A.N.- Does anyone listen to 2ne1? Anybody? No? Okay.
Guest- All in good time. He's slowly getting more open and kind. My mission is to make you guys hate me and beg me for the fluff, then let the tear/ fluff dams flow. XD Soon.
Shadajoserj- Thanks, I actually considered taking a break from this story for a while. (Knowing me that means I'd never finish it. TAT) I'm glad you think it's good, I thought I was skewing waaay offline with Sherlock's personality and him being nice but it's good to know I'm on the right track. I kind of want to one for Loki or something next. I'm not really into TV that much, actually but damn those British men I've just got to write about 'em. (I'm a HUGE movie nerd, though.)
I hereby present to you what you've all wanted deep down inside:
The Fall… of Riechenbach.
The Dame of Baker Street, Ch. 21
Sherlock was ignoring Madeline, and she couldn't blame him. He didn't like giving up on a case in the first place, either out of concern for the victims or for his ego or possibly even both. Madeline had crept back to 221 B the next day to apologize for her outburst, but the detective wasn't there. John told her he was at his lab and wouldn't be back until later, so she slunk back to her flat defeatedly. As soon as she heard the front door open and close she skidded into the hallway only to see that it was Mrs. Hudson. The landlady noticed the disappointment on her tenant's face and invited her in for tea; an invitation that Madeline graciously accepted.
"It's alright, dear. Almost nobody can get through something without having a spat with Sherlock. Even he and John have their lover's spats sometimes." Mrs. Hudson said kindly as she handed Madeline a warm teacup with a matching saucer.
"I don't think they're gay." Madeline said innocently before taking a small sip of the tea and trying not to choke on its bitterness. Mrs. Hudson "m-hmmed" in the back of her throat and set her tea down.
"Dear, perhaps you should just leave him alone for a bit. Sherlock may not look like it but he does mind." She consoled, Madeline stared at the murky tea in her lap quietly.
"Yeah, John said the same thing too." She said finally. Mrs. Hudson sat back and folded her arms contentedly,
"Then you know you're getting some good advice." She said kindly. Madeline gave her a small smile and left for the convenience store on the corner. When she returned half an hour later she bumped into Sherlock who was coming into Baker Street at the same time. He scowled at her and pushed the door open, waiting for Madeline to go in first; but she waited and held up a brand new pack of cigarettes between her fingers.
"Sorry. I um, overreacted a little bit." Madeline said, trying to tear her gaze from her shoelaces and muster enough courage to look Sherlock in the eye. He was quiet for a second before he grabbed the pack of cigarettes and stuffed them in his pocket before sniffing "You think?" and catching the door as it began to swing shut again and shoving it open with his foot. Madeline bit her lip and trudged past him back to her flat.
"And I suppose I have cause to be apologetic as well." Sherlock said stiffly to her back. She turned around and raised her eyebrows until he continued. "I do know who killed the boy, but I'm not certain if I can do much about it or bring the killer to justice. That's what I had meant to convey." The detective added. Madeline took slow, measured steps back to Sherlock and studied him cautiously. He assessed her as well and fought the primal urge to run when he saw her pupils dilate slightly. Madeline stood on her toes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheekbone, then dropped back to her heels.
"Thanks for telling me that," She said, "I felt really bad for blowing up at you, and for the record it was kind of hard to stay mad afterwards." With that she smiled at him sadly and turned back to her flat. "Don't smoke those in front of John or he'll shoot both of us." Sherlock stuck his hand in his coat pocket and ignored her, turning the pack of forbidden cigarettes in his pocket agitatedly before continuing upstairs. Madeline smiled after him slightly and returned to her apartment, nodding at the enthusiastic thumbs up Mrs. Hudson gave her from her own doorway.
. . .
"What's gotten into you?" John asked, "You're all sullen and happy at the same time. Like some weird kind of mopey puppy." Sherlock glared at his flatmate and bent over the soil samples he was evaluating on the kitchen counter.
"Nothing has 'gotten into me'. You're being ridiculous." He retorted, John sniggered behind his laptop and rolled his eyes.
"Right, of course. Excuse me, sir for seeing the obvious." The doctor retorted. Sherlock scoffed and hovered an eyedropper over the petri dishes.
"Ooh you're a bloody awful liar." John said, blowing air out from his cheeks like a deflating balloon. Sherlock sighed, laid the eyedropper meticulously on the counter and closed his eyes in exasperation.
"When you're blithering I can't think." He snapped. John held his hands up mockingly and spun the computer around.
"No offense meant, then. Here, there are some cases on the blog if you want to take them." He suggested. Sherlock frowned at him and turned back to his experiment.
"I have no need of a case right now. I'm busy with other things." He said absentmindedly, John eyed him suspiciously.
"Did you and Madeline ever make up? She did actually feel pretty bad about yesterday." He said.
"Yes, she seemed remorseful enough." Sherlock murmured, endeavoring to shut his flatmate up. John smiled in a self-satisfied way and went back to typing absentmindedly until something soft brushed against his legs and startled him. Sherry mewled impatiently at his feet and begged to be petted.
"Hey you." Madeline said from the doorway, ducking under the table and pulling her purring cat into her arms. John was impressed.
"Less than a month and she's already warmed up to you." He said approvingly. Madeline stroked the cat's head and bounced her in her arms.
"Miss Carver, if you could bring me a sample of the thing's hair." Sherlock called. John caught sight of Madeline's small smile as she spun to face the detective and replaced it with an false frown.
"The thing has a name." She said pointedly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Wonderful, bring me its fur." He said again. Madeline frowned and slowly walked to the kitchen, peering over Sherlock's shoulder at his petri dishes.
"That doesn't look like it requires cat fur, Mr. Holmes." She said snarkily. He scoffed and crossed his arms, leaning back from the counter out of boredom.
"Of course not. It's for a future experiment." He retorted. She sighed and gently petted Sherry, who purred against Madeline's chest in response. Then Madeline flicked her hand at Sherlock and released the collection of cat hairs that had gathered in her hand onto his trousers. He scowled and brushed at the hairs irately while she smiled sweetly back at him and glanced at the clock on the wall.
"Oh my God, I've got to get to work!" She complained, bidding her neighbors goodbye and racing from the flat with Sherry mewling in her arms from the jaunty movement. Sherlock watched her leave until John cleared his throat loudly. The detective scowled at him before pulling out his phone and standing to grab his coat.
"Hold on, where are you going?" John called after his flatmate, Sherlock turned and typed a few errant words into his phone before stuffing it into his pocket.
"I'm going to find who killed that boy." He said emotionlessly. John frowned at him.
"You said you already said you knew who killed him." The doctor reminded him. Sherlock's expression didn't change at all.
"Yes I do know. Now I'm going to find them." He said shortly before wrapping his scarf around his neck and turning his coat collar up against the bitter afternoon cold outside.
. . .
No sooner had Sherlock left the flat than his phone moaned erotically and alerted him to a message. He quickly pulled the device from his pocket and opened the message.
Anytime you are, it read. He scrolled up a bit to review his message that he had sent first.
Ready for a proper interrogation? –SH
His phone moaned again, making people passing Sherlock on the sidewalk give him odd glances.
And by interrogation I hope you mean dinner. ;P
The message read. Sherlock scowled at the cheap emoticon and typed an address into the phone's screen and hit send before pocketing the device and setting out on foot at a brisk pace.
The detective wrinkled his nose at the ruined building he stood in front of. It was filthy and decrepit, but it was one of the first places that came to mind when he thought of somewhere solitary to meet.
"Ugh, this place is disgusting." Irene said, stepping daintily around glittering fractals of glass on the cement. Sherlock turned and smirked at her coldly.
"You're wearing the appropriate amount of clothing for once. Bravo." He jabbed. Irene crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one hip sassily.
"Well I can say this isn't where I thought you'd want to meet me. Although anywhere with you is fine with me." She said, winking at the detective. Sherlock frowned and fully turned to face her, Irene was wearing a long coat over black slacks and a simple white blouse- a far cry from her more mischievous attire.
"So you solved a new case, I see." Irene said, cutting across Sherlock before he could speak. "All the tabloids and papers are running you in the headlines again." She inspected her fingernails for chips in the polish out of boredom.
"Almost all of it. A child was killed as well, and I know who had a hand in it." Sherlock said, glaring pointedly at Irene. She pressed her hand to her collarbone with a wounded expression.
"Me? Never. I'd never hurt a child." She scoffed, taking a bold step forward and reaching for Sherlock's cheek but he stepped away. "You on the other hand are an entirely different matter." The woman said sultrily. "I'd file my nails on those cheekbones of yours." Sherlock's frown deepened and turned into an irritated scowl.
"I know you didn't, but your employer did." He said, "How did he deal with your information leaking, by the way? You seem to be on kindly terms with him again." Sherlock added snarkily. Irene's smile grew wider as she crossed her arms again.
"Whatever made you think I was leaking information? I told you he wasn't happy with me telling you where Doctor Watson and you neighbor were, but he was dissatisfied with the dinner bill you left me with." She said cheekily. "Reimbursement might be on the agenda sometime soon." Sherlock gave the woman a cold glare and began to turn back the way he'd come. Irene smirked at the detective's back as he took long, deep strides over the cement back towards central London before remembering something.
"Mr. Holmes- what is this place?" She called after him. Sherlock turned back around with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth precariously and scowled at her.
"An old drug den I used to frequent. I'm not keen to meet with strange people without reinforcements from the shadows." He said a little smugly. "Thank you for your information." With that he turned and continued to walk back towards town. Irene cast a quick look around herself and shuddered before picking her way back across the littered pavement to the car she'd taken to the location.
. . .
It's about time we played again, don't you think? –JM
Sherlock's phone read out. Sherlock paused from disposing of the now mildly radioactive soil samples he was disposing of through the garbage disposal and texted the criminal back.
Give me a time and a place. –SH
It took Moriarty a few seconds to respond, by that time Sherlock had discreetly emptied almost all of the soil samples into the drain while John talked to a patient on the phone in the living room.
Impatient. Just wait, we'll work out a time for your busy schedule. –JM
Sherlock didn't respond to the text. He had a vague sense Jim was mocking him and decided to leave the matter be. He saw the curtains in the living room flutter from the temperature change and strained to hear how heavy the footfalls on the stairs were and discern who was coming upstairs. To his satisfaction they were light but shuffling, not like his brother's sure, heavy footfalls. A couple minutes later Madeline trudged into the flat and dropped her bag by the door. She threw her coat onto the coatrack and collapsed onto the couch with a groan facedown.
"This is what happens when I miss work too often." She complained into the cushion. John shrugged at her helplessly and went back to his conversation with his client. Madeline pushed herself off of the couch and shuffled into the kitchen to peer over Sherlock's shoulder.
"Are you still messing with the dirt?" She asked, "Or do you need some cat fur?" Sherlock cut his eyes to her in annoyance and she backed away with a smile.
"I know it's a long stretch, but do you guys have anything in the fridge to eat? I haven't had anything since earlier this morning before requests came flying in." She said.
"There might be some milk." Sherlock said, jerking his shoulder towards the refrigerator to his left. Madeline opened the door and held her breath, rummaging through all the experiments preserving or decomposing on the racks until she pulled out a carton of milk. She glanced at the label and groaned.
"Sherlock this expired last May." She said.
"Your point?" He responded absently, focusing on getting the rest of his experiment down the drain before John walked into the kitchen.
"It's January." Madeline said pointedly. Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and kept funneling radioactive dirt into the garbage disposal,
"It doesn't affect me."
"Yeah because you don't eat." They continued to banter back and forth while John tried his best to ignore their squabbling in the background of his call.
. . .
Sherlock decided to go to St. Bart's to work in his lab the next day. John had thoroughly been enjoying his day off and had slept the majority of the morning, and Sherlock had heard Madeline swearing as she stumbled around her flat and left for Bart's before the sun rose. He waited until around noon before he grabbed his coat and scarf and left for the hospital. When he reached the threshold of the hospital he pulled out his phone.
Come and play, roof of St. Bart's. I've got something you want. –SH
He pocketed his phone wordlessly. Soon his phone moaned, Irene's moan.
Something I want? Do tell. I'm waiting, oh hero. –JM
Sherlock grimaced at the text and sent another message to one of his few contacts.
Come to St. Bart's. Be careful.-SH
He sent it and replaced the phone into his pocket, not even waiting for the person to reply. The detective took long, almost harried strides down the pristine white halls of the hospital. He slowed down when he reached the floor Madeline's lab was on. He could hear her humming to herself as she knocked things around while she worked; but he forced himself to continue onwards past the door and up another couple flights of stairs. Jim was already waiting for him.
"Good afternoon, brave hero." The criminal snickered. "It's come to light you have something I want? Funny, because I didn't know I was in want of anything in the first place." Sherlock squared his shoulders and walked closer to Moriarty.
"I'm not quite sure what you're on about." The detective countered. "You've got me."
. . .
"Three gunmen." Moriarty whispered, "Three bullets. Nothing's going to stop them unless they see you jump." Sherlock teetered on the edge of the roof, a million thoughts racing through his head. Moriarty stamped one foot on the cement and grinned.
"Maybe I could call them off." The criminal said, "Miss Carver's inside working away underneath our feet, and something tells me somebody else will be here soon. Maybe I should just blow up the hospital, that way everybody dies!" He sang. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in a quiet fury, and Jim leaned back with his hands in front of him defensively.
"Whoa, okay maybe not. It'll be better anyways to give them the time to appreciate the bullet entering them and only them. Maybe we could attach a note to the bullets: "Love, Sherlock". That sounds nice, doesn't it? Oh, or maybe engrave them! But engraved bullets," He blew air out of his cheeks exasperatedly. "Who has time for that? This is now." Moriarty's voice lowered to a devious tone, unveiling the madman just beneath the surface.
"Time's running out, Sherlock." He cooed. "Make a choice, or my men will make it for you. And I'm sure you don't want to live in a world without your damsel and your blogger."
"Belt up," Sherlock growled, still with one foot on the ledge. He spun around and placed both feet firmly on the ground, facing his sworn enemy.
"They're your gunmen." He said lowly, "They obey you, so what's going to stop you from giving them the green light to shoot my friends after I've jumped?" Moriarty sighed then giggled, a wide smile spreading across his face.
"There you go, you've said it again! You said "friends". Sherlock- honey- you have no 'friends'." He said mockingly. "You've just got me, and I can bet you money I'm the only exciting outlet you've got." Sherlock smirked at him patronizingly,
"How about I bet you three gunmen you're wrong." The criminal frowned at the detective and stepped back.
"You're running out of time." He sang. "Better choose."
"How will they know?" Sherlock said, choosing his words carefully. "How will they know not to shoot?"
"Oh come on, Silly- isn't it obvious? I'll tell them myself." Jim gave a little mock bow, but Sherlock grimaced at him.
"That's absurd. I don't trust you." He said, Jim groaned.
"Sherlock, you've made the game so boring!" He whined. "You're actually caring for people, now! And it's making everything less appealing!" His voice rose to a furious shout before dropping back to a sweetly irritating tone. "You've dulled yourself down; and it's so disappointing to see someone fall so far into humanity." Moriarty wrinkled his nose in disgust. Sherlock took one step forward until he and Jim were chest to chest.
"Then make it. More. Interesting." He said coldly. Moriarty shrugged and gave him a malicious smile tinged with madness.
"Okay." He quickly pulled a pistol from his coat and enveloped the muzzle in his mouth. The criminal winked at Sherlock before pulling the trigger. Sherlock couldn't stop the shout that tore itself from his throat as he leapt away from Jim and a brilliant spurt of red jumped from the back of the world's only consulting criminal's skull. He resisted the urge to kick the man's body as blood pooled behind him on the roof and instead ran his fingers through his hair to try and conjure a new plan.
Now there is no calling them off. He thought angrily. The detective dug out his phone and dialed the first number in his contact list out of the few listed at all. After a few rings they picked up.
"Hello?"
"John, I need you to listen to me." Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice calm and collected.
"Sherlock, where are you? I got your text. Come and talk to me, you can't just walk off like that, you know." John said angrily. "What were you thinking, all the problems would just go away if you walk out the door? That's not-"
"John." Sherlock cut across him. His flatmate fell silent on the other end, listening. "I need you to call Miss Carver for me, quickly."
"What, why? Why would- Sherlock!" The detective saw a cab pull away from the curb, leaving the doctor standing in its place. "What are you doing up there, come down!" John shouted into the phone, although Sherlock could barely hear him from the roof.
"Just call her, please." He said desperately, hating the way his voice was wavering. John wordlessly transferred his flatmate to hold and dialed into his phone before putting it to his ear and speaking rapidly into it.
"She's coming, Sherlock." John said once he reinstated their connection. "What the hell are you doing up there? Come down!" Sherlock shook his head wordlessly before finding his voice again.
"I can't."
. . .
Madeline swung around the banisters in the stairway. The elevator was too slow.
Come quickly, John had said. It's Sherlock. I'm right outside of Bart's. She burst out the front door and saw her neighbor standing in the street and staring at the sky.
"John," She panted, "What- what's wrong, where's Sherlock?" The doctor pointed at the roof of the building she had just left. She felt her eyes widen.
"What's he doing up there?" She gasped, "Sherlock!" She shouted. John transferred his call to speakerphone so she could hear.
"-arver and John. Sorry about this, almost an impromptu departure." Sherlock's voice crackled through the phone, mangled with static.
"Sherlock, why are you up there, come down." Madeline said, feeling a nagging sensation in the back of her mind. She'd envisioned this before, but it was her at the roof staring down into the streets and not one of her friends.
"I can't come down, we're going to have to do it this way." His voice said. "I need to apologize."
"For what?" Madeline said, latching onto John's wrist and pulling the phone closer to her face. "For what Sherlock? What are you doing!"
"I need you to listen to me. This is how I'm going to do this."
"Do what? Sherlock stop it, you're scaring me." She said, hoping to coax him down.
"Sorry." Madeline hit her thigh with her fist furiously.
"And stop apologizing! It's not you! Come down here and quit it!" She shouted.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John said lowly into the phone. There was a moment of silence before his flatmate answered.
"I'm leaving a note, John." The doctor saw Madeline's face pale as her grip on his arm released and she ran forward.
"No! Stay right there, Madeline!" Sherlock's voice boomed, stopping her in her tracks. She stared at him on the roof, only a few floors from her own lab. If only she had gone up instead of down...
"Now back up." Sherlock demanded, "Do it, now!" Madeline unwillingly retraced her steps back to John's side, feeling the numbness begin to eat at the edge of her heart and tears slink into her eyes, robbing her of her vision.
"No, no." She whispered, "No, please don't do this. I can't- you can't leave. Don't do this, please!" She'd wanted someone to tell her those same words for so long, and now she was repeating them to someone who was trying to take a chisel to her soul.
"I have to, I mean- that's what normal people do, isn't it? You'd know all about being normal." Sherlock said, trying to laugh; but it sounded more like he was choking up.
"Sherlock, stop it. Come down here. Please." John pleaded, but his flatmate shook his head.
"Sherlock." Madeline whispered, "Please don't."
"I'm sorry, but I can't. It has to be done this way." Sherlock said quietly, letting a little bit of remorse bleed into his voice. Madeline felt the emptiness grow bigger, enveloping her heart and starting to attack her lungs.
"Sherlock!" She shouted into the phone. "Please, if you do this then- then I'll never forgive you!" She waited two whole seconds before he replied.
"Then you'll have to." With that he dropped his phone and spread his arms out like he could touch the edges of the sky. Madeline felt the cold strike her bones as Sherlock tilted his face up and slowly leaned forwards.
"Sherlock!" She screamed,
"No!" John shouted.
And he fell. Ever so slowly.
Madeline tried to take steps forward, to run to him; but it was like her legs were in clay. She couldn't move fast enough before he disappeared behind a maintenance building and she heard a hideous crack that resonated throughout her entire system.
Then she could move.
She took lurching, uneven steps towards the building at a run; trying to make it in time. She looked behind her and saw that John had been knocked over by a cyclist, but it didn't matter. She had to move. Madeline rounded the corner precariously and had to push her way through the people already surrounding Sherlock.
"Let me through, you have to let me through!" She shouted at them. Some of the people gave way, and Madeline was able to fall through between them.
Sherlock Holmes lay face up on the cold cobblestones, blood bled into a grid underneath him and matted his curly hair to his head. His face was pale, and when Madeline touched him she could feel the warmth already fading from his skin.
She couldn't remember a time when there had been so much emptiness.
"Sherlock!" She screamed at the rooftops, trying to wake the man up. He just lay there limply while she shook his shoulder futilely. John pushed his way through the crowd moments later and fell to his knees beside her. He reached to take Sherlock's pulse immediately but drew back his hand with his face white as a sheet.
"Sherlock, no." He murmured. "No, no, no." Madeline knelt beside him, stunned and comatose. She still rocked Sherlock's body uselessly, but her mind was elsewhere.
On the roof. He was on the roof. I could have gotten to him. She thought as her mind began to flash.
"Watch where you're going."
"You watch it."
Paramedics rushed out of the hospital with a stretcher. Strong arms pushed Madeline and John back as they rolled Sherlock's limp body over and loaded him onto the cart. His pale blue eyes were open, but vacant; void of the intensity that had made them so mesmerizing. Madeline's heart broke.
"Oh my God, Sherlock. No, no Sherlock, no." She mumbled as the paramedics pushed them away from Sherlock and wheeled him into the hospital. Madeline lurched forward suddenly, but it was John who pulled her pack.
"Let him go, Madeline. He's dead." He whispered into her hair. She shook her head and pressed her face into the doctor's shoulder, violent sobs racking her body. A couple of John's tears leaked down his face and mingled into his shirt as he stepped into the street to hail a cab.
. . .
The whole ride back to Baker Street Madeline rode in silence, staring at the red permanently stained into her hands. Sherlock's blood coated the creases of her palms and the junctures of her fingers. A hideous color that needed to be replaced. John looked blankly out the windows at the buildings stepping by in tan blurs. He couldn't be gone. There was just no way. One didn't simply kill Sherlock Holmes.
As they walked up the stairs John had to answer an onslaught of questions from Mrs. Hudson, who kept asking why Sherlock wasn't with them. Madeline made a beeline for her apartment while John tried to assuage the older woman. After hearing the news Mrs. Hudson collapsed like a punctured balloon with a wail, and John helped her up the stairs to 221 B.
He half expected Sherlock to be shooting boredom holes in the wall or reclining in his chair apathetically when the door swung open; but the flat was empty. Mrs. Hudson sank onto the sofa with a small cry and buried her face in her hands. John stepped into the bathroom to try and wash the small splotches of his friend's blood from his hands. He noted it wasn't as much as Madeline had had on hers, but then again she had been cradling Sherlock's head and trying to wake him up.
Madeline. He thought with a jolt, rushing from the bathroom and taking the steps two at a time down to 221 C. He tried to open her door but it was locked.
"Madeline!" He shouted, "I need you to come out here, please! Right now!" He heard no answer, so the doctor took a step back and landed a kick by the doorknob; breaking the lock and throwing the door open.
John raced into Madeline's flat, but he didn't see her. He rushed through her rooms until he found her in the bedroom lying on the bed. Her face was pallid, starkly contrasting with the red staining the sheets and comforter underneath her.
"Mrs. Hudson!" John shouted, "Call an ambulance!" He quickly turned his attention to his neighbor and pulled up her sleeves. They were marred with only a few cuts, but one of them on each arm was strategically placed on the inside of her wrists and was deep with the intent to kill. John quickly began to rip the sheets into strips of cloth and wrap them around Madeline's wrists. Her breathing was shallow, but at least she was still alive. John waited with her for a few more minutes until he heard an ambulance's siren cut down the street. He gingerly scooped his neighbor into his arms and carried her to the entrance of the building, where paramedics were trying to unload a stretcher from the back of their vehicle.
"No time." John panted, giving Madeline's body to one of them and climbing into the back; muttering assurances of "I'm a doctor" to the medical staff. The ambulance doors swung shut and the vehicle began to race back down the streets towards St. Bart's. The paramedics put Madeline on a respirator and took a small sample of her blood before hooking her up to a fluid IV and inserting a blood transfusion into the crook of her arm. John did what he could to help them but in the end wound up sitting uselessly on the bench inside the ambulance watching the mouthpiece of the respirator fog up and clear itself slightly every few seconds or so. The doctor put his face in his hands and shook his head in denial.
"This can't be happening," He muttered, "It just can't."
. . .
Everything was wobbly and punctuated with glares of light. Madeline had to be under constant supervision so that she wouldn't make another attempt at suicide again. After two bags of blood transfusions into her arm and ugly black stitches covered by butterfly band aids on her wrists Madeline finally began to regain consciousness. Someone tall and dark was sitting by her bed, and she could feel her lips bend into a soft smile at his presence.
"Sherlock," She murmured. He turned, and Madeline blinked to clear her vision. She was a little disappointed to see John by her bed instead, and the tormented look on his face made her want to squirm with guilt and self-hatred.
"Not quite." He said quietly. The words hung in the air tensely for a few seconds before John spoke again. "Why did you do that? This, I mean." Madeline tried to raise her hand and apologize, but something stopped her. She jerked her hand up, but something was restraining it. She craned her head down until she saw a thick plush band of white wrapped around each of her forearms, restricting movement. She began to panic, jerking her wrists violently to try and loosen the straps; but John caught the arm nearest him firmly and pressed it to the bed.
"Stop." He demanded, "I'll have to call the doctors in if you don't." Madeline stopped struggling, although her chest still rose and fell in uneven, rapid breaths. Tears pushed their way into her eyes as she remembered what had happened.
"Sherlock." She whispered, "He-"
"I know." John replied mournfully, trying to keep his voice steady even though the images of Sherlock lying spread eagled on the pavement in a pool of his own blood flashed through his mind in torrents of pain. "I don't understand how he could just leave us!" He growled, slamming his hand on the bed sheets with a thud. Madeline turned her head to the side to hide her tears as they sat in silence again. After a second she felt the strips on her wrists being loosened; and as soon as the cloth left her skin she bolted upright and wrapped her arms around John's neck, not caring about the needle in her arm tugging painfully at her skin or the dizziness from moving so fast.
"Why?" She sobbed quietly, "Why would he do that? It's not something Sherlock would do!" John gently put his hands on her back cautiously.
"I don't know. Something must've happened." He said thickly, trying to swallow the lump of emotion in his throat. "Something must've made him have to jump. He wouldn't have done it otherwise." Madeline shook her head wordlessly against the doctor's shoulder, biting her lip so hard she thought she'd bite clean through it.
"I- just why. Why?" She cried, letting her tears soak into John's shirt and the bed sheets.
"I don't know." John repeated. "I don't know."
. . .
The funeral was short. Solitary, too. Only Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mycroft, John, Mrs. Hudson, and Madeline attended. Nobody could clearly read the inscription on the ebony tombstone, their eyes were too clouded by tears- excepting the older Holmes brother. He stood a ways away from the group of mourners with his umbrella hooked respectfully around his forearm. There were no gaudy processions, so the procession ended quickly. Everyone stepped forward to say something about the detective, but found that there wasn't much to say about him. Until John stepped up.
"He was amazing. Sure he could be a… jerk; but he meant well. Sherlock- I don't know why you left, but we miss you. All of us. And I- I don't really know what else to say." He stepped back from the detective's grave silently and was enveloped by his friends. They asked Madeline if she wanted to say a few words; but she shook her head silently and tugged her sleeves farther down. John had convinced the hospital to discharge her in time for the funeral, but only on the condition that Madeline remain under constant supervision and severe medication. The past week had felt like she was floating in a murky water that deafened all sound and emotion. She could feel the anguish clawing at her insides, but it didn't hurt as much as she expected. She attributed that to the medicine.
John wouldn't let Madeline go back to her apartment. He wouldn't even let her leave his sight. He made sure she took her newer and heavier medications three times a day and even went so far as to remove all sharp objects from 221 B and C. Madeline said nothing, she just curled up in Sherlock's chair apathetically- sometimes with a book- and would stare at her wrists, sleep, or cry. John knew she blamed herself for Sherlock's death. He blamed himself, as well. He could have told her to go to the roof and stop him; and Sherlock would've listened. Baker Street sat in an ominous silence while the newspapers and tabloids clicked outside and ran articles screaming: "Fraud Detective Gives Up the Hard Way" or "London Will Mourn Sherlock Holmes".
Either way, Baker Street was silent in the absence of its detective.
A.N.- Mwahahah. I am so sorry but so not sorry.
This is probably the longest chapter here, and sorry if there are some plot holes. (I don't see any, but it feels too good to be perfect.)