John was dragged back to consciousness with what seemed to be painstaking slowness. The first thing he became aware of was that his head hurt. A lot. Then came the dull ache of his wrists and ankles. It was several moments before John could identify the cold, solid surface he was sitting on and that was pressing into his back as some sort of metal.
It was clear he was somewhere outside; the cool breeze brushed past his closed eyelids, and he could hear the distant bustle of London traffic, but it all sounded strangely muted, as if separated by a pane of glass.
When John finally summoned up the courage to blink open his eyes, he jumped slightly in shock, causing his wrists and ankles to throb painfully. He was sitting on what seemed to be an old fire escape on the side of a decrepit brick building, his throbbing wrists and ankles explained by the rope that bound them to the rusting metal of the railing. The aging metal seemed to sag precariously under his weight every time he shifted.
John took a few deep breaths, tilting his head up and gulping in lungfuls of the cold, fresh air. It was particularly chilly that night, and it came to no surprise of John's when he realised he couldn't feel his fingers, as a result of the temperature and rope wrapped tightly around his limbs.
It was late evening, John estimated by the look of the sky. He had been unconscious all afternoon. I hope I don't have a concussion, John thought as pain shot through the back of his skull again, Although I'd have to suppose it's very likely.
John noticed the faint glimmerings of the first stars poking their way out of the grey cover of the London sky. He hated to admit it, but this calmed him slightly.
John's stomach dropped as he felt the rickety fire escape abruptly scrape downwards another inch against the bricks. It wouldn't last much longer, doubtless; it was barely connected to the crumbling building anymore, and John seemed to be near the roof...It would be quite a long fall to the ground.
John drew in a deep breath and continued to look up at the sky, to the shimmering stars that continued to emerge as the sky became gradually darker. He accepted his fate – He hadn't stayed in the office when Mycroft told him to, and now he was paying the price. Was it Moriarty again? John didn't know, didn't care, but just wanted to end this horrible suspense (he gritted his teeth as the fire escape sagged further with a perilous creak). If he was going to die, just let him die already…
Unless…
But no, John couldn't rely on Sherlock to save him every time. Sherlock probably didn't even care enough to realise that John had been missing all afternoon, but Mycroft would have been sure to say something.
John shook his head, wincing when pain shot across the back of his skull. No, he was truly alone this time…
He heard his name, barely a whisper on the wind: John. John stared up at the glittering stars; was this how it was going to end? Him, helpless, alone, with only the wind to mourn his passing?
He heard it again, a little louder this time. "John!"
Was that truly the wind? Or was it…No, John refused to get his hopes up. He was doomed to die alone here; why would that change?
"John, are you alright?"
Hearing things. Just hearing things.
"John, I'm coming to help you. Don't move, alright?"
And suddenly, the fire escape dipped precariously under the weight of another body, creaking in protest as something, or someone, made their way up the side of the building.
Could John really be imagining this? He accepted the fact that he could be imagining the deep, familiar baritone, but this? The definite weight of another person pulling themselves up the collapsing twisted metal on the side of these crumbling bricks? And the frenzied head of black curls framing ivory cheekbones and two glimmering, silver stars?
"Sherlock," John breathed, his throat dry and gravelly. Sherlock was here, really here, and he was going to save him, and then they were going to go back home and John would make tea, and they would laugh about their adventures and order take-out, and maybe John could convince Sherlock to actually eat something for once, because he hasn't eaten since Tuesday…
"John," Sherlock whispered, his bright eyes sparking when they met John's. "Hold on, I'm nearly there, John…"
Sherlock pulled himself up, landing lightly and almost cat-like on the rickety metal beside John. He felt it swaying dangerously under the weight of two fully grown men.
John barely noticed that Sherlock was untying the knots at his wrists and ankles, as he was so heavily focused on his eyes – The two bright focus points that kept him from being pulled under to unconsciousness by the dull ache in his head.
Sherlock seemed to notice this. He spoke quickly but firmly.
"John, you've got to stay with me, alright? Stay conscious. We're going to get out of here, but I need your help. Please."
Although Sherlock spoke firmly, John could have sworn he saw something pleading behind Sherlock's shimmering eyes.
Sherlock must have gotten the knots untied, because he helped John stand up. The movement caused the rotting metal to drop away from the bricks a few more inches, and the two men lurched, almost plummeting over the railing and falling to the pavement below.
"Sherlock, what – " John began, but Sherlock cut him off with a tug on his arm.
"John, we've got to climb up here where it's stable, we haven't got much time…"
Sherlock began helping John lift himself onto a metal grate that was about as high as his chin, but his spinning head and numb hands were making it difficult.
The moment Sherlock lifted John's legs up over the edge, the broken fire escape dropped with a sickening groan, and John saw Sherlock's shocked face plunge downward before he could even react.
"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, clambering over the side, hoping and praying, but still half expecting to see his friend's crumpled body crushed under the metal remains of the fire escape as they crashed to the ground with a deafening clanging…
But Sherlock was there, hanging on with his fingertips to the bottom rung of a rusting ladder on the side of the building, legs swinging precariously far above the metal ruins.
"Sherlock…oh thank god…thank god…" John breathed, clutching onto the railing of the sturdier metal platform he was sitting on to keep upright. Sherlock was too far away to swing over to John's platform, but he could probably reach the roof with little trouble. Sherlock seemed to have noticed this as well, because he began climbing.
"Just hold on, John, alright? Hold on…" he called as he reached for the rungs over his head.
John watched carefully, his breath catching in his chest whenever Sherlock's fingers slipped on the crumbling bricks, but he never fell. The detective was nearly to the top when he reached for the final rung, and John was almost relieved enough to breathe normally. But without warning, the ladder began to slip away from the wall, the bolts that held it to the bricks falling away completely.
Faster than John thought was possible, Sherlock's pale hand shot out and grabbed the gutter that ran along the roof, and he hung there, preparing to pull himself up onto the building.
John thought he might have passed out. Once he found his voice, he yelled, "Get down here already, you bloody bastard, before I die of a heart attack watching!"
John could hear Sherlock's low chuckle, and a barely perceptible mutter of, "Now there's my John."
John could see Sherlock's wiry arm's flexing, straining to drag himself onto the roof, but suddenly, something stopped him. Sherlock was back to clutching on with his fingertips, every passing second potentially his last.
"Sherlock!" John tried yelling again, and it emerged as a sort of hoarse croak. But Sherlock didn't hear him; he seemed distracted by something on the roof that John couldn't see. There was a large metal box, probably an electrical station of some sort, that was preventing John from seeing anything on that side of the roof. What John could see, however, was the sudden and uncharacteristic terror in Sherlock's eyes. But Sherlock was going to make it up there, he had to make it, he had to, for John…
"Sherlock," John whispered one more time, and he saw Sherlock's iridescent gaze flick over to John, one final time. The final time.
Sherlock seemed to have been thrown backwards by some force invisible to John. Before John could so much as move, Sherlock was falling, no, flying (no one could fall so gracefully, absolutely no one), his long black coat billowing around his thin frame as he seemed to hang, suspended in midair, pale skin of his hands and face glowing in the starlight and black curls framing his face almost elegantly.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the moment ended. And John was left, alone, to stare at the most horrible, the most heartbreaking sight he had ever laid eyes upon. It couldn't be real. Nothing could be that dreadful, nothing. It must be a mistake, a ghastly mistake. And John had to get to Sherlock.
