Guys, I'm terribly sorry for making you wait that long. First I got to finish my exams (but I passed, yay!) and then I was really struggling when writing this chapter. It was extremely hard for me to find a right way and words to describe all that I had to say about the events, which take place there. Hopefully now the hardest part is behind me and writing next chapter will be a lot quicker (at least I hope so).
The way I wrote that part might seem a bit odd to you, but I decided it was the best way to include all the little scenes from series in my story. So I wrote Sherlock's flashbacks in present tense to sort of underline them. If anything's unclear - just write. I'll be happy to answer all the questions.
+story is also available at my AO3 account (the same nickname), where I'll probably be moving. For now I post on both sites.
As usual I do not own Sherlock, John, Mycroft and the rest of wonderful Doyle/BBC chcracters.
After a while Sherlock quietly followed John upstairs. Need was consuming his mind, driving him insane, like a moth that's dangerously close to the burning lamp but cannot help it. Stairs were creaking with every step he made, as if trying to warn him, stop him when it still wasn't too late. But Sherlock knew John wouldn't hear a thing. Tender, almost piercing sounds of classical music came out of John's room through the half-opened door – loud enough to drown out all the noise. Violin, of course. He noticed John enjoyed those little violin 'recitals' Sherlock gave sometimes in an outburst of anger or just from pure boredom. His friend was always carefully listening to whatever he played, closing his eyes and smiling slightly whenever he thought Sherlock wasn't looking. But this particular piece was unfamiliar to him. Something temporary, for sure. But what could it be? He had never troubled himself to know his flatmate taste, never needed to. Maybe if he paid more attention to it, he could sometimes play something especially for John… No. Why would he want to do that? No. It was the time to stop this madness. Turn back and do something…useful. But it was already too late. He was standing in front of John's bedroom. Warm light of an old-fashioned beside lamp was casting tangled, angular shadows over the furniture. Sherlock leaned out a bit to see more, but the small gap between the door didn't make for a good peephole. Slowly and carefully he opened it a little. What he saw sent a shiver down his spine. John was standing by his bed, shirtless, his back turned towards Sherlock. Dark shadows emphasised doctor's constitutions as his shoulders were mowing up and down in the rhythm of his breath. It wasn't the first time Sherlock saw a half-naked body – there were plenty of them in the morgue. This one, though, was different – warm, alive. Seconds were passing as he stood hypnotised, studying every inch of John's skin, every twitch of his muscles with a growing desire to reach out and touch him. And then suddenly John turned away.
The moment John saw Sherlock lurking at the door, he almost jumped. His flatmate never made it to this floor, so he was the last possible guest to expect here, after Elvis Presley and the queen herself.
"God, you scared the life out of me. To what do I owe this pleasure to see you in my humble abode?" He asked ironically. Something was definitely out of order. After a while he noticed a strange kind of tension chiselled in his friend's pale face and his dilated pupils. "Mate, is everything okay? Are you on something?" Instead of answering the question Sherlock approached John.
"Seriously, Sherlock, whatever the case is, you shouldn't d-… Sherlock?" John sensed his private space being invaded. Detective's eyes were less than 20 centimetres away from his, piercing him with an unbearably intense look. He was so close, John could feel warmth of his breath. What was he aiming at? Another experiment? Then everything happened like in slow motion. John's palms went cold when he saw Sherlock slowly raising his hand. The music quietened down. Now he could clearly hear his own heart racing as Sherlock's fingers were almost touching his face.
"Stop it!" He yelled, louder than he wanted to. Sherlock immediately withdrawn. John felt his cheeks burning red with embarrassment. "It seems that one simple fact escaped everybody's notice, so I'll repeat: I'm not actually gay." He audibly accented three last words. "And whatever your experiment or joke is, I don't find it funny. So just stop." He finished with his voice slightly shaking.
John could swear that for a fraction of a second there was a deep sadness in Sherlock's eyes then quickly replaced by his usual cryptic expression.
"I don't know what you're talking about." He stated calmly. "Since you're not in the mood, I'll leave it here." He put a small piece of paper on the bed and left.
John picked up the note with a delicate female handwriting creased it and tossed it into the bin without reading. Then he fall heavily onto the bed. Gentle sounds of violin concerto in the background were fading as he was trying to calm his heartbeat. He closed his eyes making a silent promise to bury the memories of this evening deep in his mind.
Funny how life sometimes resembles a very poorly written novel – the fact occurred to Sherlock as the images of past few weeks were flashing before his eyes. Seconds stretched like a gum into minutes, hours, days.
One.
Apparently there's nothing, that can't be done with a proper amount of cigarettes and… other stimulants. John Hamish Watson can be called a concern no more. Sherlock's mind is alright again, racing like a latest Lamborghini. New cases are flooding 221b: emails, letters, postcards, telephones, texts. He loses interest in all of them as soon as they become obvious, mundane. Cheating wife, jealous cousin, underpaid employee – the usual. Ordinary people with their ordinary problems are no harder to deduce than Lestrade's morning breakfast. The world however seems to have found a new celebrity in a person of Sherlock Holmes. Pictures of now famous consulting detective in his distinctive deer stalker hat appear in every magazine and informational website. But that all doesn't matter to him. Secretly, he's been waiting for that one text to come. "Come and play." The old-fashioned villain is back. Now the game is really on.
Two.
As their eyes meet, Sherlock already knows he disappointed John. And at the same time impressed him, reading the jury members like an open book. John licks his lip, trying to keep a serious face – a father attempting to scold his son knowing the boy has outsmarted him. Sherlock smiles. These little things he does just to see that amazed look of John's. He can almost hear him say: "Brilliant! Extraordinary!" Sherlock's gaze slides cursorily round the courtroom. The couple in jury-box still can't look at each other, embarrassed, prosecutor stares rather confused and the judge, well, he's about to throw Sherlock out. Jim Moriarty is also standing there with a suspicious grin. As for the man who is soon to be convicted he seems oddly composed, almost relaxed. But is he defeated? No, a spider like he always keeps few aces up his sleeve. Which will he use this time? Sherlock can't wait to see.
Three.
The cards are slipping from his hands. This is not how this game should look like. Sherlock Holmes is losing. People are turning away from him. After all, it's what people usually do, right? There's only one man left, who clings to his conviction of Sherlock's innocence so hard, that he is now cuffed with him, accompanying in this rather lousy situation. John Watson has always been by his side. And that's why Sherlock grabs a police radio. An unbearable banshee-like sound tears up the police bustle around them. With a dazed police officer's gun Sherlock takes John and starts to retreat." Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?" Nobody moves. He shoots in the air twice. "Do as he says!" He can hear Lestrade shouting. "Just so you're aware, the gun is his idea, I'm just a... you know." John says with insecurity in his voice. Sherlock puts a gun to his head. "My hostage." He pulls John closer. "Hostage, yes, that works. That works." They make it to the corner. "So what now?" John asks, still unsure. "Doing what Moriarty wants, becoming a fugitive. Run!" So they run. Sherlock tells himself it's because of excitement, thrill of being an outlaw, but this strange sensation in his stomach is oddly familiar. He looks at John trying to keep up and the sensation intensifies. Now he knows for sure. The need is back and puts in his mouth words he would have never said himself. "Take my hand." It's dark and hopefully John won't notice him blushing as he will give him an 'are-you-insane' stare. But, to Sherlock's surprise, not only John doesn't look his way; he also grabs his hand and holds it so tight that it almost hurts. " Now people will definitely talk." It makes Sherlock really want to smile, but he keeps his face dispassionate. Few minutes later they approach high railing but there is no time to think the moves through. Sherlock aims at the fence and jumps over it almost effortlessly. "Sherlock, wait!" Sudden grip on his coat pulls him back and John's face appears in front of his, dangerously close, making him shiver. He looks at his best friend. John is breathing hard with his mouth open and eyes focused on Sherlock. "We're going to need to coordinate." For a second completely ridiculous thought goes through Sherlock's head - to lean closer and feel the warmth of John's lips - but he immediately chases it away. "Go to your right."
Four.
Darkness surrounds him. It's thick and warm, like a blanket. Sherlock enjoys that simple observation. He feels safe now and he can put his mind to rest if only for a few minutes. As surprising as it is, he also feels tired. It's so utterly human and at the same time very alien sensation. It's been more than two days since his last short nap, however there's no time for relax. The game isn't over yet and now it's his turn to play. The door slowly opens letting a small ray of light inside. Molly comes in, switches the lights on. There's something she is looking for but she doesn't find it. Click. The lights go off again as she rushes towards the exit. "You're wrong, you know?" Molly jumps at the tone of his voice. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." It goes hard. Words are stuck in his throat. "But you were right. I'm not OK." "Tell me what's wrong." She looks at him with her big eyes and he knows that no matter what he says next she has already decided to help him. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."
Five.
The one last look at the world as it was up to now. One last look at the sky of London, its streets, cars, pedestrians. He didn't want it to end that way and the plan B was never meant to be used. But Jim Moriarty's final move left him without a choice. It's just a small step, he keeps telling himself, everything's arranged, it's safe. But there's a terrible pain in his chest, as he looks down there the last time. His heart, which existence he has always denied, is aching when he sees John, his John, still standing where he asked him to, always so loyal, no matter what. He doesn't know yet that in a second his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is going to hurt him, to burn the heart out of him. The last solitary tear drops at his shoes, as Sherlock throws his phone and takes a step forward.
Six.
He closed his eyes. Wind was blowing through his curly dark hair. Was that how pioneers of aviation felt, rushing to the ground, already knowing that their experiment failed, that this was going to be their last flight? Were the missed opportunities, chances they did not grab at the right moment flashing before their eyes too? All the paths they could take but somehow chose not to, thousands of parallel realities. In all of Sherlock's he would be with John. They would still live together at 221b, solve cases. Sherlock would wait for John to come from the clinic, maybe even cook a dinner sometimes (but only on special occasions) and they'd spend evenings together. That's what normal people do, he supposed. They sit together doing ordinary boring things, they cuddle, they kiss...
In the last moment he heard John calling his name. He fought the urge to open eyes and have a last look at his friend. It was too late for that. The new life waited for him to start. A life after death.
Funny how life sometimes resembles a very poorly written novel – this bitter truth occurred to John as he was standing over Sherlock's grave, trying to hold back tears – main hero dies fighting his archenemy and trying to protect his best friend, who can't help him. Because that's what happened two weeks ago. John Watson wasn't stupid. He knew Sherlock Holmes as good as one can know a person, with whom he lives and works for 18 months and he trusted him. Sherlock was no fake but a brightest mind he ever met and John couldn't believe any of his last words were truth. And that meant only one thing: Sherlock jumped, because he had to, because there were lives at stake. Probably John's life. And he hated that. He hated being a survivor.
There was one thing about surviving most people didn't know. It never smells like victory, it doesn't taste sweet. For every life that is saved there is at least another one lost – that's what war taught him. He learned it when that young boy got shot along with him. What was his name? Tom, Tim? It was his belly. He was bleeding out and the bullet made damage so huge, there was nothing John could do as a doctor. That soldier died on his hands just as reinforcement troops came to rescue them and left him with a question burning in his head. "Why me?" He didn't even know this man, yet he never stopped wondering what if they switched places, what if one of them was standing just one meter to the left, if he kneeled one second earlier.
And there he was, left alone again. Not by some unnamed man this time, but by best and closest friend he ever had. At first he thought about all possible scenarios in which Sherlock could have miraculously escape death. But then he saw this hard, cold tomb with golden engraved letters and in that moment all the hope he had left abandoned him. John watched Sherlock rise, John watched him fall, John saw him lifeless on a pavement. It was over.
Somehow the moment he turned and started walking home a memory he hid deep in his mind escaped and flickered before his eyes. His behaviour – rejecting and shouting at his friend that evening - seemed so stupid and childish in retrospect. Truth was John would let Sherlock do anything now if he could get him back in return.
Sherlock was looking at John leaving the graveyard, when he felt vibrations in his pocket. New text – probably from Mycroft. He hesitated, but eventually decided to check it.
I don't think you are in Brazil.
I checked it.
Twice.
MH
Sherlock frowned and sighed loudly but quickly texted back his foolish brother.
Got business to dispatch.
SH
The reaction was immediate.
At the graveyard?
Wonder what kind of business that is.
MH
Sherlock stuffed the mobile angrily back into his pocket and looked around. John was nowhere to be found.
Never mind.
Get me the plane. I'm ready.
SH
Thanks for your attention! I'll try to post next chapter as soon as possible. Reviews = love, love, love.