Author's Note: Oh my goodness, I'm finally updating! So sorry about the ridiculous wait, but my schedule has been pretty insane recently. :/ Thank you so much for the kind reviews, they truly make my day! Sorry that this is a rather short chapter, but I promise that I will continue this story, and try my very hardest to update more frequently. Of course, reviews make me write faster. ;)
He remembers everything.
He remembers standing on the rooftop at St. Bart's, the three gunmen, and a brilliant plan so clever only he could have devised it.
And the phonecall. That last call with the only one he could truly call a friend. He had known it would be hard. Sentiment. Unavoidable.
But he couldn't have prepared himself for that despair in John's voice that had been haunting him for six months.
Of course, he had to follow through with his plan. It was either John's heart or John's life.
And so he fell.
He remembers afterwards. Molly silently cleaned the fake blood from his face.
She cried. He didn't. He couldn't.
Molly offered to let him stay the night, but he refuses- he must start right away.
The next few months were blur of crowded plane flights and unfamiliar streets. He longs for the familiarity of London, of his home. Of John.
He kills. Of course he does. But he cannot shake the ridiculous feeling that this is not his role. He is supposed to be the brain. John is the crack shot.
He cannot attempt to be both, it is too much. He needs an assistant. His assistant. His blogger. His John.
And then he had finally gotten to the last member of the operation Moriarty had left behind- Sebastian Moran. The last one. After this final kill, he could return to his John.
As he silently entered the abandoned house where Moran was supposedly hiding, the lights flipped on in a blinding flash.
And before his eyes could adjust to the burning brightness, an all-too-familiar voice from the center of the room.
"Miss me sexy?"
"It's my fault, John, I killed you."
John's head snapped up.
"What?" John's eyes squinted in confusion. "Sherlock, I'm alive. I am undoubtedly alive. You, however, jumped off a building. Remember? Made me watch. Now, I have absolutely no clue how you could possibly be lying here in front of me, but here you are. And you will be telling me how as soon as possible. So please, for the love of God, explain yourself Sherlock Holmes."
But Sherlock did not say a word, simply staring up at John with an expression that was alarmingly childlike, vulnerable and with wide, sad eyes.
"God, Sherlock, what the hell happened to you?"
"Nobody could be that clever."
"You could."
But you were wrong, John. You were wrong. I wasn't clever enough to save you.