Daylight

Part 16

     John despaired.  “Home? Baker Street is not my home any longer, Mycroft.  You made sure of that.  I don’t know what you expect from me now.”

     “I expect for you to keep to our arrangement, John.”

     “Do you really think that’s what Sherlock wants?  I left him to Moriarty.  He probably hates me now, and I wouldn’t blame him.  I don’t believe he would trust me anyway.”  John looked hopelessly out the car’s window.  London had turned moody and sullen.  Full, low clouds threatened to spill a heavy downpour any moment.  It rarely rained in New Mexico.  Even in the winter the sun shone.  Here, it already felt like winter. They fell silent and drove for almost two hours without speaking.  The famous London traffic held them up most of the way. 

     They’d finally reached the heart of London when Mycroft said, “No, I don’t trust you. But, I know Sherlock, and he does not hate you.  Nor will he ever, I’m afraid.  He’s in love with you, and once he gets an idea like that into his head, it will never leave him.  I would know.”

     “Would you?” John asked.  “Because I don’t think you can comprehend the idea of love, Mycroft,” John said heatedly. 

    “I love him too,” Mycroft said softly.  “I’ve always been there for him and, he doesn’t turn to me anymore.  He turns to you, John.  Even when you left him, he still turned to you.  He needs you or he won’t survive.”

     “You can’t pin that on me.  I have to have a life of my own or I  won’t survive.  I can’t be his appendage.  I thought I could be his partner.”

     “You still can be.”

     “How?” John asked.  But Mycroft’s phone buzzed and he looked down at it.

     “Sherlock.  How did you get this number?  Never mind.  What?” he asked with irritation.

     Mycroft became suddenly very still and listened intently to the voice on the other end.  “No, Sherlock you musn’t.  That is never the answer.”

     “What?” John couldn’t help but ask. 

      “St. Barts, driver now,” Mycroft barked.  “He’s on the roof, John.”

     “Why is he on the roof?” John asked baffled at the sudden turn of events.

     “He’s escaped his drivers, stolen a phone and…”  Mycroft couldn’t finish his sentence.  His face appeared ashen and all the will seemed drained from his body.  “He’s…”

    “Let me speak to him,” John demanded feeling the bottom fall out of his stomach.  It sounded like, no, but it sounded like he might be about to…jump.

    Mycroft appeared to weigh the decision for a moment and then put the phone up to John’s ear.  “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

     “John, this is goodbye,” Sherlock’s distinctive voice came through the line.  He sounded clear and determined, and that scared John the most.  “I’ve decided to take myself out of the equation permanently.  If I’m gone, there’ll be no reason to hold you.  You can go back to your new family.”

     “No, I know you only wanted me to stay with you.  I know we can work this out.  Please don’t…”

     “John, I can’t begin to make up for my abhorrent behavior, but I can give you back your happiness.  Go back to the States, to her.”  John could hear a hitch in Sherlock’s breathing.  The detective’s voice, low and gravelly, held so much sorrow and remorse.  If Sherlock were acting as he done so many times, John couldn’t tell now.  “I’m truly sorry for hurting you and being so possessive.  You deserve to live your life your way, and I’m going to give that to you.  So, goodbye.”

    “Driver!”  Mycroft nearly screamed.  “Get there now!”  The car actually sped up and wove in and out of traffic.  John, who hadn’t put on a seatbelt, got tossed around and tried to keep upright.  Fortunately, they were only a few minutes away from the hospital.  The driver pulled up to the curb and Mycroft jumped out.   He still held the phone in his hands and kept trying to talk to his brother.

     John got out a little slower due to having his hands behind his back and tried to scan the roof line for Sherlock’s form.  He hoped to god they were not too late.

     “There,” he shouted to Mycroft and pointed with his chin.  “He’s there.”

     They both saw the tall, slim figure of Sherlock on the rooftop.  He still wore the pair of grey sweats and pullover shirt he’d been wearing as Moriarty’s prisoner.  His wild curls waved in the bristly, Autumn breeze.  John felt cold raindrops hit his face as he looked up at his friend.

     “No,” John whispered as the figure stepped close to the edge, balanced a moment then disappeared over the edge.  John’s knees buckled.  “No, Sherlock,” he moaned to no one and sank to the pavement. 

    One of the men stood over him and abruptly hauled him to his feet.  Together they all rushed around to the side of the building where Sherlock had fallen.  Mycroft had run ahead the minute he saw Sherlock step to the edge.  When they turned the corner, they saw him bent over a body lying on the sidewalk.  He was frantically checking vital signs.  One of the agents began speaking into his phone and John heard him calling for backup.  The other agent rushed into Barts to get help. 

     John already knew that if Sherlock fell from that height, he’d be dead.  His mind only registered the facts:  too great a height, too solid an impact surface, too much blood.  Then, it hit him, Sherlock had sacrificed himself  give John his freedom. 

     A gurney rushed by carried along by several staff from Barts.  Odd, his mind registered, he didn’t recognize any of them.  He’d been quite familiar with the staff members at Barts and there were bound to be a few turnovers during his six month stay in the States, but all of them?

     The crew gently pushed Mycroft aside and lifted Sherlock onto the gurney.  Odd again, they weren’t using the proper lifting method for a possible neck and back injury, nor were they using a backboard.  Perhaps they’d ascertained his death already.  Then again, John’s mind didn’t seem to be working properly.

     As the emergency crew whisked by on its way into the hospital, a long, slender hand fell from the gurney and one of the attendants put it back but not before… John must be imagining it, hoping for it possibly, but the fingers had curled. 

     John turned back to find Mycroft sitting on the sidewalk near the pool of blood that had come from the back of his brother’s head.  “No pulse,” he said weakly.  “He’s gone, John.”

     John didn’t know what to think.  He looked down at Mycroft who sat stunned.  The man had lost the only person in the world he truly loved and John couldn’t think of anything to say in the way of comfort.  It chose that moment to begin pouring and the slick pool of blood began washing away.