Chapter Text
Sherlock has never felt such utter dread as when he peers down from the rooftop of St. Bart´s.
He tries to compose himself, tries to concentrate, but raw fear sends shivers through his limbs and shouts of warning through his mind. For a second he has considered it a possibility that he would not need to jump, but Moriarty, by shooting himself, has ruled out this option.
He reels around, facing the open sky, the capsule holding the Rhododendron Ponticum dissolving in his mouth. Never has he been so terrified by the necessary course of action. Were it avoidable, he would not go on with his act. Even with the help of Mycroft, Molly and his homeless network it is too much of a risk.
Moriarty´s henchmen will kill everyone who is closely associated with Sherlock if they don't see him fall, as the consulting criminal has made only too clear. And, as Sherlock has assured Mycroft, he would rather die than let the madman win his deadly game.
A taxi pulls up on the adjacent street only moments later and John rushes out. Sherlock calls him instantly. There is so much subtext in voicing his friend´s name: John, I´m going to die. John, this probably won´t work out as planned. John, you are the crucial key to my plan and if I fail, the first victim. John, I love you but I will betray your trust.
If Sherlock could only tell him the truth, console him. Instead, he desperately needs to nail John to the spot to make him witness his fall. He nearly fails to stop the army doctor´s approach, who is as determined as ever to meet a forthcoming danger head-on.
Sherlock demands, orders, and finally pleads for John not to draw any nearer, to turn back, his voice filled with desperation and anguish. The pleading does it – John stops, sensing with every fibre of his being that all this is not good at all.
John in position, Sherlock breathes in heavily.
"I can´t come down so we´ll just have to do it like this", he says, his heartbeat slowing a little. The effects of the drug reduce him to this weak phrase, and his choice of words and articulation make John immediately suspicious.
He nearly chokes on his final lie, using up all his weaning strength to confess that he is a fraud, that he invented Moriarty, fervently praying that this will be proof enough for Moriarty´s henchmen to back off.
A short, desperate laugh escapes his lips as John assures him of his loyalty, of Sherlock´s cleverness. The pain he feels on betraying their friendship so openly reduces him to tears.
Then he realizes. He can leave one single detail which can signify the truth. And he tells John that all this is a magic trick, fervently hoping the doctor will remember.
Time is running out, while his breath is getting even more labored. The pain of loss and regret burns like a white flame in his chest, dread nearly impeding his last move towards the edge.
A note.
A farewell.
A phone abandoned.
For the fraction of a second he can discern John shouting up from below.
His vision blurs with tears.
He spreads out his arms and dives