A/N: Wow guys, this is the longest one I've posted thus far. It took me a few extra days to finish this, and in the course of an hour it went from only a couple paragraphs to... well, this monstrosity. Hope you all enjoy it! As always, thank you for any views, reviews, follows, etc. -V
"You know? You know that much?" John barely recognized his own voice. It was a low, rough whisper. It was the sound of a hungry curiosity, of tentative desperation. He didn't want to allow himself to hope. Would Mycroft really lie to him about something so severe, something so important? He really couldn't see why he would, but the idea that he could be this close to finally knowing something…
"Yes, of course." Mycroft's answer was so infuriatingly matter-of-fact that John briefly considered hauling his fist right into that smug face.
The thought was very, very brief.
John regained his composure, straightened up, and looked Mycroft dead in the eye. "You didn't only know that he might die, but you knew why?" There was a pause while Mycroft stared right back at John and waited for him to continue on, as he knew he would. "Wait. That means you knew that he wasn't just thinking he was going to die. You knew he was planning on killing himself." He wasn't asking a question.
Mycroft nodded his head once. The move was so quick and so slight that John wasn't entirely sure he saw it at all. "Yes, I knew that, as well."
"Jesus, Mycroft. I knew you were cold, but this. This is a new low, even for someone in the Holmes family. I don't think even Sherlock would have been such a-"
Mycroft's eyes flashed angrily as he cut him off. "Doctor Watson, I'd suggest you stow away your disrespectful accusations. Bite your tongue before you say something that could put us both into an unfortunate situation." The vague threat in his words made John take his advice. He didn't try to talk at all as he watched Mycroft clench and unclench his jaw.
"Now," Mycroft continued. "My patience is growing thin and I have more important things to be doing rather than standing here chatting with you about such tired subjects. Would you like for me to enlighten you or not?"
Suddenly, John wasn't sure if he did even want to know anymore. He had dedicated an entire afternoon to this ridiculous task of… of what? Looking through a dead man's belongings? What was he trying to accomplish? For that matter, did he even think he could accomplish anything, or was he just chasing a ghost, opening old wounds for his own masochistic reasons?
He just didn't have any answers. He had no idea why he was going after this information that most likely led nowhere. Maybe it was to see the battlefield again. Maybe, deep down, he still hadn't come to terms with Sherlock's death.
Maybe, deep down, a piece of him was still clinging to the idea that it wasn't real. It couldn't be real, couldn't be permanent.
"No, Mycroft," He finally said with a sigh. "No, I don't think I want to know, after all."
Mycroft feigned surprise. Of course he had known all along that John wouldn't be able to go through with accepting the information. "Oh really? Giving up so easily, even after being so adamant? Even after all that time you've wasted on this particular 'project' already?"
"I wouldn't consider it giving up," John clarified. "I would consider it deciding to move on. If Sherlock had really been planning on dying, if he had truly been planning his suicide and honestly wanted to go… well, what more do I need to know? I think I'm better off not knowing his reasons to welcome death."
"On the contrary, Doctor Watson, he did not welcome it, nor did he want to go."
John was getting way too exasperated to be dealing with the old Holmes Theatrics. He rubbed his hand over his face and held back yet another sigh. "I'm tired, Mycroft, and you've already told me that you have places to be. Could we cut the cryptic hints?"
Mycroft smiled for a brief moment. "Very well. I'll just get to the point then, shall I? The fact of the matter is that, while I may not know details of what happened on that rooftop, I know what Sherlock had planned for. Most of what I know is what he told me: That Moriarty was leaving him clues about Sherlock's impending death. Some of my sources have also figured out that Moriarty was clever enough to use... shall we say 'leverage'?"
"Leverage?" John swallowed hard. His mouth, his throat were dry. He didn't pick up on things nearly as quickly as Sherlock had, but he was starting to get it. He had a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He suspected what was coming next. He didn't need Mycroft to say it.
"Yes, leverage. I have reason to believe it may have been Sherlock's understanding that, were he to not die, others would die in his place. I have reason to believe that Moriarty was so incredibly obsessed, so desperate to defeat him, that he was willing to do whatever it took to destroy Sherlock. The stipulation was that either he jumps or..." Mycroft let the sentence hang. "That's the only thing all the facts could possibly point to, at least." He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "This is precisely why I always warned him not to get attached," he said in a clipped voice.
John felt like he was going to be sick. He knew he didn't want to know the answer to Sherlock's death, but this... this was entirely worse than anything he could have imagined. He pinched the bridge of his nose, clamped his eyes shut tight. "Jesus, Mycroft. How could you possibly know this? You're going off of some vague information to draw a conclusion that, frankly, seems completely unlike-"
"Enough!" Mycroft snapped at John before he could finish his sentence. It was the first time John had ever seen Mycroft this angry. He had never seen him lose his composure quite like this. "You really have no idea, do you? You haven't figured out just how much influence I truly have, or how formidable my 'eyes' all over the city are, have you? Aside from the simple deductions I have made on my own, I have exhausted all of my resources. I don't have theories, Doctor Watson, I have facts."
John could only stare as Mycroft regained his stoic demeanor, gave him a polite nod, and left him alone in the abandoned building. John's mind was blank as he walked out of the building and got into the car. His mind was numb, pure white noise as he pulled up to 221 B, got out of the car, and hauled himself into his flat.
This knowledge not only floored him, but hurt him, made him physically ill. What was the last thing he had said to Sherlock, aside from the very few words he was able to push out of his mouth while on the phone with him in those last seconds? What was the last thing he said to his face?
You... machine.
Machine. He had called him a machine. He had been so angry, so surprised at the detachment that was much too cold even for Sherlock. He didn't understand how the same man who had thrown a man out of a window repeatedly over causing some trauma and minor wounds on Mrs. Hudson could have possibly not given a damn that she was dying.
In light of this new information courtesy of Mycroft, it dawned on John that Sherlock planned much more than he had realized. He planned the phone call specifically to get John out of there, away from Sherlock so he could sneak off to meet Moriarty.
And then he had proceeded to jump off of a bloody building, to kill himself, to save... who? No one would have managed to get to Mycroft, no matter who tried. Mrs. Hudson and John were the only other ones truly close to him.
John doubled over, thinking he was going to be sick, as it hit him. Sherlock took his own life to save his. John called him a machine, and less than an hour later...
"Oh God. Oh, Jesus," He groaned as his knees gave out. He crumpled to the floor, hands grasping at his chair, arms wrapping around the arm of it. Everything was whirling. This guilt. How could he deal with this guilt? How could he deal with knowing that not only was his best friend dead, but it was because of him? How could he deal with knowing that his last real words to Sherlock were hurtful ones?
John fought the dizziness, the nausea. He closed his eyes against the spinning room. What he couldn't escape, however, was the blame, the guilt, the tightness in his chest.
You machine.
It only took one more replay of that scene for him to come undone. For the first time since Sherlock's death, the first time in years, he let go, released the constricting pain in his chest, and cried. Really, truly cried. Everything he had refused to actually feel in the past two months came screeching into his brain and exited through his tears.
For the first and last time over Sherlock's death, he cried.
And then there was darkness; there was the sleep of the dead, finally crashing on him after two months of nearly nothing.