Chapter Text
Evan Dennis stared at the crowd gathering around the body of the man who had just jumped. His heart painfully thumped as he watched a short blonde man try to run over to the hospital, only to be knocked over by a oblivious bicyclist. They seem to plague the city, he thought as he watched the bicyclist continue on and turn into an alley. The man’s loud laments could be heard from the store’s doorstep. He looked down at the groceries in his hands. How irrelevant they seemed. Milk, some eggs. Beans. A man had just died. Everyday, people died, committed suicide. Got shot. Consumed poison. But something felt different about this man’s jump and the friend’s reaction. Something...out of the ordinary.
Something........false.
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The lights overhead glared too brightly as his mind got back on track.
Sherlock swung himself off of the stretcher, even if a part of his mind was screaming he wouldn’t have any balance. The counter under his fingers was cold against his still-stiff fingers as he leaned heavily on them. There was the microscope, the petri dishes. He pulled his head up from the counters to find Molly nervously standing by the doors, holding a rag. He pushed back his fake-blood soaked hair as he took it from her. She opened her mouth and then shut it.
Sherlock walked to one of the sink, turning it on and staring at the water rushing out of the faucet. It was burning his hands, but he didn't notice. Nor did he notice the fake blood dripping from his face. All he could think of was John's voice.
"Sherlock! NO!"
He brought the steaming hot washcloth to his face. He only mildly noticed it was burning him until she came over and turned the water off, leaving them in silence. She timidly cleared her throat as he stood there with the cloth over his face. "Are you okay? I mean, well, besides...umm.."
"Molly, pl...please don't try to make conversation," he said to her, his voice cracking.
"What about John?" She blurted out.
Sherlock threw the cloth across the room. "DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK HIS NAME, MOLLY, OR I SWE-"
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The wonderful handy man that had helped her the last few day was just leaving as John came in.
Mrs. Hudson knew immediately that something was wrong with him. He was crying, weaving around with his limp back, worse than ever before. She tried to offer him a cuppa, but he just shook his head. Wondering what could have scared him this much, and where Sherlock was, she jumped when the phone rang. It was Lestrade.
"Are you sitting down Mrs. Hudson?" were his first words. When she had stuttered out a yes, her heart contracting, he had gone on. "Sherlock just-" his voice broke off in emotion before coming back. "Sherlock, h..he just jumped of the hospital...and he's..Sherlock Holmes is...."
Lestrade broke off here, his voice too overcome with emotion. Even so, Mrs. Hudson guessed the words, and her heart sank.
Sherlock is dead.
Once she had gathered her emotions, she looked at John. He was not taking this well. He looked like he was arguing with himself, his brow furrowed and his head shaking and nodding. He looked like he was in his mind palace-
No. Don't think of that, don't think of that-
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"A....Aubri....Aubrianna."
I looked at the little boy framed in my doorway, who was panting as if he had been running for blocks to find me. I made him sit down at one of the chairs in the sparse kitchen that I shared with my friends in the neighborhood. Getting a glass of water for the worn-out boy, he slowly calmed down. I dragged back another chair, and waited for him to be ready. When I deemed he was, I cleared my throat.
"What happened Peter?" That was his name, Peter. I had recently rescued him from a kidnapping.
"Sherlock. He just jumped off the hospital. He's been confirmed dead."
I leaned back, speechless. I had been ready to travel to what I considered my home. To wherever Sherlock was. Now..now..
Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into?
I remembered our bittersweet youth. He would always be able to find my toys when I lost them (which was a frequent occurrence.) We had imagined all sort of situations as we played together in our youth.
Sherlock...dead.
No, something must be wrong. Peter's just traumatized still.
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I looked at Peter for a while longer before my thoughts gathered. Standing up, I pushed in my chair and smiled to him. “Run along Peter. You know how your mother worries.”
“Ma’am, it’s the truth! I saw his face get bashed in! I saw-”
“That’s enough, Peter. Run along.” I tried to steady my voice, but my simmering shock and frustration boiled out in my exclamation.
He took one look at me with wide eyes before running off, nearly knocking over Amelia Clarke. She took one look at me before coming over and engulfing me in an enormous bear hug.
“Is it true Amelia?” I sobbed out as she made calming noises. She suddenly went quiet, and I had my answer.
My world spun around, squeezing closer and closer to me before I entered severe shock.
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Baker Street was silent except for the sound of sobbing when Lestrade walked in. John was dazing out on the couch, evidently in shock. Mrs. Hudson was wringing her hands and weeping.
Neither one noticed when he walked in, equally shocked and torn. He had just chewed off Donovan and Anderson for making him arrest Sherlock. If they hadn’t he would be ali-
He made an animal noise of despair deep in his throat as he tried to unsuccessfully shut out the truth.
A lie would suffice.
Sherlock survived. He just faked that. He repeated that to himself, trying to elevate his sinking and broken heart. It didn’t work. The empirical evidence was all too clear: no pulse, extreme loss of blood, and nevermind the impact of the fall.
Mrs. Hudson’s weeping slowed down, and she saw him. She tried to speak, but that just made her weep louder. He went over and touched her shoulder, as if this grief could be lifted as they shared it.
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Goodbye Irene.~SH
What does that mean?
That was when the news came out. Twitter trends. News broadcasts interrupted. Sherlock William Holmes was dead by suicide, and was a "Fake Genius."
She was shocked. Speechless. "Fake Genius" my foot! It had taken him five seconds to figure out a string of numbers meaning. He had solved numerous cases when all was against him.
Fake genius.
She hoped he had merely taken a cue from her and faked this all- despite the..faking of the fake genius. She hoped he was alive somewhere, tearing up the articles or having heart attacks because of grammatical errors. She smiled, then wiped that off her face.