Warnings: Johnlock slash (Rating could go up), beta'd now, I'm not British, Bullying, Mentions of drug abuse, Major Character Death, AU
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Special Thanks: Anne my lovely Beta, who keeps reassuring me and giving me wonderful advice!
DON'T HATE ME. DON'T HATE ME. DON'T HATE ME (Please?)
More notes at the end of Chapter.
In the morning, Sherlock opens his eyes to a bright, sunny day with a smile on his face. 'John' His smile then widens as he looks over to his left and sees the sleeping man. If Sherlock had to think of a word to describe this moment, even though he would scorn himself later for such sentimental thoughts, he would reluctantly describe this as bliss. 'Complete and utter bliss.'
Of course nothing lasts forever. A few inches away, on Sherlock's night stand, lay his phone which pings only once. When he picks it up a message appears on the screen, from a familiar number, indicating to him that it is unanswered. He clicks the message and it sends a cold chill down his spine.
Today is the day.-MH
He isn't sure how long he lay staring at his phone but, beside him, John was awaking slowly. By the time John blinks up at him, he has abandoned the phone momentarily in order to smile down at the sleepy former army doctor. "Good morning, John." The drowsy blogger smiles up at his disheveled consulting detective. "Good morning."
The smile, though, slowly falls from John's face as he remembers that he needs to speak to Sherlock. Sherlock, of course, instantly deduces the reason behind the doctors change in mood and proceeds, in hopes to avoid this conversation, to get out of bed. He makes his way to the kitchen, where he then makes his way to the couch for a good sulk.
"Sherlock, we need to discuss this! We don't have soul mates. What I want to know is, do you see this going anywhere? What do you want out of this?"
Sherlock had intended to ignore any pleas for conversation, but John sidesteps his attempts at indifference by striding over to the couch and standing above the disgruntled sleuth.
With a irritated huff, the consulting detective turns, sits up, and glares up at John. "Why does what we have need a label? Why can't we just be and forget about the rest? I...care about you, and I believe you care about me. Why not just let it be?"
If John didn't know Sherlock, he would have smiled and basked in the sentimental words Sherlock had just spoken, but, John knows Sherlock. He knows the detective is only trying to divert the conversation.
John, though, softly answers, "Of course I care about you, Sherlock. But you know that that is not the point." John raises his hand before Sherlock can speak, quickly and efficiently cutting him off, "My point is that I have no idea what we are going to do. What do we tell people now?"
Before Sherlock can fully answer John's inquiries, another ping comes from the offending phone. Sherlock thanks any deity out there as he silently stands to retrieve his phone from the coffee table. He can hear John sigh but he isn't sure if it's from exasperation or acceptance.
Come and play.
Tower Hill.
Jim Moriarty x.
When Sherlock and John finally arrive at the Tower, they both sit in stony silence as Jim Moriarty dances across the screen only to shatter the bullet proof glass encasing the crown jewels, but not before writing the eerie message: Get Sherlock.
Two weeks pass, which are filled with the preparations for the upcoming Moriarty trial. Each major Newsstand holds a paper detailing the trial's date, time, and where it would be held. When the court day had finally arrived, Sherlock and John both exit the flat, in their best suits, being trailed by 'idiotic' news reporters.
Unfortunately the trial goes about the way Sherlock had believed it would. Moriarty has bribed the jury and thus escapes Scot free. 'That wicked spider gets away, although there is damning evidence against him, and can walk the streets.' John thinks with a sneer. Unbeknownst to John, inside of 221B, Jim Moriarty sits talking with the armature detective.
The conversation can only be described with the words foreboding and cryptic. When Moriarty finally leaves his words hang heavily on Sherlock's mind. 'It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall…Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ... owe ... you.'
Three months then fly by. It has really all come down to this. One man is standing on the edge of a rooftop while the other lay dead in a pool of his own blood. When a taxi stops at the front of St. Barts, it reminds Sherlock that this is the only solution. He picks up his phone and dials a familiar number.
"Hello?"
"John."
"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" John says before he heads to the entrance of St. Barts. "Turn around and walk back the way you came now." Sherlock's frantic plea makes him pause momentarily before he redoubles his efforts, "No, I'm coming in."
"Just do as I ask. Please." Something in Sherlock's tone makes John comply and he walks back to the pavement where he had stood previously. "Where?" John asks before Sherlock chokes out, "Stop there."
"Sherlock?" John becomes slightly worried when he doesn't see the infuriating detective and begins to look around. Before John can discern Sherlock's location a broken whisper
"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."
Oh God…
From there, the conversation becomes broken whispers and choked out words uttered by two heart-broken men. The last words Sherlock would speak to John where, "Goodbye, John. I love you." When the last word was uttered he threw his phone to the side, spread his arms out, and falls forward.
Sherlock.Sherlock.Sherlock. "SHERLOCK!"
It has been said that falling is a lot like flying. People say that there is a brief moment in which both fear the ultimate impact. Those who fly fear failure. They fear that they will not be able to complete the task before them. But to those who fall, they unfortunately, if they succeed...have a more permanent destination and fear that last moment of conscious thought.
To John it had seemed that Sherlock had been falling for hours. To him, everything had slowed down. He stood, helplessly, unable to do anything as he watched the love of his life, crumble to the ground. He watched as Sherlock, with a sickening thud, lay bloody and broken at the steps of St. Barts. It took only a moment before John was running to Sherlock's side. When he was only a fourth of the way from his broken detective, a cyclist crashed into him sending him tumbling to the cold pavement.
When he had finally became aware of his surroundings again, he thought he had saw a striking red thread burning brightly against his tan skin. He sat up, followed the 'imaginary' thread with his eyes, and noticed that the same red cord was attached to the shattered man just a few feet away from him. He closed his eyes briefly, but when he opened them again the threads were gone.
Having no time to stop and fully think about what he had thought he saw, John struggles to his feet and staggers forward to the bustling crowd. "I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please."
John stumbles forward and erases the remaining distance between them, wedges himself into the crowd forming around his love, and manages to wrap his trembling hand around Sherlock's lifeless wrist in order to check for a pulse. 'There isn't one.' His eyes well with tears and the once strong, proud army doctor wavers slightly before dropping to his knees beside his best friend. Before he has a chance to react fully, a few people take him by the shoulders and pull him away. " No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please." The crowd though is relentless and manages to drag him away until an ambulance arrives and then Sherlock is whisked away.
John again crumbles onto the ground, unable to keep standing due to the crushing finality and weight of it all. He is left alone then. There are no longer persistent hands holding him back, so now he lets his defenses fall and a heart-breaking sobs escapes from his lips. John's entire world has crumpled. His shoulders have slumped and he is defeated. He looks up to the sky in a silent plea for this all to have been a horrible nightmare. The only answer he receives is the sky opens up and there is a downpour of rain all around him.
Notes: It gets better I promise! They're... just going through a hard time. I have good plans for this story and it doesn't end here. :D I hope I have done The Fall some justice. I'm sorry this is so late! My life has been hectic lately! I'm in a play currently and have tons of lines to memorize, I have a HUGE test coming up (the kind that determines your future big), and I've been out of town *sweatdrop*. I'll try to have eight up by tomorrow! I'm pretty much finished, I just got to run it by my extraordinary Beta! Next chapter: The threads are finally explained! (sorta...kinda)
Edna Cloud:*blushes* Thank you! OMG you have made my day! I'm sorry though that I have made you cry. *hands tissue* I hope you don't hate me after this chapter! :/
Kestrel98:Thank you! I've seen tons of artwork with the red threads and thought it would make a great story :D. I've very glad you like this story! (I like the idea of our boys being made for each other, 'cause I am a soppy romantic at heart.)
Azile Signer:...Um...Sorry! *sweatdrop* Thank you for the lovely comment though!
Kiras70: Thank you! I'm glad you are enjoying it! :D
TheMysteriousGeek2345: ... I like you! You're funny! Our humors are very similar :D. I'm glad you like the story and I would love to have more reviews from you! (Well, everybody because they seriously make my day, but now I wanna put you in my pocket and keep you.)