A/N - The penultimate chapter!!!
The song "Forget Forgive" has been inspo for this chapter for like A FULL YEAR - A YEAR - I HAVE WAITED SO LONG
Ahhhhhhhhhh
Warnings - some swears but literally like 2 if I remember correctly
Other than that, there are probably a gazillion typos but I DON'T CARE I CAN EDIT LATER HEKK YEAH BABY WE ARE ALMOST DONE
(Note: I will not know what to do with myself after I finish this 😂)
Okay, enjoy!
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Once John had finished accusing Mycroft, Sherlock requested him to come to Bart's. John would have walked to keep under the radar but the hospital was far away from where he had met with the elder Holmes and so had sneakily caught a cab instead. He raced up the stairs though instead of using the elevator and burst into the lab, finding Sherlock sat on the floor against one of the desk, throwing a ball against the other.
"Got your message."
The detective caught the ball again, holding it tight, absentmindedly fiddling with it as he spoke, "The computer code is key to this. If we find it, we can use it - beat Moriarty at his own game."
"What d'you mean, 'use it'?"
"He used it to create a false identity," He looked up at John, "So we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook."
"And bring back Jim Moriarty again?"
"Somewhere in 221B," Sherlock said as he stood, resting his arms on the desk, "Somewhere - on the day of the verdict - he left it hidden."
"Uh-huh." John nodded, moving to stand beside his friend, "What did he touch?"
"An apple. Nothing else."
"Did he write anything down?"
"No." Sherlock huffed.
Before John moved away, he tapped his fingers on the desk top. Sherlock heard this, had looked at his friend's hands when he had done it and then looked at his own as he tapped on the table. Moriarty had tapped his fingers on the side of his chair and Sherlock knew he found it odd on the day so...
He tapped on the table again, in the same rhythm as Moriarty had.
A few lines of binary, given to him not by a note or words, but through the mere action of tapping.
He looked at John, sliding his hands off the surface and turned away.
You want to keep him safe, don't you?
Yes, of course he did. John meant everything to him as the second person to ever be amazed by his talent rather than pissed off by it. He was a good man, a good friend, and he never wanted anything to happen to him ever.
Then don't tell him.
Sherlock took his phone out and typed out a message:
<Come and play. Bart's Hospital roof. - SH>
<P.S. Got something of yours you might want back. - SH>
* * * * * * *
As dawn broke, an orange eye peeking through wintry blue clouds, the two men could still be found in the vacant lab. John had fallen asleep long ago, his head in his arms but Sherlock couldn't sleep at all and had instead been conversing with Mind Palace Elizabeth. She was sat on top of the desks, her knees brought up to her chest whereas he sat on a chair, resting his legs on the desk as he continued to play with the ball.
Look at us, sitting here like we own the place.
He was at the labs enough to probably have some sort of honorary staff privileges. This she smiled at.
So, will you come see me?
He thought about it.
You know you can't make up with just the imaginary version of me.
No, he couldn't.
So then, what's stopping you?
Nerves. Sherlock had treated her horribly that night, acknowledging that he had even caused her more pain by stepping on the gunshot wound to her shoulder. Her cry of agony echoed in his mind.
Yeah, that did hurt like a bitch.
That didn't help.
If you came to see me though, perhaps I would forgive and forget.
A shrill ring from a phone sounded, drawing his attention away. John awoke with a weary groan, picking up his phone to answer.
"Yeah, speaking...er, what? What happened? Is she okay?" John turned, distress prominent in his body language, "Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming."
"What is it?"
"Paramedics. Mrs Hudson - she's been shot." John spoke with a slight tremor in his voice.
"What? How?" Sherlock's voice was monotone.
It will hurt but it's for the best. To protect him. Like I tried to protect you and John by saying nothing about the gang.
"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract - Jesus. Jesus." John shut his eyes as he thought of their dear landlady, "She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go."
Be kind.
"You go." Sherlock said, looking at Elizabeth the whole time, too afraid to look at John in case he couldn't take the hurt in his friend's eyes, "I'm busy."
John turned, eyes wide, "Busy?"
"Thinking. I need to think."
"You need to - doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!"
"She's my landlady." He shrugged, still looking at Elizabeth.
"She's dying - " John yelled with a sweeping movement of his arm and then a sharp slice of his hand through the air, "You machine!"
I know you don't want this but it's for him. You're doing this to keep him safe. Keep that in mind. He won't understand, not yet but he will. One day.
John shook his head, "Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own."
"Alone is what I have." Sherlock argued, "Alone protects me."
"No." John said, opening the door to leave, "Friends protect people."
When his friend had left, he looked away from Elizabeth and at the door, the emotion being allowed to flood back into his being now. The thief appeared beside him, an imaginary hand on his shoulder.
Come see me. I'll understand.
* * * * * * * *
Sherlock slunk down the stairs, carefully pushing the door open to the ward where he knew Elizabeth was. Her private medical care room was at the end of the corridor. He had a whole corridor to back out. Slowing his walk, he ambled his way toward her room, trying to conjure the right words to say.
He paused outside a stranger's room before he continued.
A woman was sat beside her husband's bed, holding his hand, her thumb stroking his knuckle as her head lay on the side of the bed. Her heavy eyes stared intensely at the ring on his finger, her thumb now gliding over the smooth rose gold metal. Sniffling, she turned her head away, letting her forehead rest on the mattress now.
Judging by the ventilator, he assumed the husband was in a coma and seeing as the wife was still here, he assumed this had happened recently, if not yesterday. But the deductions melted away.
One thought remained though: Elizabeth had been there for him in hospital so why wasn't he there for her right now?
Turning on his heel, he continued down the corridor, a little bit faster now given he didn't know when Moriarty would respond.
He even felt the corners of his lips curl upwards, even if only a little.
But when he got to her room and entered without looking, he froze. He blinked, feeling as though he had been mistaken. He walked back out of the room, pacing back down the hall and double-checking the other rooms before returning to what he still knew to be Elizabeth's room at the end of the corridor.
But she wasn't in there.
The bed was made, pulled straight, the sheets smooth and neat. And where was the guard? There should have been a security guard but as he peeked his head outside of the room and looked both ways, he saw no one. Where was Elizabeth? Was he on the wrong floor? Did he get the wrong ward? Pivoting, he looked at the machines, of which all were turned off, he peered under the bed and looked in the bedside table but found no belongings of any sort.
"Is everything alright, sir?" A young voice asked.
He turned, looking at a nurse, "Where is she?"
The nurse frowned, "Who?"
"The woman that was here? Elizabeth Parrish? There was a security guard - " Sherlock saw the face of the young nurse fall. His chest felt as though the ribs were closing in on his lungs, "Wh - where is she?"
"You're Mr Holmes? I - I'm so sorry - "
"Where is she? Tell me where she is - where's Elizabeth?"
"She - she passed away early this morning." They spoke softly.
Sherlock blinked, shook his head. No. That couldn't be right. Swallowing, he opened his mouth but shut it again. A lump wedged itself in his throat. No. Not her. He didn't wish that on her, yes, he had been angry but never had he wished for this - so why did it happen?
"H - how?"
"Elizabeth had surgery twice. Her body was already weak and she caught an infection...she died from sepsis."
"You - you're certain? Absolutely?"
The nurse nodded, "I'm so sorry."
"Th - thank you."
Sherlock stepped past her, a ghost. Passed away? She had passed away? The lump in his throat wouldn't cease, refused to be swallowed. He had to check. He didn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. Molly would know, being a pathologist, she would have gotten her body -
The detective's phone buzzed. He paused. Looking at the screen, he saw a terribly timed reply.
<I'm waiting... - JM>
* * * * * * * *
Strange things happen in our sleep
Dreams follow into day
Moaning softly, Elizabeth cracked open her eyes, her sleepy sapphires catching the blur of the world outside as her head leant against a pane of glass. She sat up, rubbing her eyes with the hand of her uninjured arm and gave her attention to her environment. She was in the backseat of a car, a male driver in front.
"Hello?" She mumbled, "Who - who are you?"
"Your driver."
"But who are you?"
"Moriarty's driver."
"Your name?"
"Doesn't matter to you."
"Where are you taking me?"
"The airport. You have tickets to Belfast. A woman will meet you there."
"Who?"
"You'll see."
Frustrated by the vagueness of this man's responses, she opted to stop talking. She leant her head against the window again, seeing all those tall buildings rush past, seeing all the people race and flow down the pavements, heading to jobs, to shops, to partners, to family and to homes. A memory drifted into her head, a dream she had had a long ago: one of being accused of murder by Sherlock, of betraying him, of being sent away to a cell, sat alone in the dark and cold.
In this case, her consequence was the worst: freedom. A new life without the one she loved and the family she had been accepted into.
I'm hollow
* * * * * * * *
Don't tire yourself out
Thoughts turning in your head
The walk to the top of the building was the most painful - seeing Elizabeth in the corner of his eyes, continuously tricking him out of the truth was torture. But then, he didn't want to stop seeing her either. His head swam with grief, the most heartbreaking grief anyone could imagine.
It's okay.
It wasn't okay. Elizabeth was gone - she was just an imprint, a memory. He never got to ask for her side of the story, he never got to apologise or ask for forgiveness for not listening.
Sherlock, I love you.
A memory. A feeling. A loss.
He stopped at the door to the roof, turning to look at her. Elizabeth smiled softly at him, bringing a hand up to his cheek. Shutting his eyes, he could swear he felt her warmth on his skin and raised his hand to hold hers but ended up simply touching his own cheek. Sherlock opened his eyes - she was no longer there.
Inhaling sharply, he focused on detaching himself and then opened the door, letting daylight blind him for a moment.
Don't follow
* * * * * * * *
Forget
Forgive
Elizabeth was helped to her plane seat and gradually, she lowered herself into it, taking a breath as she sat back. Her stomach and shoulder ached but she found she had been given some strong painkillers in her pocket with note from Jim, instructing her to 'take only one every six hours'. It was the little things he did that told her Jim did care, even if it didn't appear to be consistent.
She looked out of her plane window, taking in the vast grounds of the airport, longingly gazing at the outline of London city past the tree line. Shutting her eyes, she pictured Sherlock, pictured him how she wanted to remember him: clever, witty and kind. She thought of the embraces they had shared, the kisses, the intimacy. She thought about how the self-proclaimed sociopath had taught her what real love was. She thought about how she would miss him.
"But I forgive you." She mumbled, gently stroking the glass.
I forgive you but now I need to forget you.
* * * * * * * *
Bad thoughts pushing at the neck
As Sherlock opened the door, he heard the familiar Bee Gees tune 'Stayin' Alive' playing from the phone of the man who was sat on the edge of the roof. For a moment, they both said nothing, both simply listening for a moment.
"Well." Moriarty began as Sherlock approached, "Here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock, and our problem, the final problem." He raised his phone, speaking in time with the music, "Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" Grimacing, he stopped the music, "It's just," his hand motioned a flat line, "Staying. All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."
Sherlock looked straight at Moriarty when he said this. He had to fight back a smile of triumph.
"And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them." He ran a hand over his face, peeking at the detective through his fingers, "Ah well." The monster stood, "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?" Circling the detective, he kept a mischievous smile on his face.
Sherlock finally spoke, "Richard Brook."
"Nobody seems to get the joke, but yo-o-ou do."
"Of course."
"Attaboy."
"Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach - the case that made my name."
"Just tryin' to have some fun." Moriarty said in a mock American accent as he continued to walk rings around him. Jim saw the detective's fingers tap the rhythm he had shown him back at the flat - he didn't have the heart to tell him just yet, "Good. You got that too."
Sherlock fought back another accomplished smile as the psychopath walked away from him now, "Beats like digits. Every beat is a one, every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me, hidden inside my head - a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."
Jim looked at the precious detective, his face void of every emotion, "I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy."
"Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty."
"No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy." Jim turned away, unable to contain his despair now, "This is too easy. There is no key, DOOFUS!"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. They couldn't be. They were binary. They were a code. He was certain.
"Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless. You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."
"But the rhythm - "
"'Partita number one.' Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach."
"But then how did - "
"Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison? Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants." Jim walked right up to him, pointing accusingly, "I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness - you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building - nice way to do it."
"Do it? Do - do what?" The cogs turned. Sherlock knew, "Yes, of course. My suicide." He took a slow walk over to the edge of the building where Moriarty also stood.
"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales. And pretty Grimm ones too." Moriarty looked over the edge with the detective.
Boy, was it a long way down.
Sherlock turned to him, "I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."
"Oh, just kill yourself." Moriarty rolled his eyes, "It's a lot less effort."
Sherlock looked away from him, his emotionless facade breaking for a moment. He didn't want to go - didn't want to leave John. Sherlock had sent him away to protect him from Moriarty again but who would protect him?"
"Go on. For me." Jim then squealed, "Ple-e-ease?"
The detective grabbed him roughly by his coat, holding the criminal over the edge of the building, "You're insane."
"You're just getting that now?"
Sherlock threatened to drop him and he gave an amused yelp, his arms hanging out by his sides.
"How's Elizabeth?"
The detective paused, didn't he know?
"She - "
Jim laughed manically at seeing Sherlock's more vulnerable side again, "She's already dead. Infection, they said, didn't they? Or rather, I made them say. Because...infections aren't a mysterious cause of death are they?"
"What did you do?" The detective growled.
"Well, John was how I got to you last time. But seeing how close you got to my thief, I thought I might make a sacrifice." Jim grinned, "Oh, she cried for you, Sherlock." He began to mock her voice, "'Sherlock will save me, Jim. You won't get away, Jim. You won't do this to me, you said you wouldn't, Jim. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!' The key word she was missing was promise. I never promised I wouldn't kill her."
"You - "
"Yes." Jim nodded, teeth bared in a crazy grin, "Tell me how much it hurts to lose someone you love, go on, tell me, I'll understand."
Sherlock threatened to drop him again and Moriarty sent him a chilling glare.
"Woah! If you die - think about it - if you die, you can be with her forever."
"No."
"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."
Again, Sherlock scowled at him.
"Your friends will die if you don't."
"John?"
"Not just John. Everyone."
"Mrs Hudson?"
"Everyone."
"Lestrade?"
Jim nodded, a cold smile creeping onto his face, "Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's no stopping them now."
Sherlock drew him back up onto the building, still holding his enemy by his coat. He stared straight through him. The detective had already lost Elizabeth, he didn't want to lose anyone else.
Jim ripped Sherlock's hands off of his coat, "Unless my people see you jump." He paused, his eyes sending the detective a look of malevolence, "You can have me arrested. You can torture me. You can do anything you like with me but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die...unless - "
"Unless I kill myself - complete your story." Sherlock kept his eyes on the ground.
Puts pressure on the chest
"You've gotta admit that's sexier."
"And I die in disgrace."
"Of course." Jim nodded (God, he was slow today, he thought), "That's the point of this." He looked down below again, seeing the human ants rush off in every direction, "Look, you've got an audience now. Off you pop. Go on." He urged, turning his back on him.
Sherlock took an unnerving step up onto the ledge, gazing down at the pavement beneath him. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to go. He was hoping to stay. The thought of leaving them all behind, of not seeing Elizabeth again got to him and he felt his chest compress again.
An invisible hand held his own.
We'll be together if you do. You don't have to send the message.
But John. He couldn't leave his friend. There had to be another way out of this.
"I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."
"Would you give me...one moment, please. One moment of privacy, please?"
Will you join me?
"Of course." Jim walked away.
You've bought yourself time. Think. What did Jim say that you can turn back on him?
He thought intensely.
Then, it clicked. And thank God it did, he thought. Smiling, he began to let out a triumphant chuckle, looking out across the landscape. He didn't have to go. He could stay.
"What?" He heard Jim roughly shout at him, "What is it? What did I miss?"
Turning to look at the consulting criminal, arrogant as ever, he skipped back onto the roof and paced over to Moriarty to explain, "'You're not going to do it.' So the killers can be called off, then: there's a recall code or a word or a number." Now Sherlock began to circle Moriarty, "I don't have to die," He paused to sing, "If I've got you."
"Oh!" Jim thought this was a gorgeous little moment of false hope, "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"
"Yes. So do you."
"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to." And trust him, Moriarty could testify the truth of that statement.
"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" Sherlock leant in close to say, "I. Am. You. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."
"Na-a-ah." Jim shook his head, unconvinced, "You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."
"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."
Moriarty stared at him, stared into his eyes, searching for something, a spark of mania but found nothing, "No, you're not." A grin gradually slathered onto his face, "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you, Sherlock Holmes."
Jim offered his hand to the detective and Sherlock frowned, but accepted the handshake. Moriarty kept nodding now - the moment he was waiting for. He knew Sherlock would be reluctant and truthfully, had tried to get through it without doing this but he saw now: this was the only way.
"Thank you. Bless you." He had whispered, his eyes shining slightly, "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out." Jim nodded more, sliding his hand into his coat pocket, "Well, good luck with that."
He pulled a gun out, putting the barrel in his mouth. Eyes widened, Sherlock had gasped, backing away as he pulled the trigger, a dull crack sounding before the sullen thud as Moriarty's corpse hit the floor.
No. No, Sherlock thought as he watched the blood pool out onto the concrete.
He was supposed to win, not Jim.
Calm sorrow
* * * * * * *
Look close, even closer it's not black
As the plane started moving, Elizabeth switched on her TV, flicking through the channels, searching for a distraction.
She kept trying to remind herself that while it hurt now, it would stop hurting one day. Trying to look at it positively, she focused on the 'new life' that Jim had mentioned. A figure hovered by the seat beside her before he lowered himself into it - just a person who had quickly had to switch seats.
It's just the shade
"I'm guessing watcher."
"Hm?" She looked over at her seat partner.
He nodded at her TV, "Four types of people on planes: talkers, sleepers, watchers and readers."
"Oh." She nodded, "And you're a talker then?"
"You got me." He gave her a charming smile that she couldn't help but reciprocate.
Just shadow
* * * * * * *
Forget
Forgive
Sickness consumed his entire being as he stood there panting, thinking. A nauseous groan left him as he spun away from the body, raising his hands above his head. Think!
Oh, he didn't want to go.
You have to make a decision. You don't have to like it. You just have to do it because there are three lives on the line - your friends' lives.
Yes, yes, he knew that. He knew that. He knew he had to go. He couldn't say goodbye. Not properly, Moriarty would have something in place if he told them, he felt this in his bones.
Send the message. Ask for help. Or join me.
He dared to look back at Jim, his eyes still wide open. Above him stood his vision of Elizabeth.
"I am - I'm scared. You asked me to be more honest. I don't want to go." Tears pricked his eyes, his chest rose and fell quickly as he stared at her, "I don't want to go."
It will be quick.
"No, I want to stay."
But you're sick of this aren't you? All these silly little people and their silly little minds? It's so peaceful now. You don't even have to jump, you can just let the wind take you.
"No. No!" He shouted.
Snatching the phone out of his pocket, he sent a text to his brother. It was done now. He had to go. He hoped he would be forgiven because he certainly couldn't forget those closest to him. Maybe one day he could see them all again.
Forget
Forgive
* * * * * * *
No one knows
We just pretend
The pair laughed. It was a stupid joke but it had earned a sweet laugh all the same. Elizabeth looked at the man beside her: he was ginger, his hair long enough to be tied back into a man-bun; he had a gorgeously freckled face and his eyes were like hers - like sapphires.
"I - I don't know your name." She smiled as her laughter calmed.
"Ethan. Ethan Murphy. And what is the name of the lovely lady I find myself in the company of?"
"E - " She paused, shook her head and laughed, "Sorry, I blanked on my own name then. My name's Eliza Parton. Like Dolly - "
"The sheep?"
She giggled, "Yes, of course."
"Nah, I'm just messin' wit' ya. Dolly Parton has quite the set of lungs though."
"She does, she does - "
"And how're your lungs?"
"Ironically, not as good. In fact - "
The news report on the TV in front of her caught her eye as she processed the headline. Her face dropped. Falsely, she had believed it wouldn't happen but there it was, on the news.
"Something wrong?"
"No, no, I just - Oh God.." She felt sick, couldn't even take her eyes off the report.
"Hey, hey, something's clearly wrong."
She shook her head but it was a stupidly futile attempt to brush it off. He was gone. Sherlock Holmes was dead. Elizabeth put her head in her hands, sobbing quietly as Ethan gingerly rubbed her back, peering at the news report too in order to make some sense of her response.
* * * * * *
Putting on a strong face
To our friends
Sherlock stepped up onto the ledge, giving London one last longing look. This city was his home, the place where he had miraculously found friends and family alike, the city where he had fallen in and had lost love. How could he leave this place?
You're doing it for them.
"I know. Doesn't make it any easier."
Holding the phone in his hand, he dialled John's number, watching his best friend exit a cab far below as he did.
Phone calls unexpected
John picked up, "Hello?"
"John." The detective watched him jog over to the entrance of the hospital.
"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"
"Turn around and walk back the way you came now."
"No, I'm coming in."
"Just do as I ask!" He shouted desperately, but then his voice faltered, "Please."
The soldier did as he was told, although confused, "Where?"
"Stop there."
"Sherlock?"
"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."
He watched as John looked up, hearing the worry in his friend's tone, "Oh God."
"I - I - I can't come down, so we'll - we'll just have to do it like this."
"What's going on?"
Keep calm. This is for him, for Mrs Hudson, for Lestrade.
"An apology. It's all true."
"Wh-what?"
His friend looked so small down there, on the tarmac, gazing up at him. Why did it have to happen like this? It wasn't fair on any of them. But this was the way it had to be. No one could change it though he had tried his best.
"Everything they said about me." He said, sending a brief look to the corpse of the man who had ruined his life, "I invented Moriarty."
"Why are you saying this?"
"I'm a fake." He couldn't help but tear up at admitting a lie like this.
"Sherlock - "
"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly." Sherlock choked on his words, "In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."
"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met - the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"
"Nobody could be that clever." He said, misty-eyed.
"You could."
Sherlock laughed, salty tears dripping from his chin and soaking into his coat. The belief John had in him broke his heart further. He wished he didn't have to do this to him. But he had to. He had to break his trust - he had to do something more, anything, to make it easier for John to move on.
"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."
"No." John wouldn't have it and began walking towards the hospital, "All right, stop it now."
"No!" Sherlock instructed, reaching out as though he could push his friend further away, "Stay exactly where you are. Don't move."
"All right." John retracted his steps.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"
It's okay. It's going to be okay.
"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?"
Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, "Goodbye, John."
"No." John said, his voice faltering, "Don't."
But Sherlock gazed down at his friend, the task of which he had to undertake weighing upon him heavily. Everything made him feel heavy - the emotion, the exhaustion, the exit he was having to take. Could he really do it?
You couldn't save me, but you can save your friends now, Sherlock. I'll be with you the whole way. Take the fall.
The detective hung up, throwing the phone on the concrete ground behind him. Taking one last look at London, he took a breath.
Let the wind take you.
"SHERLOCK!" He heard John scream from ground.
But no amount of yelling could persuade him not to do this. Not when his friend's life was at stake. Spreading his arms like the wings of a raven, he shut his eyes and leant forwards, letting a soft gust give him the final push.
And then he was falling...
We're on the mend
* * * * * * *
Lestrade found John, wandering the streets near to the hospital in a dazed state. After Sherlock had fallen, after he had been taken away by hospital staff, he wanted to go in with him but, knowing he was gone, he couldn't face it.
Not feeling Sherlock's pulse had been enough to tell him his friend was never coming back.
The inspector pulled his car up on the curb where he was passing, getting out of his car to call after the army doctor, racing down the pavement. Regardless of his calling, the doctor still kept walking. People heading the other way had to move out of the soldier's way because he just kept going in a straight line, stopping for nothing.
"John!" Greg said again when he was near him now, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him, "John, stop! Stop, mate, look at me."
The doctor blinked at him, croaking, "Greg?"
"Yeah, mate, yeah. Listen, come with me, I'll get you home."
"We - were running from you. You'll take me to a - to a cell."
"No, John." Lestrade shook his head, "It - It's changed now. I'll get you home."
"He - He's gone, Greg. He's gone, he's really gone."
"I - I know. Come on, John, come on, let's go." Greg ushered him back through the crowd, back towards his car, helping the soldier into the passenger seat.
Doorbells echo through
The hall
At hearing the ringing, Mrs Hudson opened the door, a cheery look on her face when she saw Greg and John, hoping that the mess had been sorted but this hopeful look didn't linger when she acknowledged John's vacant expression and Lestrade's upset frown.
"Wh - what's wrong? You look terrible, John - are you well?"
Greg took one look at John and knew he, as the inspector, had to inform the dear, old landlady, "Mrs Hudson, I'm very sorry to inform you..."
John drowned out the words, drowned out the conclusion that he had already came to. He simply slipped past the landlady, trudging up the stairs, the loss weighing on his back as though he were holding up a mountain. When he stood in the doorway to the living room, he took one look at Sherlock's black leather chair and began to cry, falling to his knees with a thump on the wooden floor. He moved to lean against the door frame, staring at Sherlock's chair the entire time, watching it blur into a black dot every time another tear drop began to form in his eye.
He heard the wail from Mrs Hudson, a cry that sounded from her as though she had lost a child and she did. Sherlock had been a son to her and one she didn't know she needed most until he was gone.
So empty
* * * * * *
Old friends unrejected
"We're sorry, Molly...we'll leave you to it."
The doctor and nurse who had brought the supposedly dead body of the one and only Sherlock Holmes walked out of the morgue. The door whined shut and the pathologist turned to Sherlock who had been manouevered onto the metal table, still in his coat that had now been sprayed with a pint of donated blood.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, they're gone."
The detective sat up on the metal table, his face not one of relief but instead heavy sorrow. The registrar paused by him, sympathy projecting from her dark eyes. Nervously, she moved to hold his hand.
"Are you...okay?"
He slowly looked up at her and gulped, remembering what she had said yesterday, "N - no."
Molly shuffled away to grab a cloth, wetting it under the tap of the lab sink as Sherlock turned to let his legs dangle off the side of the slab. She returned, gently washing the blood from his face. Sherlock stared past her, at a loss for words. Softly, she took his hand again.
"Do you - do you want to see her?"
He met her gaze. Part of him wanted to say yes, to say goodbye but he didn't want to say another goodbye. Not when she was there, stood beside Molly, full of a silent will to stay. He didn't want to damage the last image he had kept of her in his mind palace. He didn't want to lose her ghostly beauty.
Sherlock shook his head.
"Okay." She whispered, "Wait here. I'll fetch my car. Did you want to go to Mycroft's or - "
"Could I - " He swallowed, "Could I stay with you? Just for a short while I can't - I can't face my brother right now."
Molly nodded, "Of course."
* * * * * * *
All was quiet at Baker Street.
The doctor sat in his chair, safe, staring at the chair opposite him as though he could manifest his friend's presence again.
The saved landlady cried in her own flat, making a batch of ginger snaps between bouts of tears.
* * * * * * *
All was quiet at Scotland Yard.
The inspector sat in his office, unaware of the heroic act that had let him live on, head resting on his hand as he watched the live news report on his computer.
The sergeant and the forensic scientist stood together, sharing a guilty silence as they watched the news on the department TV - they had never meant for this to happen and yet it had.
* * * * * * *
All was quiet on the plane.
The thief and the man sat together, his arm wrapped around her as she slept her sorrows away.
* * * * * * *
All was quiet at the mansion the day after.
The elder Holmes, though knowing the stories were untrue, solemnly read the papers that spoke of 'the suicide of the fake genius'.
The ex-surgeon placed a reassuring hand on his knee, giving a simple look that conveyed her thoughts that the detective would be fine.
* * * * * * * *
All was quiet on the boat Capers the day after.
The sniper sat reading the same newspaper, reading for any mentions of the criminal.
The letter for 'Sophia' sat on the table, opened, edited out of spite.
Cold spells followed by the sun
It will be...
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