He stood on the roof of St Bart's. He thought it was fitting.
Richard craned his neck and the field of grey pavement and black tarmac swam in his eyes. He blinked, why was his vision blurry? He distractedly tapped a finger to his face. Oh, right. He was crying. But this was the way it had to go, he knew this now. People like Holmes and John- they were the heroes, selflessly throwing themselves into danger to save innocent lives. And people like Moriarty were the villains, trying to undo their good work. And ordinary people, not too brave, not too smart, people like Richard? They sacrificed themselves, to save the heroes. It was for the best. Everyone knows this.
He gasped, as tears coursed down his cheeks. His own flesh seemed so hot it could turn the tears to steam; his lungs were drinking in air faster than he could swallow his breaths. It was like his whole body was clinging to life, knowing what he was about to do. But he couldn't turn his back now. He had seen (he'd remembered) what evil he was capable of. Even if he stepped back to resume his life as Richard Brook, how would he be able to live with the knowledge of what he'd done. And besides, what if he remembered more? Memories or death and murder, filling his head. What kind of life would that be?
He placed one trainer on the ledge and the world seemed to tremble and buckle beneath him. One slip of his foot and all he ever was would be gone.
"I'm sorry, John," he whispered, and he jumped.
He could feel his body bending, falling, flailing, but something dragged him back, he slammed into the side of the building, strong hands grabbing his hoody, and suddenly he was sliding back up the building, over the edge ,there was no longer air beneath his feet but the solid roof, and he stumbled, falling to his knees.
"John?" he said.
"No," said the voice, and Richard clapped a hand to his chest, shaking. He'd come so close but some good Samaritan had to stop him.
"You shouldn't have pulled me back. You should have let me fall." He stayed on his knees, feeling too weak to move. The view from St Bart's was grey and dismal. Deserted and lifeless. The figure continued to stand behind him, silent, as Richard choked in breaths. Finally, his rescuer spoke, in a cold, compassionless voice.
"When I heard about what happened to you, I was angry. Angry you survived but more than that, angry you were able to forget. Why were you allowed to forget your crimes when your victims never would?"
"Once, I wouldn't have been able to imagine wanting to forget who you are. But now it's all I can think about," Richard confessed. He tensed, realising just how vulnerable he was, alone on a roof, with a stranger and yet he still didn't turn around. That hard, flat voice chilled him, but he didn't want to face angry accusing eyes. "Who are you?"
"My nemesis is many things- evil, manipulative, but he isn't a coward. So, James Moriarty: why don't you turn around and face me?"
Richard crawled, on his knees, and looked. It wasn't John, of course. Or Sebastian. Or even Mycroft.
"You're Sherlock…Sherlock Holmes."
The photographs he'd seen, Sherlock's finely-wrought features and intelligent eyes didn't hold a candle to the real thing. He felt like he was being x-rayed, stripped of his defences and studied, by those strange, pale eyes.
"I'm surprised you didn't recognise my voice."
"Most of the memories aren't there. They're…stuck," Richard muttered. Sherlock brought his face close to Richard's, and Richard cringed.
"For the record, I did hesitate when I saw you at the ledge just now. I was perfectly happy with the thought of you falling to your death," Sherlock paused, pursing his lips. A faint patch of colour touched the apples of his cheeks. He looked a little more human. "But I know what your death would do to John. I don't pretend to understand the bond you and he share, but I have been informed by my brother, what my absence has done to John's mental state. Frankly, I think he might have followed you."
"Followed me?"
"When you jumped. If you jumped."
"He wouldn't have jumped! You're talking about suicide, John committing suicide."
Sherlock rose, brushing down his coat.
"I left John. I did what was necessary, but I made one mistake. I failed to realise how much it would affect the people who cared about me," Sherlock sought Richard's eye contact. "I'm not going to risk hurting him anymore. You were there for him when I couldn't be, and yes, I would love to remove you from our lives, but I know it isn't that simple. He needs you, he still does."
"You…you don't want me to go? To leave him?"
"Don't ask me what I want," Sherlock's icy ices flashed with a sudden fire. "What I want is for you to be erased from history. I want you to be forgotten completely, never thought of or spoken of again. But what I also want, is for John to be happy. So, you're going to come back to Baker Street and pick up where you left off. But know this: if you hurt him, in any way, I will make you pay."
"I won't hurt him, I'd never hurt him. I promise."
"I'll hold you to that. Come with me."
"Where are we going?"
"Back to Baker Street."
"Mr Holmes…I don't- I don't remember much, just…flashes-"
"And?" Sherlock looked at him sharply.
"What if he, Jim comes back? I am Jim, what if I…?"
Sherlock straightened his coat collar. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Come on, Richard. Time to go home."
Richard knew he couldn't call Sherlock a friend or even an ally at this point, but it wasn't about him. Sherlock Holmes might have been Jim Moriarty's main concern, but Richard was a different man. He knew he had problems in his future, Sebastian Moran, Mycroft Holmes and even his own memories but with John by his side, he knew he could face them. The two men, once enemies, now co-habitants, approached the door of 221B Baker Street, and Richard knocked. He was expecting Mrs Hudson to answer it, but the door creaked open and John's face, lined, tear-stained but beautiful, gazed out.
"Richard," John whispered, captivated.
"John, someone wants to say hello." Richard stepped back, and John looked confused. Sherlock, pale and windswept in a handsome coat beamed warmly.
"Hello, John."
And John Watson began to scream.
The End! I hope that was worth the journey!