AN: Trigger warning for suicide. Also, thanks for all the reviews, favourites and alerts, they're much appreciated. - B.
February, 2012.
"I won't miss this one much," I told Sherlock, and I think he smiled down at me from the roof.
"I know," He told me, but it wasn't him. It was just an echo of how I remembered him to be the day he died, speaking to me via his mobile.
I was reliving my own memories, in reverse-chronological order, and they were being erased as I went through them. This was the first one, the most recent, but I knew it was a trend, because they'd explained what would happen. I didn't know how long the process would take for me, but for them, it would only be as long as one night.
When I woke up, there would be no more Sherlock Holmes. He would be gone, forever.
I sighed, and approached the landing spot, against his wishes. It was only a memory, so what harm could it do? I crouched, and rubbed my palm along the rough concrete, tracing the cracks his blood was going to flow through with my finger. He was still on the roof at this point.
"So, you jump, and then I run around. The biker-" I pointed to him, approaching from far away down the street, "-Knocks me over, and I can't hear properly, because I'm in shock. So far, so simple. But what always gets to me is the fact that I don't actually see you land. I see your body and everything, and it's all white, and covered in blood, but I didn't see the impact," I recalled.
"Is it necessary to see the impact?" He asked.
"Well, no. Not when you're on the pavement with blood everywhere," I replied.
". . . But?" He asked.
"I don't know. I guess I'm still in denial. It's probably why I wanted to forget you in the first place – I'm not over what happened here yet," I confessed.
I looked around: it started raining. The biker approached, in slow motion, from down the street. Sherlock didn't say anything this time.
"It was a pretty shitty thing you did, Sherlock," I said, very quietly, into the receiver.
"I know," He answered, equally quietly, as if we were pretending not to have the conversation. The yellowish grey sky above us yet the downpour through. I saw Sherlock stepping onto the ledge.
"You'd do it over again, though, I suppose," I sighed.
"Yes," He told me.
"But why? I thought you were okay – I thought you enjoyed your life . . ." Tears were welling, but it's not as if there was anyone to be embarrassed in front of.
"I only know as much as you do," He responded.
"Yeah, but . . ." I paused, and shut my eyes, as he told me again what I already knew.
"This is your memory. I'm not real," Trust Sherlock not to sugar-coat it. I smiled despite myself. I really did miss him. Even his stupid habits were comforting, even though they weren't real, they were just my memories.
"But you sound like you. You look like you. Why can't you be you?"
"Because I'm dead, John,"
He jumped then. Or rather, he didn't jump. He just sort of stepped off the edge of the building. I wondered if it was even Sherlock, for a moment becoming hopeful that it wasn't. Why wouldn't Sherlock be dramatic, and jump? That wasn't the Sherlock I knew.
Then again, had I known him at all?
He killed himself, and I didn't even know there was a problem. I didn't know how seriously the campaign by Moriarty to ruin his reputation had affected him. I didn't know he was a fraud; I didn't know if he was lying, or telling the truth, when he said that.
I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know – there were just too many things I didn't know about him. I remembered the people who'd sent me cards when he died. I didn't even know most of them, but it clearly didn't seem to them that he was a fraud. Who was Sherlock Holmes? The tabloids had been asking for a month now, and I didn't have an answer.
Well, they wouldn't ask anymore. They're received their letters from Dr. Peterson.
My breath hitched, rather than stopping like it did first time round.
"Sherlock . . ." I mumbled, my voice slurred, just like before. I dropped my phone, watching him do the pavement dive. His coat billowed around him like he was a superhero.
Heroes don't exist, John, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.
"Jesus – God, no – "
He landed, and I didn't even hear a noise. His body lay there, lifeless and bent already. He was gone.
I watched the biker sail past where last time I was running, and the area where he hit me. I turned back, and Sherlock's eyes looked at me, unblinking.
"You never seemed like you'd given up," I murmured, crouching down beside him to take his pulse, as the people around me came in a flurry to pull me away. It felt like a secret when I said it.
"You blame yourself," He told me, even though he was probably dead by now. I didn't care that he was still talking to me, even though his lips weren't moving.
"Of course," I whispered back.
"Don't worry," He told me, "I don't blame you,"
February, 2015.
The first night I got woken up by my neighbour, I woke up with tears on my face. I'd been having a nightmare, probably, but I didn't remember what about. I didn't even feel sad.
I could hear raised voices, two floors below. A sort of shouting match was taking place, and it certainly wasn't with Mrs. Hudson. In fact, it was so violent that I decided I'd better intervene.
I put my slippers and dressing gown on over my pyjamas, and left my bedroom, though it was bloody freezing. I caught dribs and drabs of the argument – it sounded like a brawl at a Harrow debating club, with snooty, well-educated voices. I raised my eyebrows, because the subject matter, however intellectual, was causing screaming.
". . . –supposed to bloody do! I can't just stay here, not going out in the day, in case someone sees me and tells the-"
I grabbed my keys, and the sounds they made chinking together made me miss the next part. The next part was a different voice, the one that definitely wasn't my neighbour.
"-should have been more careful! What if he'd apprehended you? They still suspect you – the work I had to do to make sure they didn't-"
I shut my door, losing a few lines of the argument again. I couldn't get every word exactly right, but it sounded pretty serious.
"-What about him? I couldn't just never see him again; I don't care what you say! And as for the investigation-"
"It's a bad idea – what you've got going on here is foolish, at best, and at worst it's dangerous – be reasonable, Sherlock! Leave it alone!"
"You can't possibly comprehend what I'm going through. I need this, and I don't care what-"
I lost some more of the argument beneath the sound of myself going down the first flight of stairs.
"-has got to be the most stupid thing you have ever done, brother, and if it backfires on you as spectacularly as I suspect it will, I shan't be there to help. I'm washing my hands of this debacle,"
"Fine! You're nothing more than a hindrance anyway. Close the door on the way out," That was definitely Holmes.
As I reached the top of the stairs that lead to the hall, I saw light appear from the door of Holmes' flat, and in the darkness, the silhouette of a man stepped out, and slammed the door behind himself, leaving the hallway very dark. I could just about make him out, as he stepped up to the door, and left, picking up his umbrella from the hooks as he went. He slammed the front door, too.
Holmes must have put him in a bad mood. The disagreement had sounded quite bad, and the fact it had taken place at about 2am probably didn't help.
I went to Holmes' front door, and stepped down the lit staircase, trying to make enough noise that he would hear me coming. I didn't want to frighten him, he sounded wound up enough as it was.
"What the bloody hell was that all about?" I wondered aloud, as I entered his living room. He looked flustered, and even upset, as he stood by the fireplace. The cellar looked even more dingy than normal, with a small lamp on rather than the overhead bulb.
"My brother, Mycroft," Holmes told me, and I nodded, remembering how the other man had referred to him as 'brother'.
Mycroft. I thought to myself that bullies must have had a field day with both of the Holmes brothers' names, never mind their personalities.
"Ah. Me and my sister never got along either, really," I tried to create some common ground, to ease the tension Mycroft had left in the room.
"Indeed," He replied. Strangely, though, he looked more upset than angry. He turned away, and faced his investigation wall. I wondered if this was to hide the fact that his eyes were watering. Perhaps with frustration, or with sadness. I didn't know him well enough to be able to tell, or to even witness this in the first place. I turned to leave.
"I-" He began, and I turned around. He steadied his voice, which was a little too deep, and tried again: "I'm sorry we woke you up,"
"It's okay. I just wanted to check no one was about to get murdered," I half-joked.
"Not this time," He replied, with a smile. I smiled back, following his lead, and then left.
As I settled back into my bed again, I heard something unexpected from two floors below. Not loud enough to disturb me, or keep me awake, but just there.
I could hear a violin being played. I remembered seeing its case in Holmes' flat at one point, as I listened silently to the song he was playing. He was very good, but the tune sounded sad and full of . . . Regret. I think that's what it was, anyway.
But now, I can't remember which song he played, or if he even played a song, or if I'd just imagined it as I was drifting off to sleep. It seemed a bit like a dream, or at least the soundtrack to one of my nightmares. Music was the only thing I really remembered of them.
