To seek a Great Perhaps - A Sherlock Fanfic

Reichenbach falls

Sherlock sways slightly in the breeze, the tips of his shoes jutting out over the ledge. He feels twelve years old again, standing on the wall of the Holmes Manor. Shaking away the memory a thought occurs to him. He chuckles quietly, much to the confusion if Moriarty.

"What? What is it? What did I miss?" Each question progressively more annoyed.

"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." Sherlock can feel something akin to relief rush through him, he might not have to do this after all. "I don't have to die..." The events that follow happen so quickly it's all he can do to recoil in horror at the last minute, watch the death play out before him, like a sick prequel to his own demise. The death so close, so tangible. After all the corpses he's examined, Sherlock thinks this shouldn't affect him so, but he's rocked to the core. And slowly he turns back to the ledge, because while he may not want to die, he doesn't want John to die even more. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade... what was his name? Greg! Even their deaths would shatter him, so he steps up, watches the cab approach and a familiar figure clad in a beige jumper exit. His hands have pressed the speed dial digit before his brain registers the action.

"Hello?" The sound of John's voice, oh God what is he about to do to the man.

"John." Don't let your voice break Sherlock, stay strong. No, don't let him hear your tears.

A shaky conversation. Sherlock doesn't bother wiping his tears away, he never did tell John, and now it was almost certainly too late, even he knew you couldn't profess that over the phone, let alone minutes before you make the man watch your own suicide. John's voice breaks and it undoes him. "Goodbye John."

"No don't." Sherlock swears he can hear it not just through the phone but from the ground, a desperate man's plea. A sob racks the detectives frame as he hangs up, dropping the phone behind him – Mycroft's people will find the necessary recordings, Moriarty's confession and the like.

"NO! SHERLOCK!" Yes, always for you John. Sherlock closes his eyes, arms spread out he can almost imagine he's twelve again, that it is the sea breeze ruffling his curls, and that big brother Mycroft will catch him before he falls. But not this time. He pitches forward. The ground hurtles towards him; he keeps his eyes closed. The impact breaks his right cheek bone, fractures his skull and dislocates his arm, and that's with Mycroft's protective measures. He groans softly, the only reprieve he'll get for the pain, and then it's into action, or rather inaction. John's voice almost actually kills him; the desperation the brokenness. What has he done? A hand grapples at his wrist, and Sherlock would know those callouses anywhere, but the ball under his arm does its job. No pulse. They roll him over and the pain spikes, but he plays dead still, doesn't flinch when John shatters. Sherlock can hear it in his voice.

"Jesus...No." He's never wanted to be dead so much, the pain -emotional and physical – and yet he never wanted to be alive so much either, to reassure John that he's fine (ish). As he's wheeled away he cracks open one eye, in time to see John lean heavily against those who were restraining him, defeated. The world goes dark as Sherlock lets go, the black is a welcome relief for a broken heart.