“This phone call.. it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.” Sherlock, stood on the edge of oblivion, his eyes locked on John.
“Leave a note when?” John stood, the phone pressed delicately to his ear. A breath escaped his lips at the next words spoken by his best friend.
“No don’t!” But it was all too late. He’d already jumped. John couldn’t stop his feet from moving as he ran across the street to the ground where Sherlock had fallen. The cyclist didn’t see him before it was too late and knocked him to the ground, sending him even more delirious than he was before.
John managed to get up onto his knees, noticing the sprawled out body of his fallen comrade. He ran, pushing people out of the way. “Let me through, he’s my friend!” he shouted before dropping onto his knees. “Oh god.”
* * *
“I would have done anything in that moment to stop him from jumping you know.” John sat with Lestrade in a small coffee shop, just discussing the fun the three of them had. Greg nodded.
“I know he used to never call me Greg but he was still an incredible man.” Lestrade sighed. They both took a sip of their coffee just as Lestrade’s phone began to ring. “Look, I need to go and sort this out, I’ll catch up with you later.” He drank down the rest of his drink, gave John the money to pay for both and left, talking fast on his phone, before stopping by the window, looking at John with sad eyes and running down the street to Scotland Yard.
“If Sherlock saw you here, well.” A familiar voice sounded in John’s ear. He looked up and noticed a face, one he hadn’t seen in a while on purpose because of the memories connected with that face.
“Why now Mycroft. Why now?” he sighed as Mycroft took a seat.
“Moriarty’s network has gone, it took two years but it’s gone.” He looked sad, not his normal sad, a deep sadness like he’d lost anything connected to Sherlock now Moriarty was truly gone. “Just thought you should know.” John’s phone began to ring.
“What does he want.” He sighed answering it. “What Lestrade you just left.”
“Just letting you know that I might need you down here soon.” He sounded like he was panicking.
“Greg calm down and breathe” he could hear him taking deep breaths on the other end of the phone.
“There’s been a murder. Third one this week and they’re all linked. I need you to examine the body, Molly isn’t in work and I can’t call her in, I can’t contact her.” John sighed standing up and walking over to the counter to pay.
“I’m on my way.”
* * *
John stood at the grave and sighed. “You... you told me once that you weren't a hero.” He paused and took a deep breath. “There were times that 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 have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.” Tears were streaming down his face as he spoke, staring at the tombstone that simply read Sherlock Holmes “And so... there. I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this...” he placed a hand softly on the top of the stone and sighed. His breathing was quick and shallow.
He turned and walked away before a fresh load of tears could take over his body.
A familiar face stood in the shadows.
“Don’t be dead. I can promise that John.”
* * *
“I’d say he’s been dead less than 2 hours. It doesn’t look like anything other than natural causes unless it’s a poison.” John was kneeling on the floor next to the body. Channel your inner Sherlock, John.
He took the man’s hand from the floor, noticing a gold wedding band. “He’s married”
“Don’t do a Sherlock.” Lestrade sighed.
“Do you want to solve this.” John looked at him seriously.
“Then shut up.” He carried on with his examination.
About 30 minutes later, he had his verdict. “He looks about 45. I can’t be sure. His wallet says he’s Frank Marshall…”
Lestrade looked at him.
“I think I’ll be fine now, John, go home, get some rest. It's been a hard day.”
* * *
“You have been busy, haven’t you? Quite the busy little bee.” Mycroft sat down at the desk in the middle of the empty, grey room and looked across the room.
“Moriarty’s network. Took me two years to dismantle it.” The voice spoke loud and clear.
“And you’re confident you have?” Mycroft twirled a pen around his finger staring intently at the shadowy figure sitting on the chair in the corner.
“The Serbian site was the last piece of the puzzle.” The voice was soft and gently, yet had a hardness of many years of knowledge, though could only be a young man.
“Yes. You got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme.” He knew the man, sitting across from him. Knew exactly who he was.
A while later and the figure was still in the shadows, talking to Mycroft.
“Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock? Going ‘undercover’? Smuggling my way into their ranks like that. The noise. The people.”
Sherlock simply replied. “I didn’t know you spoke Serbian.” He ignored Mycroft’s babble about the Slavic roots, frequent Turkish and German loan words, but answered him anyway. “Hm. You’re slipping.”
“Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all.”
* * *
“I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted.” Sherlock spoke to Mycroft in the same room. After getting himself presentable and somewhat normal looking.
“You think so?” Mycroft asked.
“Hm. Pop into Baker Street.” He began tucking in his white shirt quickly. “Who knows, jump out of a cake” he said sarcastically.
“Baker Street? He isn’t there anymore. Why would he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.” Mycroft said, looking at the projected image of his friend.
“What life? I’ve been away.”
* * *
John Watson. Walking the streets alone he used to walk with Sherlock. Back to Baker Street. He didn't know what took him there, but his feet carried him the familiar walk to the front door.
“The knockers straight.” He sighed, pushing it back to the side, knowing Sherlock never liked it.
“Who is it!” a soft voice called out from up the stairs.
“It’s me Mrs Hudson!” John replied.
“Oh John! How nice to see you! I’m in your flat come up!” he followed the voice and entered the flat. He smiled at the sight.
The two chairs opposite each other by the fire, the small, yet watchable, TV in the corner, the sofa by the wall, the bright yellow smiley face with the bullet hole in the walls, the bookcase.
All the small things that made it home.
“Do you want a cup of tea love?” Mrs Hudson asked. He nodded and sat down in his chair.
It always was his chair, never Sherlock’s.
There was a creaking noise on the stairs, neither of the two noticed, but Mycroft, creeping up the stairs with his brother trailing behind him.
“We shouldn’t be here he doesn’t live here anymore.” Mycroft whispered and Sherlock sighed.
“He’s here I can hear him talking.”
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He said softly.
“Why didn’t you call.” She asked him.
“It just got, harder, and harder to pick up the phone.” She nodded.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” John replied. The door opened slightly and John turned to see Mycroft. “Mycroft, what are you doing here?” he asked.
Mycroft just looked at the floor and stepped away from the door into the flat. The door didn’t close like John expected it to. It stayed open. And in walked a figure he thought was long gone.
“Sherlock.” The mug in his hand began to shake so he put it down on the table. “Sherlock. You’re not dead.”
“Of course I’m not dead.” Sherlock replied softly.
“Two years Sherlock and you didn’t think to tell me you faked your death.” John shouted.
“I did it to save you. To save Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He threatened to kill the three of you I couldn’t do that.” Sherlock looked at the floor, the black hair on his head falling down his face. John made his way slowly towards him.
“You, staged your own death to save me?” He sighed looking at him with big, soft eyes.
Sherlock could only nod.
“We’ll give you a moment.” Mycroft said softly, taking Mrs Hudson downstairs to her own flat.
“You could have still told me.” John sighed, tears forming in his eyes.
“No I couldn’t. If Moriarty found out you knew he would’ve killed you. And then I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself knowing it was my fault you were dead.” Sherlock sighed and sat on the sofa.
“I never forgot one moment. Not a single moment we were together Sherlock. I missed you so much. You let me grieve and now you come back.” Tears were streaming down both of their faces, Sherlock’s hard exterior had finally cracked now he was home.
Back with John.