Hey everyone, this is the first chapter of my new story! It's about John and Sherlock, starting right after the Reichenbach Fall. I'm a huge Johnlock fan, so you all know where this is heading. The first chapter is very short and rather an introduction than a real chapter. Please let me know what you think, that would be awesome.
I don't own the characters or places!
"Sherlock?" John asked, looking around to find Sherlock. However, he couldn't see him anywhere in the streets surrounding the hospital.
"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop." Sherlock's voice sounded through the phone.
"Oh god." He felt like his heart stopped beating when he saw his best friend there on the edge of that rooftop. What was he even doing there?
"I... I... I can't come down, so we'll... we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock's voice sounded hoarse, like it wasn't easy for him to say those words.
"What's going on?" He didn't understand it. All of this. What was Sherlock doing here?
"An apology. It's all true."
"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."
"Why are you saying this?" What the hell was going on? Sherlock couldn't give in to all this, could he? Of course Moriarty existed, many people knew him. John had seen him himself on several occasions. And even Mycroft knew that he existed. All this talk about Rich Brook was a lie. He didn't exist! Did Sherlock really expect that John also believed this lie?
"I'm a fake." No, he couldn't say this. Sherlock couldn't let Moriarty win.
"Sherlock..." He tried again, but his friend interrupted him.
"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." John couldn't believe what he just heard.
"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" He had to convince him that it wasn't true. Sherlock was brilliant, everyone knew that. Why was he saying all this?
"Nobody could be that clever."
"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick." No. John refused to believe that. He knew Sherlock. He didn't make anything up.
"No. Alright, stop it now." He tried to walk towards the building again, but Sherlock stopped him.
"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."
"Alright." He gave in, afraid that his friend might do something stupid. John already felt sick just because of seeing him up there.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" Sherlock sounded desperate now, something John had never heard before.
"The phone call – it's, er... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." In this moment, John knew what was going to happen. Deep in his heart, he knew that he would never see Sherlock again. However, his mind wasn't working fast enough anymore.
"Leave a note when?"
Then his best friend, who was also so much more to John Watson, jumped from that rooftop.
In that moment, his whole life seemed to end.
When Sherlock jumped, a part of John was dying too.
He awoke with a cry and sat up in bed. John was breathing heavily and he was sweating. His cushion was wet and the sheets were already lying on the floor. Apparently, he'd turned very much in his sleep. The room was still dark and a glance at the clock told him that it was still in the middle of the night.
He closed his eyes and tried to make the images from his dream vanish, but he kept seeing Sherlock standing on the edge of the rooftop. Then he'd jumped... And there had been so much blood...
"Stop this." John muttered to himself. "Just stop."
His attempt to forget everything failed. He kept seeing Sherlock, lying on the ground, covered in blood. He didn't have a pulse. The most important person in his life was dead.
Sherlock Holmes was dead.
Because of Jim Moriarty and his stupid games.
Moriarty, who'd killed himself on that rooftop.
Why did Sherlock jump when Moriarty was already dead? The question wouldn't stop bothering John.
Was it because Moriarty had ruined his reputation? Somehow, John didn't believe this. Sherlock would have dealt with it somehow. They would have dealt with it together. But why did he do it then?
John couldn't find an answer to this.
He sank back down onto the mattress, though he already knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep anymore. He'd rarely slept ever since Sherlock jumped from that rooftop nearly a week ago. And if he did, nightmares kept haunting him. However, that wasn't the worst. The images also kept haunting him while he was awake. John didn't leave the flat ever since he returned on that day, completely exhausted.
First, he didn't want to return to 221 B at all. But where else could he go? He didn't have an answer to that. Being in the apartment was depressing, but he knew that he couldn't give it up. Too many memories were connected to it.
Suddenly, John realized what day it was.
The funeral would take place this morning.
He stumbled out of bed and to the bathroom, feeling incredibly sick.
Mrs. Hudson was crying. It was the only sound that cut through the silence on the graveyard. John stood next to her, feeling numb. His eyes were fixed on the tombstone. Sherlock's name was standing there.
Sherlock Holmes was dead.
His best friend. His partner. And so much more.
"You were really important to him, Dr. Watson. Even if I will never understand this sentiment which affected my brother concerning you." A voice behind him said and John turned around slowly to see Mycroft Holmes standing in front of him.
Mycroft looked calm as always. He was wearing a dark suit, the umbrella was in his hand and when he looked at John, his eyes narrowed slightly. They didn't see each other ever since John stormed out of the Diogenes Club the previous week. Mycroft had asked John to take care of Sherlock, but he failed. Now he was dead.
"You could have done nothing to prevent this. My brother always did what he wanted." Of course Mycroft knew what John was thinking. He was just as smart as his brother.
John remained silent, not sure what to say now.
"Blaming yourself won't do any good." Now Mycroft smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It rather looked like a grimace. He glanced at the tombstone and cleared his throat. "I'm sure we will see each other again, Dr. Watson."
When John didn't reply, Mycroft bowed his head and turned around to walk away. John watched him until he disappeared between the trees on the graveyard. Would he really see Mycroft again? Or did he even want it, now that Sherlock was gone?
You were really important to him, Dr. Watson. When he thought of those words again, John had to swallow. Sherlock had always emphasized that John was his friend (or only friend), but hearing it from someone else was different. Hearing it now was different. Sherlock would never come back.
John would never get a chance to tell him how much he meant to him. How his heart had always beaten faster when Sherlock was around. Not just on their cases, but every time they were close to each other. He'd loved to hear Sherlock's voice, even if he could be quite annoying sometimes. And his laugh had always made John so happy.
He'd never be able to tell Sherlock that he was the most important person in his life.
And that he was hopelessly in love with him.
"John, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson's voice took him back to reality. She wasn't crying anymore, but her eyes were red and her voice sounded hoarse.
"Yes, of course." He said automatically. The look on her face told him that she didn't believe his lie.
"I'll leave you alone." She said softly and placed her hand on his arm. "I'll be waiting at the gate."
He forced a smile on his lips. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
With one last sad look at him and the tombstone, she walked away slowly.
Taking a deep breath, John turned around again. Should he say something now or was it stupid to talk to a dead person? He didn't say a single word at the funeral, even if the others had tried to convince him to give a speech very hard. Mrs. Hudson had said something, and Greg Lestrade, of course. He'd talked about the time when he first met Sherlock and how their relationship had turned from something professional into a friendship. A weird kind of friendship, but that didn't matter to Greg. Sherlock had always been there when he needed him.
John was so glad that Greg also didn't believe those lies of the press. Of course he had his doubts first, but when John told him the whole story, Greg felt stupid for ever considering Sherlock to be a liar. He'd apologized to John several times.
"Um... You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so... There." He took a deep breath, not knowing how to continue. His eyes were filling with tears and John tried to prevent them from falling so hard. Slowly, he walked towards the tombstone and placed his hand on it.
"I was so alone, and I owe you so much." Now the tears started falling and when he breathed in again, it was shakily. It took all his strength to turn around and walk away, but after a few meters, he couldn't go on anymore.
John turned around again. "There's just one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be... dead. Would you do...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this. I don't know how to go on without you. I love you." The last words were barely a whisper.
He sank to his knees and now he couldn't stop the sobs any longer. He covered his face with his hands and cried, not caring if anyone saw him there.