no. Absolutely not. Calm down. You're in public. Remember, you found this magazine on the table next to you; you're just a normal person drinking tea while reading a magazine. Play the part.
I exhale; turn the pages with unsteady fingers to find the cover story.
John.
Hold the air in my lungs, too startled to breathe. Everything stops for a moment; there is no noise, or people in the cafe. There is no New York, or London. No endless months of time in between me and him. At this moment there exists only John and me.
I'm looking at a picture of him smiling; in the picture I'm behind him with my hand on his shoulder. We both look like we are freezing, yet we're giggling just the same. Inhale; exhale. My heart is pounding agents my ribs as a rush or serotonin fills my head. Seeing him for the first time in months; that smile. Breathe. It's just a photograph.
I look up; feel strangely exposed looking at this in public. As if people could tell what John meant to me from the unevenness of my breath and the slight tremor in my hands. No one is looking at me; they're all drinking piping hot drinks, typing away at laptops, or reading the news. No one can look at me and know that seeing john's smile makes my chest brim with an unnamable pleasure. It's intoxicating.
When no one is looking I'll clip the photograph and hide it in my wallet. Save it for later. For now, I skim the rest of the story; there is a two page spread photograph of people at my funeral. Mycroft stands in the center, looking somewhere in between constipated and angry. Lastrade is next to John toward the right of the photograph, the former looking openly devastated and guilty. John looking more composed to anyone who doesn't know him, I however, can see the cracks in his carefully constructed veneer. I can tell how hurt he is. Reminds me of when he reached out for my wrist. He was trying to feel my pulse. Not for the reasons I would do that: to know if someone is scared, aroused, or lying. He wanted to know if I was alive, and Molly's team made sure that didn't happen. He called me his friend when he was pushing the crowd in front of me aside, trying in vain to get to me.
I saw his eyes, I saw him fall.
Close magazine, stuff it in my bag. Walk swiftly out of the cafe.
Have to hold back a quivering sob, it forms in the back of my throat when I think of that day. Causes a jolt of stiffness and pain to course threw my neck and shoulders. Can't let anyone see that, not because it would break my cover…just can't let them see me. Brush past a crowd of tourists as I walk into Central Park. Find a secluded spot and lay down, on top of a hill of bedrock. I take the magazine out of my bag before using the bag as a pillow. It's not very comfortable, but better than resting my head on the hard gray rocks. Close my eyes; I can reconstruct memories better that way, less distractions. If only I had a cigarette, then the memories could play out behind my eye lids as vividly as a film on a screen. I'll have to do without one though.
'Get out of the way, that's my friend.'
'Let me threw please.'
I was lying completely still on the cold pavement, at least I was trying to. John had a slight concussion from when he hit the pavement himself; on top of that, his brain was sorting through an influx of adrenaline and sheer terror. He could not have been able to notice if I was still alive in that state. Even if he did, Molly would have told him that I died on the way to the operating room. He would have been too frazzled to refute her. It never came to that though.
John pushed past a couple pedestrians as he rushed to kneel down next to me. That look on his face, when he reached for my wrist; when he did not feel a pulse. His warm fingers, digging into my wrist. I've held on to the feeling for so long. It's the last thing he left me. Those fingers were so desperate and frantic. Tears brim on my eyelashes from that memory. His mouth curved into a painful frown when he touched me. His face wasn't made to curve that way, it was disconcerting to see such a foreign expression pass through it. His features were designed to smile, laugh, or smirk. They were not conceived to curve downward like that; it was like a limb broken in the wrong direction. Makes me sick to think of it.
Then some woman instantaneously dragged John from me. He later collapsed on a couple more pedestrians as a nurse rolled me over, exposing my head wound. There was a lot of blood; I could feel that most of my hair was dripping wet from it. My mass of curls where heavy from the liquid; it was pooling in about a two foot circumference from my temple. I could see John staring at the blood, I could almost pinpoint the exact moment in which he understood that I was dead. Once he knew, he just collapsed; there was nothing to keep him standing anymore. Didn't realize I had been his support, his cane; that he had been leaning on me. Guess he had been, and that in that moment, I had kicked the bucket from underneath his feet.
That must have been the hardest moment in the entire ordeal, much scarier than jumping. That was the easy part, but seeing John react that way, falling; it filled the pit of my stomach with dread. As if I had signed my own death warrant, or the way prisoners feel as they approach their executioner. Except that I was willingly putting my neck around the noose. I pointed a gun to my neck and took a shot. I felt so much regret at that moment, wanted to turn back, tell him I was fine. There was no turning back though. It had to be that way, to save him. To save me.
I died that day; at least I feel dead. I don't even mean that the Sherlock I was died that day. No, I feel that the person I am now is not alive. This, whatever you call what I'm doing, it's not living. It's an interminable string of days, filled with fighting, sorrow, and regret. I am relentlessly exhausted; my bones feel like they could snap at a gust of wind. My muscles are only ever knotted and stiff, my hands have a slight but constant tremor. When I wake up, before I've even opened my eyes, guilt already begins to mix into my bile. The constant, nagging, reminder that I left John alone, it's always there. Miss him inordinately; thousands of cells and neurons in my brain seem to be dedicated solely to reminding me how much I miss him. The feeling was at first a loud siren; it is now a low hum. I've become accustomed to the wanting, the missing; it's my normal now.
I think spitefully at how misfortunate I felt before I died. I thought back then that my unrequited love was an insufferable condition. That sort of wanting though, it had nothing to do with this kind. Before I did anything just to hold his hand, embrace him, sleep with him. I wanted eventually to at least kiss him, feel his lips agents mine at least once. Wanted him to have my first kiss, keep it and do whatever he wanted with it. Now, I'm filled with the reality that I won't get to even see him again, that I will probably spend the rest of my life without him, his friendship, and his love. I've ruined any chance of that now. The weight of that reality feels like I'm being buried alive. I feel claustrophobic inside my own head; one is a crowd with me. Yet the only thing that fuels me is the wanting. Pathetic, I know. Sometimes, I wonder if what I want is even real, if we were ever even friends. Was I important to him, or was it all in my head? Could we have had any of the things I that I so craved from him?
Ultimately, could we have been lovers, if I had not died?
Yes, I think we could have been. I think he might have fallen in love with me during the Adler case. I think that's why he was so supportive of my interest in Irene. He loved me enough that he wanted me to be happy with her; he just didn't realize that it wasn't that way for me. Not with Irene, he didn't know that though. I had no idea how to correct him either, he probably still thinks I liked her. That's why he lied to me about her dying; he thought it would crush me. He was capable of doing anything to keep me safe. Oh John.
So perhaps, if I had stayed alive he might have wanted to take things further with me. I think he wanted to anyway, that's why we were sleeping together so often, giggling at crime scenes, holding hands on the run.
So it stands to reason that we might have worked out, and that kills me.
Ok, expect the next chapter soon! Please review.
