Quick note: I know my usual ammo is Bones stuff but not this round. All credit to owners of Sherlock, so not mine! WARNING: Suicide (fake as you know if you are a Sherlock fan) but it may be triggering, be careful.
John stood in the morgue, his eyes on the floor and his thoughts spinning a web so tight he thought he might choke. 'The game is changing-J.M' The note was written in blood red marker over the scrawl of notes in Sherlock's dramatic print. It was sitting on his bed that morning, and he'd stuffed it in his pocket the second he picked it up. Sherlock wouldn't know, he couldn't and that's why he was standing here, waiting for Mycroft's call. "You're anxious. Why?" Sherlock's deep voice was twinged with a well hidden concern, and John jumped at the break in silence.
"I'm not. Don't worry."
"I'm not worried, I'm curious." Now he was leaning forward, sharp eyes jumping over John's body. The lump of his fist in his jeans, the jacket that hung haphazardly on his shoulders, and the way his hair stuck up like spikes from the many times he'd dragged his hands through it all caught Sherlock's attention. "You are anxious, it's obvious."
"It is not-I mean, I'm fine. Just go back to doing you're...science." John waved his hand at the taller man, and then his phone vibrated in his pocket. "John Watson." He answered.
"John, there is a car waiting outside. Tell my brother you are going to check on . See you soon." Mycroft's oily voice curled through the receiver, John nodded and made a sound of agreement.
"Who was that?" Sherlock inquired, his concentration back on the microscope.
" 's hip is sore, she wants me to go look at it. I'll be back in a bit." John replied, dropping his phone into his pocket and watching. He watched Sherlock's curls spring a bit as he nodded, and how his shirt buttons pulled taut every time he breathed. He knew what Mycroft was planning, though the British government hadn't given him much in information about his intentions, he knew he'd be leaving. For how long? That's the part John didn't know. So he watched his best friend do what he did best, he watched his eyes as he looked over the room, and he could practically feel the wheels turning in his head. Sherlock gave him a fake smile, but his steel eyes held doubt, and faint concern. John turned away, unable to watch as Sherlock fought to hide his emotions. He knew Sherlock could see he was lying, but he was choosing to ignore it. He was putting his faith in John, he really shouldn't. As he pulled the door open, John turned his gaze back to the other man for a moment. "Goodbye, Sherlock."
John watched London fly by, the entire world dimed by the blueish-black of the tinted windows. He didn't even take a moment to stare at Mycroft's beautiful assistant, like he usually did. He just watched, catching glimpses of alley's and buildings that sent a shiver through his body. Memories flooded his mind, images of he and Sherlock running along the streets. 'God, this hurts.' John mused, closing his eyes to bite back tears. Every fiber of his body shouted to jump out of this car, to run back to Sherlock, and shoot Moriarty between the eyes. His soldiers instincts told him he was running, that he should stay and fight like a man, not a damn coward. He wanted to, he wanted to so badly it physically hurt, but he couldn't. This wasn't a war, this wasn't rational, and it certainly wasn't practical. This was a demented board game; the board was London, the one controlling it all was Moriarty, and the player was Sherlock. John was just a card being pulled, a quick trick to throw off the player. Not even a trump card, either, more like a 'go back to start' slip that made everyone unhappy. The car had stopped, he hadn't noticed, but now his door was open and an impatient nameless woman was glaring down at him. "What is it today?"
"Aimee, it means beloved friend." The woman's voice was soft, apologetic.
"Oh that's brilliant." John scoffed, and he looked at the floor. He wasn't angry with Anthea, or Aimee, or whatever, he was angry with Moriarty. He was angry with Mycroft, and Sherlock and this idiotic game. He was so angry he wanted to shoot someone, and break down in tears. His throat clenched, and his eyes hut of their own accord, and he stood on shaky legs. "Let's go." He bit out, but his voice still cracked. Whatever Mycroft had planned wasn't going to be good.
"What? No! We can't...I don't even understand how you could think of that!" John shouted, his hand's shook violently with blind rage. He stared up at Mycroft, shaking his head and pushing back the tears he felt.
"It's necessary to keep Sherlock safe." Mycroft kept his voice commanding and quiet, his eyes level with John's. "It's all planned out, simple enough."
"Simple? Simple?! Ha!" John stepped forward, and Mycroft jumped back on reflex. "What about Harry? Or ! Can you even imagine how they'll react and Sherlock-Oh,God Sherlock!"
"Yes, I know. It won't be easy, but it's how this has to happen."
"I-I can't...what would even be my reason?" John breathed, his stormy eyes fallen to the carpet under his feet.
"Reason?" Mycroft actually sounded confused, like he'd never thought someone need a reason to commit suicide.
"Yes, Mycroft, reason!" John's voice rose again, but he was tired. He was tired of this game, of all the tricks, and tired of this conversation. "I can't jump off a building for no reason!"
"Before you met my brother you were planning to shoot yourself." It wasn't a question. "Use those reason's, just change them up a bit. Make them more...up to date."
"I...Sherlock will never believe it." John countered, licking his lips.
"Yes, he will. He will see you fall, he won't have a choice." Mycroft sounded smug, the smirk evident in his tone.
"What do you mean, 'see me'?!" John searched Mycroft's face for the hint of a lie, for something that said he wasn't really going to do that. "You're going to force your little brother to watch his best friend jump off a building!"
"It's the only way." Mycroft's voice went soft again, and he laid a hand on John's shoulder.
"This can't be happening." John cried, his voice echoing through the empty office building they stood in. His heart felt like a snake had slithered into his body and was wrapping it's body around it until every beat caused an orchestra of pain to boom through his nerves. His mind danced and raced with thoughts: How would it feel to jump? Was it enough to fool Moriarty, or Sherlock? Would Sherlock even react? John knew he cared, but he was a 'high-functioning sociopath' so would he let on that he cared? That thought made his breath catch. What if Sherlock locked away what he felt, and it slowly destroyed him. He couldn't do this, it couldn't happen, he couldn't hurt Sherlock like that.
"He will be fine, I'll watch him." Mycroft replied to John's silent inner torment, and again John played with the thought the two brother had some strange ability to read minds. "No, I can't read minds. It was on your face-We don't have time for this, there is very much to do!" Together he and Mycroft left the building, and their plan set into motion. John couldn't stop it now.
Sherlock paced the morgue, thinking over what John was saying. The blond had been strange all day, mumbling and glancing around, and always with his hand in his pocket! Now he'd rushed off, obviously lying, and Sherlock still didn't know what was going on! John had always surprised him, and confused him a little, but he hadn't done something so odd and unpredictable since shooting that cabby! Sherlock had to admit that John surprised him at least once a day, and he was very interesting to interact with sometimes, but this was just strange. Finally, the detective snatched his coat up and rushed off to 221B, time to put together this puzzle. Moriarty could wait.
" !" He belowed as soon as he swung the door open. The woman stumbled out of her apartment, looking more then a little perplexed.
"Yes, dear, what is it?" She smiled, but he could see the fond annoyance in her eyes.
"Where is John?"
"Didn't he go off with you? Did you boys have a fight?"
"No, no we didn't. I...have to go." Sherlock spun around, his great coat trailing behind him like a cape. Holding up a hand he caught the attention of a cabby in a second, and got in. " ." He ordered, and the cabby rushed off with the slam of a gas peddle.
John opened to door that lead to the roof, and took a slow step onto the gravel. The smell of the city hit him like a slap, gas and smoke and rain, along with that smell that was just human. "Johnny!" A happy voice echoed over the noise of the fans. "So good to see you."
"Moriarty." John bit out, stepping fully out of the door and scanning the area.
"Jim, please. I suppose we can ignore the small talk and all that." Jim Moriarty stepped out into John's eye line, and grinned like a lizard. He was dressed in a perfect suit, his hair gelled to look messy. "Get straight to the point, you'd like that wouldn't you?"
"Yes, Jim, I'd just love it." John returned the smile with his own, and squared his shoulders.
"Okay, wonderful!" Jim smiled, clapping his hands together.
"Why am I here?"
"I told you, I'm changing the game."
"Yes, I know but why the roof? Why ?"
"This is where you met Sherlock Holmes, correct?" Jim smiled at the small, astonished nod John gave. "The roof, well that's simple. Even someone has average as you could have guessed what I've got in mind. No? Oh, what a shame."
"Get to the point Jim." John ordered, his voice holding a barely restrained growl.
"You're in my way, John. You are keeping him good, and it's boring!" Jim whined, he actually whined, and his shoulders slumped as his lip poked out in a pout. "I can't kill you, or at least he can't know I killed you cause then he'd just be out for revenge. The point, Johnny boy, is my game can't continue with you alive."
"So you brought me up here so I'd-Oh God!" John looked over the edge of the roof and went pale, faking the paralyzing fear like Mycroft told him to.
"Yes, Johnny, like I said I'm going to burn the heart of Sherlock Holmes." Jim smiled again, and wrapped an arm around John's shoulders as they looked over the edge.
"What makes you think I will?" John asked, trying to pull away.
"Oh simple, really. If you don't I'll kill you're sister and her little girlfriend." Jim's mouth curled with a satisfied grin when he looked down at John.
"No! Harry...and Clara...no. You can't, they aren't part of this!"
"Everyone's part of THIS!" Jim shouted, pushing John away and he lowered his voice to a disgusting whisper. "Make the choice, your life or theirs."
"No...I..I can't!" John stammered, holding his hands up and shaking his head.
"Tick-tock." Jim smiled, tapping his watch. "My snipers are ready, the only thing that'll stop them now is seeing your cute little head hit that pavement."
"You could stop them."
"No...I couldn't." Jim grinned, swinging his arm around from his back and smacking the metal of a gun on his teeth. He gave a cold look to John and before the solider could react the bullet broke through Jim's head, blood blowing back out of his head. Ruby pooled around him, and his body was slumped on the ground, the gun still between his lips. John could smell the burning flesh of Moriarty's mouth, and the choking scent of blood. He was frozen, staring at the man's leg give one last twitch and turned his eyes to the edge. The taxi was pulling up now, and he saw the dark,curly head pop out. Sherlock rushed to the pavement, eyes scanning the crowd and area, looking desperately for John. John took a heavy step onto the edge, and his entire body shook. He watched Sherlock another second before pulling out his phone and pushing '1' on his speed dial.
"John, where are you?" Sherlock answered, his eyes darting over the area. Nothing! John was no where, but he could hear wind on the phone, and he closed his eyes for a second.
"Look up, Sherlock." John's calm, steady voice replied after a second and Sherlock's gaze trailed over the buildings until he saw a compact figure on top of 's.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock whispered into the phone, and he saw the figure give a small wave.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John began, taking a deep breath. Sherlock could hear his voice quiver with tears. "I don't want to hurt you...Tell Harry I love her, Tell her I'm so-"
"No! No, shut up John. You're being an idiot again." Sherlock broke in, stepping closer to the hospital. He heard his own voice crack, and he felt the tears on his cheeks already, he knew what was happening. It hurt, it hurt so damn badly he clenched his fists as he stared up into the light, at John. "Get down, please, just...get down."
"Sherlock, you were amazing. You made my life matter again, before I met you I was planning and putting a bullet in my brain." John continued, ignoring the pleas. "It was perfect, and I want to thank you for that. This isn't your fault. What I'm about to do...it's not because of you. I just can't...do this. I can't keep waking up at night, shaking and sweating with memories. I can't live with a limp that shows up when I'm stressed. I can't continue living...with the guilt. It hurts to much, knowing I couldn't save the men around me because I was shot. If I had been stronger wife wouldn't be a widow right now, and children would still have a father."
"Oh God, John...Don't." Sherlock was crying now, he hadn't actually cried in years and it made his face itch.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry." Then the line went dead, and he saw the figure fling the phone away from him. Sherlock's own mobile fell to the ground in a clatter and he pushed his hand into the air, willing it to hold John where he was. John reached his arm out also, and Sherlock swore he could feel his finger's brushing against his palm. He pushed his mind toward John, he pleaded for him to stay put, his body shook with the effort. He saw John take the first step, one foot dangling there, and then he kicked off with his other foot and he was heading face first for concrete.
"JOHN!" Sherlock bellowed, breaking into a run, and bouncing of a clumsy bicyclist. "Dammit!" Sherlock hissed, pushing to his feet. When he finally made it to the pavement in front of Barts, everyone was surrounding a body. It was crumpled, slightly broken, and his head was lying to the side from being rolled over. Brilliant red leaked into the pavement, reflecting the sunlight and Sherlock pushed people down and fell to his knees, his pants soaking in blood. "God, John...no." He coughed out, leaning over and pushing his fingers against John's wrist. Nothing. His piercing eyes scanned John, he looked for any sign of life. Nothing. The blood was staining John's light hair, and his ocean blue eyes stared at the lamp post just behind Sherlock. His eyes were empty, they didn't hold the light Sherlock loved so desperately, or the laughter tainted by pain, not even the wise anger he always had. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing! Sherlock wasn't breathing, he wasn't moving, and if he had any control over it, his heart wouldn't be beating. Pain raced in his blood, and shock kept him from running. That's all he wanted to do as the people collected John and wheeled him inside, he wanted to run. He wanted to tear away the memories, the happy days, the joy's of running around. He wanted to melt away all the compliments John gave him, he wanted to forget the sound of John's voice, the feeling of his skin, the noise of him walking around the flat in the morning. It hurt so badly, and not any pain medicine in the world could fix this numbing. John was gone, his John was gone. He left him empty and burning on his knees, in his best friend's blood. John took his happiness, his feelings, his laughter and everything with him. Sherlock never wanted to breath again, he pushed away from all the concerned people that tried to hold him. He stumbled away from everyone, and rode in a police car-which vexed him terribly- back to his flat. He stood on the stairs, he heard 's weeping in her apartment. He couldn't walk up those stairs, he couldn't go in there and see that chair. He couldn't sit in that flat that smelled like John, seeing all the places John walked, remembering hurt to much. Sherlock fell onto the stairs and felt his sleeve grow heavy with tears. His body shook, and his pants clung to him, soaked in blood. In fell asleep there, weeping, covered in blood, on the stairs. The next day he didn't move when Lestrade showed up to get his statement. He was told they found blood on the roof, and the marks of a body being dragged. He didn't care. John was gone, and no puzzle would bring him back.
I also have this posted on archive of our own (my name is annoying_antisocial there also) so yeah...thanks for reading!