Suicide of Fake Genius - A Johnlock FanFiction

One-Sherlock

Suicide Of Fake Genius

One

Sherlock

John gets out of the taxi and answers the phone. "Hello?"

I inch closer to the ledge, looking down at him. "John," I say, hoping he will hear the longing in my voice—the longing for him.

He starts walking across the street, towards the building—towards me. "Hey Sherlock, you okay?" he asks.

Okay. Okay. . . Okay.

Such a funny word, okay. And why is it, when someone asks the question, we feel obligated to say yes? Even if it isn't true.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," I tell him, ignoring his question, because I'm honestly not sure if I am. Okay, I mean. I'm going to die. Or so he thinks.

"No, I'm coming in," he says, still walking towards the building I'm standing on.

"Just do as I ask!" I yell, then take a deep, shaky breath. "Please," I add, trying to stay calm.

John looks around and starts walking back across the street. "Where?" he asks as soon as he reached the sidewalk where he was before when he got out of the taxi.

"Stop there." I tell him and he stops. "Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh, God." He looks up and fear fills his pale face and his eyes that always seem to be a different color. Today they're a piercing blue.

Today I will get lost in them, one last time. . .

"I. . . I. . ." I shake my head, "I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

John furrows his brow. "What's going on?"

"An apology. . ."

John shakes his head, not quite understanding.

"It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me," I continue. "I invented Moriarty," I look back at Moriarty's dead body laying behind me on the rooftop, blood streaming from his head and pooling all around him. The gun is still resting in his limp hand.

I look back at John, who shakes his head a little. "Why are you saying this?" he asks.

Tears stream down my face, not because I'm going to die—because I'm not—but because of John. The look on his face as he figures it all out. "I'm a fake."

He blinks rapidly. "Sherlock,"

"The newspapers were right all along," I go on. "I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly . . . in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

John is starting to get angry and clenches his fists.

Good, I think. It'll make it easier to leave him.

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met. . . the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

I say what everyone thinks of me, "No one could be that clever,"

"You could." John says, and the way he says it makes me think he actually believes it.

I laugh and he stares at me sadly from the ground, probably wondering for a moment if I'm right. If I'm really not the world's greatest detective. If I'm really not the smartest man alive. And that look. . . it tears me apart.

I start crying again. "I researched you,"

John clenches his jaw. And I continue, "Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "No, alright, stop it now." He starts walking across the street again.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." I order.

John puts his right hand up like he's surrendering when he hears the urgency in my voice. His left hand is still holding the phone to his ear and he backs up. "Alright."

I put my left hand out, suddenly out of breath, probably because I'm not used to crying this much. The tears are running down my face now and I don't even bother wiping them away. "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call," I say, "it's, um. . . it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

John pulls the phone away from his ear and shakes his head, blinking back tears. He puts the phone back up to his ear and says, "Leave a note when?" even though I'm certain he knows exactly what I'm talking about, even if that's the only thing I'm certain of right now.

"Goodbye, John."

"No," he cries. "Don't."

I nod a little, then throw the phone on the roof behind me.

John takes the phone away from his ear and screams, "Sherlock!"

I spread my arms out and fall forward off the building, hoping that something will catch me—trusting that this will all go according to plan.

The last thing I see is John's face filling with fear as he says my name again, and then it's over.

For now.

For him.