Disclaimer: Nothing mine. Obviously.
Sherlock's conviction had been wrong. There was a God, and He got utterly miffed seeing Sherlock's enthusiasm towards the consultant criminal's games, temporary as it had been. (No one was allowed to use John. No one.) It was the only explanation for Moriarty being unstoppable. Sherlock had tried, Mycroft had tried, and still Sherlock had played right into his nemesis' hands. If this wasn't his punishment, he didn't know what it was.
There were still plans, sure, failsafes, and Moriarty wouldn't get Sherlock's life (presumably; no plan could be 100% safe). But he had no choice. He had to fall, or John would die. (Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, too.) Entirely unacceptable. No call off codes, thanks to Jim's deranged actions.
Just "Falling is like flying." How much had Mycroft told Moriarty, exactly? A fleeting "And I've never done either – what if I mess up?" inside his head, but Sherlock would have to learn. For John.
Mycroft would be here somewhere, supervising that the plan went through without a hitch, and it shouldn't have been comforting but it was.
He only had to take a step and let himself fall. Easy...not. Especially not with John pleading with him to stop it. "Stop it, Sherlock. You aren't a bloody bird." Didn't he know that? Really, John. Always stating the obvious. Why did Sherlock find that endearing when it was him – and him only?
When he'd been planning, Sherlock had supposed that the hardest part of it all would have been controlling his wings mid fall. And it was hard – so very hard. His wings yearned to spread – to catch the rush of air coming to meet him. Maybe not to fly, but surely to try.
He couldn't have that. For one, if he used his natural parachute, John would have hoped that it broke his fall enough for him to be able to survive. Giving him hope was the last thing Sherlock wanted, now.
Two, if the gun trained on John saw him fly – or try to – he'd shoot. Moriarty's fairytale didn't end with Sherlock gently gliding down after having vanquished his enemy. It ended with Sherlock's broken skull on the pavement and his brilliant brain in a puddle. They wouldn't give him exactly that – hopefully – but it needed to be convincing enough for the gunman to walk away satisfied... right into Mycroft's men's hands.
The knowledge that a puzzled killer would have shot – shot John – was enough to keep Sherlock's wings folded, rigid with fear, no matter how instinctively tempting spreading them looked right now. He had to trust Mycroft to save him. And if not, John at least would have been safe – and that was enough.
Once he had safely landed, he expected things to run smoothly. He'd never thought that far, far more difficult would be deceiving John. Not because he was a doctor, and sloppy work wouldn't be enough. Because of the sheer agony in John's pleading voice.
Sherlock knew that there was a bond -one that he was going to break. He knew that John would grieve. Hell, he counted on it for his cover. He just didn't think that John would be hurt that much. After all, he was losing only his impossible, freakish, often times annoying flatmate.
(And friend, yes, Sherlock could claim John as his friend – even if he didn't deserve it. The sleuth had never been entirely sure, Baskerville gave him a huge clue but not a flat-out declaration, but John had said as much now, hadn't he?)
John would be sad for a bit, which would help persuade anyone in Moriarty's web who still had doubts, and then he would realize that life without Sherlock was definitely better. No biohazards. No cockblocking (even if it wasn't Sherlock's fault, John always accused him of ruining his relationships).
Sherlock could just hope that his friend wouldn't like his new life so much that he refused any contact with him afterwards. At the very least John, incurable adrenaline addict that he was, should always like to come along on cases if they were dangerous enough. That's what Sherlock had reassured himself with.
But now, at his own funeral and faced with John's still raw feelings, all he wanted was to call to him and give him his miracle. But doing so wouldn't have been kind. What if he did, and in a few months Mycroft had to tell him that Moriarty's web had, after all, destroyed Sherlock and John was forced to grieve for him all over again? No, better keep the miracle for a later date, when it would be permanent. If it even happened.
Sherlock would certainly endeavour to make it happen. After all, John never asked for anything, not for himself. He certainly deserved at least one little thing. The detective so hoped that he was allowed to give him this.
God, he was missing John already, and the doctor wasn't even out of his sight. How was he supposed to go back to working alone?