Sherlock I Will Join You

The bottle slipped from his fingers, plummeting towards the ground; blue eyes following it as it whistled downwards. He barely heard the glass smash, didn't really see it either, but the angered glances of the people down below were enough to tell him it had happened. _What a waste_- half a bottle of vodka straight down the drain. A cold breeze swept past, cutting through the think wool of his jumper and pulling his short sandy hair to the side. He couldn't help taking a deep breath in, the crisp air filling his lungs. One of the last breaths he would take. Swinging his legs back from over the edge, he started to rise. The man should have been scared; he should have felt horrible at the thought of leaving. He should have felt sick to his stomach at the mere idea of the pain he would cause his friends, but he didn't. He felt sure and he felt ready.

On steady legs he pushed himself up onto the ledge, looking down at the street below. People rushed along, dodging each other while sipping at coffee or talking quickly down the phone. Men and women weaved in-between each other, trying desperately to get where they wanted to be. He was doing the same. He was trying so, so hard to get to the one place in the entire world that he needed to be, the once place that could bring him peace.

Calmly, he brought his arms away from his sides where they had previously dangled. There was no rush, all his actions were calm and collected. He kept them stretched out, looking like a baby bird about to try and fly for the first time. The wind picked up, pushing hard against him, trying to push him back away from the edge. It didn't work. He did not budge, he didn't even sway. He stood strong, his back straight and his head up high, the confidence of an army man. A small smile came to his face as he started to shift forward just slightly, getting ready to tip and feel the air rush past him.

"John," He knew that voice. Deep and rich - soft like velvet. _No. Not this time._ He had been so sure that this wouldn't happen. He had far too much faith in himself.

"Not now, Sherlock. Not again." His voice was deep and rough, laced slightly with impatience. His eyes were squeezed closed in pain. His arms dropped and his shoulders sagged.

"John, step away from the edge." The authority in his tone was unmistakable, as it was every time. It made John feel even worse. Anger started bubbling. _I will not listen. Not this time. _

"You… You don't get to leave. You don't get to leave me for two years and then pop back and come 'save' me. It doesn't work like that, Sherlock! You're not real. According to everyone else you never were. You were just this sad lonely man, craving attention. I don't agree. I believe in you, I always did, but not now. Not this version of you. You aren't here, not really." His voice shook and broke. Tears were pooling in his eyes. Slowly, he turned around, facing Sherlock. He looked just like he remembered; all high cheekbones and curly brown hair. His hands shoved in the pockets of coat and his scarf wrapped around his slender neck.

"I'm here John, I've always been near. You believed. You knew I wasn't gone. I had never been gone. Now, get down and stop being silly." John's eyes flashed.

"No. You aren't real! You are never real! Every day I have had your voice in my head, your stupidly irritating voice ringing through my ears for the past two years. I am ready for that to stop. I don't want fake you, I want to be with you again and I cannot do that if I am still here.

"What happens when I step away from this edge? Do you slowly fade away like last time? Or do you disappear in my sleep like the time before? I am not letting you stop me. I will join you." The determination in his voice was hard to miss. Then again, so was the pain.

"Come here, John."

"You don't understand. I can't. It's the drink," He cast a half regretful, half disappointed look at the street below, looking at the dark patch where the drink had splashed. "It makes me think of you, it makes me see you. You aren't here, not really. You'll leave again."

"You're wrong. You're always wrong, always so stupid. Think about it John! Look at the signs!" Sherlock's voice increased in volume. He was no longer standing still staring at the broken looking man on the edge of the building. Instead he paced back and forth, one hand folded against his mouth, the other still wedged in his pocket. A small dip had formed between his eyebrows. He couldn't understand. The great Sherlock Holmes, confused by one very ordinary man. "Why have you been thinking about me so much, seeing things that remind you of me everywhere? Think, John!"

"You've been dead! I was reminded of you, and thought about you because I cared that you were gone!"

"You really think I left you. Of course I wouldn't leave you! I'd be lost without my blogger."

"No. No, you are not here, you are not real. Now bugger off! Let me do this."

"I am here. I have always been here. What I said all that time ago, I meant it."

"I don't understand."

"I don't have friends, John, I've just got one."

"I still don't understand." Sherlock groaned in frustration. John, the only one to ever come close to keeping up with him could not understand such a simple thing as that. "I'm sick of not understanding, Sherlock. I'm sick of being here and not knowing. Not understanding why no one else believes, or why you left the way you did. I am tired, Sherlock and this time you will not stop me." Sherlock stared at him, and John stared back, his eyes devoid of emotion as shifted back once more. Another centimetre and he will be gone, falling towards the street so far below the hospital roof. It was what he wanted, and he was sure. "Go now, Sherlock. No need for you to stick around, I'll be with you soon anyway." His arms were spread wide once more, his eyes closed and he tipped backwards, he smiled again, the first real smile in a long time. He would be with his friend again.

Sherlock watched from above, his distraught face peering over the side of the building, watching his only friend fall, just like he had two years earlier. John hit the ground. People screamed, they ran, some away from his body, and some away. Several got their phones out, talking hurriedly for a different reason now. And as John slipped away, so did Sherlock. Fading away from reality, as John's breathing slowed and his heart stopped. For once, John was not wrong but incredibly correct. Sherlock was real, but not that time.


End file.

Sherlock, Drama, Tragedy