Not so Shakespearean
Author's Note: This plot line came to me as I was writing my other Sherlock fic, Hide and Seek, and I hope you enjoy this one just as much as Hide and Seek. Both of these will be primary stories.
Prologue: The Tragedy
William Shakespeare had always been one of her favorite writers, whether it be his comedies or sonnets; however, she was more found of his tragedies. Romeo and Juilet to be exact. It was something about the forbidden love of the star-crossed lovers that got her, and she could never place her finger on what it was. Perhaps it was because she wanted a romance like that: love at first sight, someone who would give up everything for her; or maybe it was that it didn't have a happy ending. "Real life never has happy endings," her mother would often say after picking up another drink; she thought it the latter.
So why did she have a sinking feeling when she saw Sherlock Holmes atop the rooftop of the hospital? She felt the immediate need to vomit up her lunch, to scream and plead, but was planted firmly by just a point of his finger.
"Tell your sister to stay in that spot John, I don't - " did his voice crack? She whipped her head towards her brother, tears brimming in her eyes that silently pleaded with him.
"All right." John looked at her, fear ripping through him as well.
"Keep yours eyes fixed on me," she could hear the frantic tone rear its ugly head, "please, will you do this for me?" Tears dripped down her face in narrow streams, her nose dripped as well, "wipe your face, you look like a child." His words rang through her head so using the back of her jumper, she wiped away the liquid. She could barely make out Sherlock's face, barely see the sad smile.
"Do what?" John asked slowly looking at his best friend, teetering on the roof.
"This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?" John paused, taking the phone away from his head and shook it, suddenly stopping and watched his friend. Her eyes widened at what Sherlock was implying, looking up at him and screaming: "Sherlock please! Don't do this!" Sherlock lifted his finger up his mouth, silencing her. Sobs racked her body.
"Leave a note, when?" John ventured, taking his sister's hand into his own and squeezing it.
"Goodbye, John - " a pause, "Ophelia." The next few moments seem to go in slow motion. His gaze lingered on the Watson duo for a few moments before lowering his arm to drop the phone, and gazed forwards. John lowered the phone: "No," he whispered at first, "Sherlock!" A scream ripped from Ophelia's throat as she saw Sherlock spread his arms wide and plummet straight down to the ground, "Sherlock!" Ophelia took off not even caring as her heels were ripped from her feet; the bottoms of her feet slammed against the pavement as she rushed to get to his side. John was just beside her as a group of cyclists came from behind them, plowing thru the two of them. They effectively knocked John to the ground, his head slamming on the pavement while Ophelia was bounced off one and into another, the last cyclist of the group running over her ankle.
She would've screamed, the pain was so intense and the throb was unbearable, but she couldn't. She needed to get to Sherlock. John was woozy as he picked himself off the ground as did Ophelia, the pained sobs echoed as she limped beside her brother. "Sherlock," John whispered under his breath, the pain and sadness clear, "Sherlock." He said louder as he made his way to the gathering crowd. Ophelia was there before him, almost beside herself as she pushed her way through. Mascara ran down her cheeks in fat globs and her knees stung, "he's my friend, please." Ophelia pleaded, hearing John just behind her tell the crowd: "I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please." The crowd pushed them back before John cried out: "No, he's my friend! He's my friend, please!" John breaks through before Ophelia can. His hands immediately go for his wrist, checking for a pulse even though a thick, red pool lay under his friend's head. Ophelia collapsed just beside John, lowering her head to Sherlock's just so their foreheads touch, "no please, John," she looks up, begging, "please do something, anything!"
His fingers are frantically searching for anything, but before he can do anymore a woman comes over, peeling his fingers off of Sherlock's wrist and another man comes behind Ophelia, taking her by the shoulders and holding her back. "Please no! Please I love him." She cried, fighting against the bindings of the man's hands.
"No, please just let me," there are more medics that arrived, one of them pushed a wheeled stretcher over, and another two surround Sherlock's body before gently pushing him on his back. His pale skin covered in blood, his silvery eyes wide and dull; Ophelia sobbed again, "Jesus, no!" She collapses into herself, her head immediately lowering to her knees as her mind forgoes the pain erupting in her ankle. John slumps backwards as he tries to stand, "no." He whispered just as they wheeled him off. He shakes off the people trying to help him up and shakily goes over to his sister's side, soothing her by rubbing her back in soft circles; his eyes looking in the direction that Sherlock was carried off in.
Ophelia's chest racking sobs filled the air. Why. Why did this happen?