playing dead
This is for @neriesle, who prompted: (because I’m a sap & a sadist), Sherlock thinks John is dead for a few awful minutes/hours & the reunion is guhhhh
*
Moriarty is grinning, even in death. It is a mad grin, made all the more unsettling by the empty black eyes. A dark, wet crown has pooled around his shattered head.
Sherlock looks at him, looks away. He swallows. The wind whips through his hair.
He takes a moment to contemplate what he will need to do.
There is a plan in place, of course. It is not his first choice. It is not his tenth choice. He’d been optimistic, overly confident. He can admit that now, on the roof with only his own thoughts to keep him company.
There will be no victory without significant personal sacrifice. He sees that now. It should have been apparent from the beginning, but he’s been terribly slow.
You’re me, Moriarty had said, and he’d yanked Sherlock in close when he pulled the trigger.
Sherlock is not Moriarty, not in the ways that matter. He knows that, just as he knows there are (were) parts of the man he cannot help but admire.
None of this matters, now.
Moriarty has forced his hand, Moriarty has died to ensure that Sherlock must do the same.
He is breathing hard. He notices it, forces himself to slow down. He is sweating and trembling, dizzy and faintly nauseated. He feels uncomfortably, miserably human. The gunshot had been loud, the immediate aftermath messy. It is about to get messier.
He resists the urge to scan the nearby buildings. Moriarty favoured snipers, it is only natural to assume that he is being watched.
Mycroft had promised to take care of it, of course. It is possible that Moriarty’s agents are, even now, being neutralised.
It matters little, in the end. A man like Moriarty will have built contingency plans. Sherlock will have to jump, and Sherlock will have to die. There will be no going home.
Down below, John is climbing out of a taxi. He has made good time, even accounting for London traffic. He has always been surprising in the best of ways.
The sight of him is unexpectedly moving. Sherlock swallows again.
He does not want to leave.
It does not matter what he wants. It is time to go. He lifts his phone, dials. John answers immediately, and the warmth and concern in his voice makes something cold and heavy settle in Sherlock’s chest.
"Turn around and go back the way you came,“ Sherlock says.
John responds with confusion. There is no lingering trace of anger in his voice.
You machine.
Sherlock had expected anger. He’d primed John for disappointment, and yet—
"I’m a fake,” he says, and it hurts to say it. He has spent many years with little more than his pride to keep him company, and it feels wrong to cast it aside now.
And John, loyal, stubborn John, insists that cannot possibly be true.
He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He has been stricken with helpless, inconvenient affection, and he does not want to leave.
John is a distant figure on the pavement below, his head tilted up. Sherlock cannot see his face clearly, but he knows he has his complete attention.
"Sherl—" John’s voice cuts out. He drops, graceless and heavy, to the ground.
And then, a split second later, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.
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THIS IS VERY GOOD, THANK YOU
