"Hello?"

"John."

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

"No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask! Please."

"Where?"

"Stop there."

"Sherlock?"

"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh, God."

"I…I…I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology. It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock."

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson. And Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. The first time we met. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister. Right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

With a broken laugh, John says, "You let me call you a machine."

Sherlock's head drops a little, "I am a machine."

John takes a deep, shaky breath. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

On the other end, Sherlock sounds no better than he does. "It was all a lie. All of it."

Images, flashes, they all cross John's mind with impeccable palpability, as if he's reliving the last few years in less than a second. One particular image, from not that long ago, slows down. He and the man now standing several stories above, lying together, laughing. "All of it?" he chokes out.

Sherlock also takes a fairly unstable breath, likely seeing the same moment in his mind. "No," he murmurs into the phone. "Not that, John. Never that." He's whispering, not to hide his voice, but just out of the pure intimacy of the moment.

John drops his head, fighting the tears that threaten. He straightens up, clears his throat. "Sherlock, I'm coming up," he declares.

"No, John! Just…" His words are pained, as if it physically hurts to say them. John sees him throw a glance over his shoulder, even from so far below. When he turns back, he continues, "Just stay down there."

"Sherlock," he starts, letting his eyes close for a moment. "Whatever this is, whatever you're going through, we can fix it, we can fight it…"

He lets out a wet laugh, and murmurs, "John, please."

"No, all right, stop it now."

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

"All right."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call, it's, um…It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No, don't."

"Um…Mmm, right, you…You told me once…that you weren't a hero. Um… There were times I didn't even think you were human…but, let me tell you this, you were the best man, and the most human…human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, okay? So…there. I was…I was so alone…and I owe you so much. Oh, please there's just one more thing, right? One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be…dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this."

His breathing is ragged and the tears have long broken the barrier he'd assumed was unbreakable. "I, uh…I…miss you, all right?" he spits out. "Is that what you want me to say?"

He wipes at some of the tears uselessly. "I, uh, I miss you. I miss…going on cases with you, I miss your crazy, insane habits that drove me mad, your violin, you sitting across from me in your chair, spitting out impossible theories…I miss it all."

His legs feel unstable and he briefly considers sitting down in the grass at the end of his grave, but he doesn't. He still has more to say.

"That, uh…that night, we, uh…" he can't speak it aloud, it's too difficult, he just can't, "That night, you told me we were in this together. Partners."

Even at the time, John hadn't been entirely sure of what Sherlock had meant by it. Did he mean in work, as friends?

But now, it's crystal clear. He had meant all of it. They were two very different halves of a very unusual whole, and now John felt empty, incomplete. It's all to cliché for him to even say, but he can't make himself feel any differently.

"Please," he pleads, "Please, just…" He pauses to take a breath, to slow himself down. "Just don't let that be a lie, okay?"

"Not that, John. Never that," he thinks to himself.

"You're not a machine, Sherlock. You never have been. You're just…" He doesn't know how to finish that sentence. He tries again, "You just…put up these walls. I was just lucky enough to get a look inside."

"I know this sounds strange, Sherlock," he whispers, "but I'm falling." He takes a deep breath, tries to get his breathing under control but it's not working. "It's ridiculous but I feel like I…" It's all rushing out now, "I fell with you that day and I'm still falling and it's tearing me apart."

He sobs once, twice. "One last miracle, Sherlock. If anyone could pull it off, it's you, you bloody idiot."

Fresh tears come, and he drops his head. One falls to the grass below, soaking into the soil beneath.

"It's you," he murmurs softly.

A/N: Established Johnlock take on Reichenbach. I put in the original dialogue mostly just for context. R+R appreciated.