A/N I wrote this before the airing of 'The Reichenbach Fall,' so I used the traditional Reichenbach setup, Swiss waterfall and all. :3
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
VI. Break Away
The water is everywhere, swirling in eddies and whirlpools, foaming like the mouth of a rabid beast, with dark, slick rocks jutting out—teeth, deadly, hungry teeth. His trousers and the legs concealed beneath them are frozen with liquid ice, the inevitable chill working its way into his very bone marrow. Everything he wears is heavy and sodden. The wind cuts through the torn, muddy remains of his coat like an avenging knife, and it whips furiously around his knees, throwing his bloodied hair over his forehead and aggravating the wound there where it had scraped against rock. His skull throbs underneath the external injury, along with something unidentifiable in his chest, which seems to flare up every time he thinks of what he has to do next.
A voice cuts over the deafening rush of water, ricocheting off the gleaming boulders framing it—a terrified, raw, broken sound, laden with despair.
"Sherlock!"
He closes his eyes briefly, as though that can block out the agony of his own name. That's his voice, John's voice, and he's never heard it so emotional, so… tormented. He wants more than anything to locate one of the thin, winding trails off the cliff side, to stumble his way back to the top, to tell John that, yes, he is alive, and that Moriarty's dead and everything will be okay now.
But he can't. He can't, because bloody Moran is still out there, and though he honestly couldn't care less whether or not he himself ishurt or killed—it would be worth it to see John's smile one last time—it would endanger his flatmate, as well. And that's something that he just can't risk. Moriarty and Moran both have done enough damage already. John doubtless wouldn't think this any decent sort of reason to withhold, but it is. He'll be able to move on, eventually. Isn't that what people do after losing a—a loved one?
For some reason, thinking of himself in this context hurts, causes his throat to go oddly sore and his eyes to sting. He raises his hand in puzzlement, pressing it to his cheek, and when he pulls it away, his fingers are damp with moisture saltier than that from the Falls.
"Sherlock! Sherlock!"
Each syllable is a rough, twisting stab into his chest, compressing his lungs so that it hurts to breathe. He begins wading blindly through the chaotic pool, thoughtless, fighting uselessly to escape the awful, wrenching sobs of his friend that are now echoing in the misty air around him.
Please, John. Stop. It's fine now, it's okay. I'm here, I'm alive… I'm alive and he's not, he's dead, I've won… we've won…!
It crosses his mind that he could try and let John know of his fate somehow—but, no, that wouldn't work. John's too idiotic, too absolutely stupid to keep it a secret…
John. His John. His stupid, wonderful, brave, brilliant John who will be alone now, who will go home to an empty 221b that he probably won't be able to afford on his own… he'll be leaving, then, leaving and going to live somewhere else… maybe with one of his girlfriends, who might even become a wife…
Sherlock will be back, though, back before that has time to happen. Within a year. Two years, surely… three. Yes, that's how long it will take before Moran is satisfied, most likely. Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days.
In three years, I'll come back, John. Don't you dare forget about me. Keep counting the days, because I'll be back, and to hell with Sebastian Moran.
I will be back for you.
With that final parting thought, he starts off, and he doesn't look back.