Chapter Text
Put your lips close to mine
As long as they don't touch
Out of focus, eye to eye
'Til the gravity's too much
I hear the sound of my own voice
Asking you to stay
Your name has echoed through my mind
And I just think you should, think you should know
That nothing safe is worth the drive
And I would follow you, follow you home
Two headlights shine through the sleepless night
And I will get you, and get you alone
- Treacherous by Taylor Swift
Split the third chapter into two because it was so long. Thanks so much to observingletters for this prompt! I’ve had such fun writing it.
It’s not the first time I’ve used Treacherous for a Sherlock fic, but…it just fits so well. Anyway, let me know if you like it, please!
Greg escorted me into 221. Mrs Hudson was there, also crying. He made us both teas in Mrs Hudson’s flat and put a box of tissues on the table between us. I stopped crying fairly quickly; terror and anger turning to numb despair. One of the policemen poked his head in to say that Greg had to go, and he patted us both on the shoulders and left.
“Oh, this is dreadful,” Mrs Hudson said, sniffling. “Simply dreadful. Poor Sherlock. That poor boy.”
I stood, rubbing my temples with my palms. I was too tired. So tired. It had been a long day, and sometimes I’d had sickening senses of deja vu when I’d seen something particularly striking, or exclaimed at something interesting.
I took my phone out and stared at my messages. A picture of a giraffe, zoomed-in, from a few hours ago. Sherlock had seen it.
Somehow, that nearly made me start crying again. I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing he was there. The most purely selfish reason in the world - but I needed him there. For me. I needed to not feel alone, or lost, and I never did when I was with him. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t even know who I was. But Sherlock knew.
Goodbye.
He’d known. He’d known something could happen today. He had known Moriarty would be too busy to focus on my movements. That was why he had tried to send me out for the day. Away from the danger.
I needed him. I needed him and John to be okay.
“Oh, where are you going, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked behind me as I went into the hall. My coat was thrown over the end of the stairs. I slipped it on, and then unlatched the door. The night was quiet now; the police had all left. There was nothing to suggest they’d ever been there, except for the absences upstairs.
I pulled the door shut behind me and walked down the street a bit. The fresh air cleared my head, cold against my tear-flushed cheeks.
Right. I was going to find him. How did I start? I turned around. The police cars had been parked directly outside 221b, but also to the right. Not to the left. Therefore, if Sherlock and John had gotten away, they would probably have gone to the left.
I narrowed my eyes. There was another road down there. I took a step towards the edge of the road-
“Looking for your beloved Sherlock?”
I whirled. He stepped out of the shadows by the black railings, pulling headphones out of his ears.
“Not this time, sweetheart.”
The last thing I knew was my jaw crunching against the asphalt.
****
I regained consciousness knowing one thing. Clear as daylight; clear as the dawn when I’d stood behind the clockface of Big Ben with Sherlock and watched the sunrise.
He loved me.
And I loved him. I always had, even if I hadn’t known.
I rolled onto my back. I was on the floor, a dirty grubby floor. A warehouse stretched around me, impossibly vast and rusty from this angle. My head throbbed. All of my body was stiff. And it was already light outside - but still morning.
I sat up. When I didn’t immediately faint, I stood up, and searched my pockets.
My phone was gone. It didn’t matter. I knew where I was.
I knew who I was.
****
Moriarty had underestimated me. He hadn’t killed me, he hadn’t even tied me up. Maybe he was too busy, or maybe he found it amusing, or maybe he truly believed I wasn’t a threat. I hobbled out into the sunshine blessing his ratty little face for whatever erroneous decision had led him to not killing me, or tying me up.
Maybe you’re too late.
No, I couldn’t think things like that. I kept walking, determined, until I reached the main road. The road and pavements were bustling with the lunch-hour rush.
Do you know where the best locations for important confrontations are?
A cemetery?
No. High places. Reflects the importance of the confrontation.
And you can always push someone off the precipice. If you do it right, you could even push them into a grave dug below.
You are exasperating.
I turned left. I hoped I was correct with this assumption. Either way, I knew I could get some help at St Barts’. Molly would be there; she could contact someone for me.
The more I walked, the more my brain woke up. My clothes weren’t grubby enough to warrant any looks from strangers. The secretary let me in. I went straight down to the morgue. It was a more deadly sort of quiet than normal.
Molly was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, fingertips pressed to her mouth.
****
I was running. Running, unable to catch my breath, my boots pounding against the floor. Stars and blackness flickered in my vision, but I didn’t stop.
You never stop.
I stop when I run into someone, and that someone is usually you.
From the morgue to the roof. This roof. This high place.
I’ll stop you, Sherlock, I thought grimly.
The final flight. I slowed down. Put my hands on my knees and gasped for air like an ungraceful, dying walrus. When I was making noises that would only concern, not downright alarm, a CPR team in A&E, I carried on up the stairs. Very slowly. Walking sideways, making no noise. I’d had a good instructor, but I had a touch of natural talent too.
The door was heavy, and not quite shut. I took a deep breath, held it. Let it out, just as slowly. Walked over. I could hear voices. When I stood in the slipstream of the gap, I smelt the fresh morning air.
“...Now, shall we finish the game?”
Moriarty. I stepped closer, putting my shoulder to the door, and edged out just enough to peer around.
The roof: impossibly high-up and bathed in morning sunlight. Moriarty, standing with his back to me, gazing out at the city.
And Sherlock, halfway between us. His eyes widened as he saw me, lips parting. He looked utterly aghast, and impossibly perfect in every way that mattered to me.
“One final act. Glad you choose a tall building - groovy way to do it.”
Our gazes locked, Sherlock’s face filling with horror.
You’re Mr Poker-Face to everyone, aren’t you?
It has become natural to me to wear a neutral mask. Especially when I am distressed or vulnerable.
But there was no mask now.
“Do it - do it - do what?” he stammered, not focusing on Moriarty’s words. Moriarty started to turn, and I immediately ducked back. From where they were standing, it would be hard for them to judge how ajar the door was; it was unlikely Moriarty would notice it was a bit more open.
“...yes, of course…” I could hear Sherlock murmuring.
I wanted to run out there. I wanted to protect him. But like this, I was a secret weapon that Moriarty didn’t know about.
I keyed in the code on Molly’s phone, and pressed on the RECORD VIDEO button.
“...my suicide.”
I took another deep, shallow breath. You knew that was coming. Be calm. He’ll win. You believe in Sherlock, don’t you?
But I couldn’t stand hearing him say it, so seriously, like he had been outwitted.
“Genius Detective,” I could hear Moriarty starting a speech. I held the phone in the gap, praying it was good enough to record all of this.
I hadn’t had time to grab any weapons. I should have grabbed something. Even a scalpel. But I’d only had time to beg Molly’s phone from her before I’d ran out.
They talked, they debated, Moriarty gloated. I heard a scuffle, and my heartrate shot up, but before I could decide to see what was going on, I heard Sherlock hiss, “You’re insane,” and I knew he was alright. The relief made me miss the next few sentences. And then-
“Your friends will die, if you don’t.”
Oh god. Oh Sherlock. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I needed to tell someone. But who? Mycroft? I didn’t know his number off by heart. And if I did anything wrong, the assassins might pull the triggers anyway.
I breathed out, and did the only thing I could. Listen. Record the evidence.
“Will you give me…one moment. Please.”
Silence.
“One moment of privacy.” My free hand curled into a fist. Would he come back over here? Say goodbye?
“Please.”
Another moment. Then Moriarty’s drawl. “Of course.”
The sound of Sherlock’s laughter was more terrifying than reassuring. Another confrontation. I edged closer to the gap. Moriarty would stop playing games at any moment. That was what he did. He got bored, and then he ended the game without a final warning.
“You’re ordinary. You’re on the side of the angels.”
Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble. I closed my eyes to try and hear better.
“Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think, for one second, that I am one of them.”
Are you a ghost-hunter, a demon-slayer, or the cherubic angel, Sherlock?
I am a consulting detective.
If we dyed you blonde, you’d make a good cherubic angel, I think.
I’m not an angel, Y/N.
Maybe you’re my guardian angel.
I heard Moriarty’s voice, utterly sincere, and that made my blood turn cold. “Thank you.” A moment.
“As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends. You’ve got a way out. Well - good luck with that.”
A scuffle. A gasp.
A ricochetting gunshot.
****
I burst out, almost dropping the phone. Sherlock was stumbling backwards, gasping.
“Sherlock!”
Moriarty lay on the ground. Dead. Blood leaked from his head towards me.
“Stay there!” Sherlock shouted. “Stay back. Don’t look.”
“He - he-” I sucked in shallow breaths, unable to breath. The gun was in his hand. “He k-killed himself?”
“Don’t look,” Sherlock repeated harshly. “For God’s sake, Y/N, get away from here. I don’t want you to watch this.”
I ripped my gaze away from Moriarty’s unseeing eyes. Looked at a maniacal Sherlock. “You’re not jumping.” My voice rose to a yell. “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, you’re not going to jump!” When he didn’t answer, I took a step closer.
“Stay. Back!”
“Sherlock - if you j-jump - I will fucking kill you.”
A smile caught the edge of his bloodless lips. “You never made a threat you couldn’t carry out, Y/N.”
If you do that again, Sherlock Bloody Holmes, I’ll pickle your eyeballs.
Very specific.
Molly taught me how.
Sherlock took a deep breath and smoothed down his ruffled hair. I kept my eyes on him, peripherally aware of the spreading pool of red liquid.
“Y/N…” He met my gaze. Another smile crossed his face momentarily. “You are…” Another deep breath. “You have always believed in me. It’s a funny thing, belief. It can turn on a dime. On a whim. The narrative can be seized by people with evil designs. It’s all too easy for people to not believe in me.” A small, bitter smirk. “Even John, temporarily, had his doubts. But you - no matter what, you have always believed in me. And - Y/N - I am grateful for that.” He closed his eyes. “Thank you.”
I swallowed thickly. “Sherlock, if this is a speech, a goodbye speech-”
“You know what it is. Donovan believed I kidnapped the children in order to have the glory of finding them. She accused me of that, by thanking me.” His eyes narrowed. “I thought of you, in that moment. And when they arrested me. It turns out I think of you, a lot. More perhaps, than I realised. I had thought you would be different, unbearable, when I realised you had amnesia. But you were not. You were perfect. As always.”
I wiped away my tears furiously. “Sherlock…”
There was the echo of a slamming door from the street, and he cocked his head.
“Don’t watch,” he said again, his face softening. “It’s better if you don’t.”
He turned away, and my heart skipped a beat, but all he did was pull out his phone. Then he stepped up onto the parapet again.
I took a step forward.
“Don’t,” Sherlock spat out. “Stay. There.”
I froze. He pressed the phone to his ear.
“John….Turn around and walk back the way you came.” A moment. “Just - just do as I ask. Please.” The rawness in his voice went straight to my heart.
“Stop there.” A moment. “Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.”
The pool of blood was spreading.
“I - I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this….An apology.” Another moment. “It’s all true.”
No. No, you don’t get to do this to us! To him! I stepped forward, and a hand grabbed my arm.
I whirled. Mycroft Holmes was there, sans umbrella, with a very serious expression. I fought against him, my eyes filling with tears again. He didn’t let go. I hadn’t even heard him approaching.
“...everything they said about me - I invented…” He turned slowly. “Moriarty.”
“Don’t let him do this!” I hissed at Mycroft, my eyes filling with tears again. “Mycroft, please.”
He shook his head.
“No, don’t just shake your fucking head-” My voice was quiet, filled with vitriol. “Do something. Mycroft, he’s going to jump, and you’re going to fucking watch?”
I could hear Sherlock speaking behind me, every word filled with an unutterable pain. But all I could see was the regret in Mycroft’s eyes.
I turned back to Sherlock. The red was still spreading. Another few inches and it would be within touching distance.
“This phone call. It’s my note. That’s what people do, isn’t it?”
My body went cold. He was going to do it.
“Leave a note.”
“Mycroft…” I tried to pull free again. His grip was like a vice. “Save him. Stop him.”
“No one,” Mycroft murmured, “could ever make Sherlock do a thing he didn’t want to do. Except, perhaps, for you.”
“I recorded the evidence, we can use it-” I said frantically.
“I am afraid it is too late for that.”
Sherlock’s voice was soft. “Goodbye, John.” He lowered the phone. Dropped it to the floor. The wind caught his coat, his hair. He didn’t look at me.
“Turn away,” Mycroft said.
I began to fight. “Sherlock, no! Sherlock, I’ll - I’ll never forgive you - Mycroft, stop it! Mycroft, stop him, save him, Sherlock, please don’t-”
The older Holmes brother was stronger than I’d ever imagined. I fought. Tooth and nail, I fought. He pulled me back towards the door. Tried to turn my head away. I ripped my face away. My neck stung with whiplash. He was pulling me. Through the door. I tried to knee him. Claw his eyes out. Sherlock still didn’t look around. Moriarty’s unseeing eyes witnessed everything.
I was almost through the door. I was almost turned away. But I wasn’t.
I screamed as Sherlock fell.
****
Down the stairs. Into a lift. Out and ushered into a black car. The car rolled through the traffic, the engine a low hum. Mycroft sat by me, staring out the tinted window.
“He’s not dead. He can’t be dead. He can’t be.” Shaking. Tears fell on numb cheeks. I couldn’t stop seeing the bottom of his coat, whipping over the edge. “Mycroft, he isn’t dead, is he? Why didn’t you stop him? Why did you stop me? I - I would have gone with him-”
It was when I said that, that the older Holmes reached out and put his hand on my tingling one, without looking at me.
Everything was grey. Grey, grey, grey, like the hospital roof, like the stairs, like the upholstery of the car. Monochrome. I looked out the window and saw grey skies and grey pavements and I knew everything would be grey for the rest of my life.
Except for the red. I saw the red flash of traffic lights. The vivid red of a woman’s coat. The red digits on the dashboard. Red. Grey.
“Is he dead?”
“He fell from the roof of a tall building,” Mycroft said, his voice brittle. “No one could survive that.”
“You knew, you knew that would happen, you didn’t help him…” I pulled my hand away. “I want to see him.”
“Molly Hooper and the St Barts’ pathologists will be dealing with his body.”
“Mycroft, please, I need to see him, I need to - I didn’t say goodbye, I couldn’t even say that-”
“That is inadvisable.”
I sucked in a heady, unreal breath. “Inadvisable? You just let your own fucking brother die! You stopped me from helping him! You just stood there and watched, like a pathetic coward!”
“He asked me.” Mycroft took a deep breath and finally looked at me. “He asked me to make sure you were kept away.”
“You just let him die!” I screamed, right in his face. “I don’t care what he asked you! You should have stopped him! That’s what people do, when they love someone else! They do something!”
Mycroft closed his eyes. “I have never been an outstanding example of a brother.”
My laugh was a hoarse bark. “You, you, you! Are you - are you even fucking upset? Do you even get it? He’s fucking dead!”
“Moriarty put us all in an impossible situation.”
I closed my eyes, fingernails digging into my palms. “You did nothing,” I whispered. “And now I’ve lost him.”
****
We drove; and drove; and drove.
As long as we drove, as long as I stayed in the car, I didn’t have to believe it. I didn’t have to get out. Didn’t have to deal with this. With this huge, unfathomable possibility.
I didn’t have to wonder what my life looked like if I didn’t have Sherlock in it.
****
We pulled up outside a non-descript house, somewhere out in the countryside. Or at least, the suburbs.
The engine stayed idling, but Mycroft got out. I slid out after him numbly. The sky was blue, the sun was high and warm. All I saw was the grey of the pavement; the red of the postbox down the street.
We walked up the garden path. The door swung open, and a suited man nodded smartly to Mycroft.
“Arrived by helicopter, sir.”
“No mishaps?”
“None.”
“Where’s Anthea? I need a full debriefing.”
“The kitchen, sir.”
Mycroft paused in the hallway and looked at me. “In there.” He pointed to his right.
I pushed the door open, not feeling the pressure of the painted wood under my hand.
Sitting on the sofa, covered in grime and blood, head in his hands, sat a dead man.
****
I didn’t waste time. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t stop to point and gasp.
I threw myself across the room at him. He managed to stand just before I crashed into him, my arms around his neck. He smelt of sweat and formaldehyde and gunpowder.
Words were impossible. I could hardly breathe. My entire body was tingling from head to foot, but I could still feel his arms around me, crushing me to him in a way that would have been painful in any other situation.
“You’re - you’re a-alive,” I whispered into his coat collar.
I felt him swallow, his nose pressing harder against my ear. “I thought Moriarty had already killed you,” he murmured. His voice was hoarse. “And then I thought you would die on the roof.”
“W-well, I thought you had died, you buffoon - so I - I think I was more scared.”
Sherlock let out a broken laugh and stood back enough to see my face. His face was covered in blood, sticky and drying; there were shadows under his eyes and his hair was wildly dishevelled. Without thinking, I unwound an arm and brushed his hair back. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment.
“I thought you had died,” I repeated, softer.
“I told you,” he said quietly, “I have-”
“I know. Nine lives times nine.”
He met my eyes, swallowing again. “You remember.”
I nodded. “When I woke up in the warehouse.”
“In the - where?”
“It’s a long story.” I shook my head. “You probably need some medical attention.”
“It’s fake blood. Mostly. I have a scratch under there…” Sherlock touched the edge of his jaw, and winced. “You remember your first-aid now, I suppose?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t want to let go of him yet. I could hear Mycroft and Anthea’s lowered voices from the kitchen. “Are you okay?”
Sherlock looked down. “No.”
Somehow, that was what did it. I reached for his hand, entangling our fingers.
One of us has to be strong when the other can’t be.
I rarely need someone else to be strong for me.
But if you ever do, then I’ll be that person.
“Come on,” I said quietly.
****
There was a first-aid kit in the bathroom. I got out the things I needed while Sherlock sat on the closed toilet, staring numbly into space.
Compartmentalise. He’s back. You’re okay now. Stop thinking, and be there for him. He’s the one who just jumped. Just watched his archenemy shoot himself in the head. Just thought all his friends would die.
I wet a cloth with warm water, and put my hand lightly under Sherlock’s chin, raising his head. Now I knew it wasn’t real blood, I could see it - it was stickier, glossier. I rinsed the cloth, studying the red swirl down the drain, and then repeated the process. Sherlock lifted his eyes to my face, watching me.
He looked so tired. Defeated. Vulnerable.
He looked like he hadn’t caught up with reality yet. Like he was still stuck in that moment, on the edge of that rooftop.
“Are they okay?” I asked, rinsing the cloth again. “John, Mrs Hudson, Greg?”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was even more brittle than Mycroft’s had been. “Mycroft has people watching them, but the assassins have given up.” He exhaled. “They are safe, as long as I stay dead.”
My heart lurched. “But-”
Regret flashed across his face. “As long as they believe I am dead, they are safe.”
I breathed out. Then paused. Warm water dripped from the motionless cloth, onto his eyebrow.
“They’re - you aren’t telling them?” You’re going to let them believe you’re dead?
“For the moment, no.” Sherlock looked down. “It is the only way to guarantee their safety.”
I wanted to say more. But I couldn’t. Not without sounding like I was blaming him. And as selfish as it was, I was so thankful that I knew he was alive.
I brushed his hair back off his forehead and ran the cloth along his hairline. “Moriarty kidnapped me, just after you were arrested last night,” I said. “He dumped me in a warehouse, pretty near Barts. Untied, unrestrained. I woke up with all my memories, and just walked out.” Sherlock watched me intently.
“He underestimated you.”
I smiled slightly. “He did. He didn’t think I’d get my memories back, and recognise my surroundings. The first time he kidnapped me…” I shook my head. “There was nothing to it, you know. He just wanted to mess with you. He injured me himself, hoping I’d get amnesia. And I did. But he didn’t really care either way. He just wanted to get at you.”
A muscle tensed in Sherlock’s jaw. “I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” I’d washed all the blood off. Now I rested the cloth on the sink’s edge and reached for my first-aid equipment. “How did you get this?”
‘This’ was the long, angry, red scratch that curled along Sherlock’s jaw and under his chin. It looked inflamed.
“I’m…not sure. It was all something of a blur.” Sherlock winced as I dabbed antiseptic on it.
And it still was, if I had to guess. I crouched down, peering up at the underneath of his chin. He still watched me, tired blue eyes tracking my movements. His lips twitched with the barest echo of a smirk.
“Kiss it better.”
My heart began to pound. I put the bottle on the floor and straightened. “Are you sure you’re thinking straight?”
Of course he’s not. Of course you’re not.
“This is the most coherent thought I’ve had in a while,” he murmured. He looped his arm around my waist, pulling me closer until he could bury his head against me.
With his other arm, he reached out. Caught my hand, thumb tracing across my palm. X.
A kiss.
I stood back. Put my hand on his damp cheek. He looked up at me. I stooped, angling myself away from the scratch, and pressed my lips to his.
****
The car door opened, and Sherlock slid in, his face set like stone. The car pulled away from the curb and drove off, leaving the church and the cemetery behind.
I hadn’t gone to the funeral. So far, everyone had been told that I was missing. Mycroft had advised Sherlock not to go anywhere near the place. But he had; of course he had. I knew he wanted to see John, see Mrs Hudson, see Greg, one last time. He’d died for them, after all.
He stared out the window, his jaw set. But he reached out, taking my hand, grasping onto it like a lifeline.
“It’s not too late for you to back out.”
Several days spent in a suburban safehouse; several days making my decision. I’d been the one to hold Sherlock at the dead of night when he woke up crying from nightmares. I’d been the one he held in the shower, safe under the onslaught of warm water, while he kissed me like a dying man given another chance at life. I’d been the one to hear about what he was going to do. I’d been the one to tell him I was coming.
“I’m not backing out. You’re stuck with me.”
He looked at me, his eyes grey-blue as we passed under a series of oak trees. “It will be dangerous. We…” He swallowed. “We might not make it.”
“You’re dead. If I go with you, Mycroft’s operatives will ‘find’ my body. We already didn’t make it.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“And you,” I countered, tightening my grip on his hand, “know I’m not changing my mind.”
He reached for me then, and kissed me.
****
The airstrip was dingy. Private. The small plane had once been white. Now it was grey. The concrete was grey; the skies were grey; the building was grey. Everything was grey.
But when I looked at Sherlock, standing beside me, coat whipping in the wind, all I saw was blazing colour.
Mycroft shook his hand. We watched him walk away.
Sherlock pointed after him. “Last chance.”
In response, I took his hand and stepped toward the waiting plane. “Come on.”
He looked at me grimly. I smiled back, just as grimly.
“Come on, Sherlock. We’re going to burn it all down now.”