Reichenbach Fall

Dr. John Watson watched helpless from his place on the ground, his mobile phone clutched desperately to his ear as he gazed up at the rooftop of St. Bart's. Every muscle in his body screamed with tension and desolation as his panic began to rise.

When the doctor had first spotted his best friend standing on the ledge of the hospital roof, he had thought that perhaps it was a fluke of some sort. Perhaps, the great detective was going to prove a great point to him, or find some strange way to demonstrate that he had outwitted Moriarty. But as Sherlock Holmes talked on the other end of the phone call, John saw past his denial and knew that this wasn't the case.

Before Sherlock ever mentioned the phone call being his 'suicide note', John had known what was coming. But even as the doctor shouted his best friends' name- in a useless attempt to stop him from jumping- he knew that he was too late.

With disbelieving eyes, John watched as Sherlock threw his phone to the side and then plummeted down into the cold unforgiving air. He watched horrified and immobile, as Sherlock Holmes came into hard contact with the pavement with a sickening thud, and instantly felt his body go numb.

Running forward without a coherent thought in his head, John scrambled across the street, only to be knocked over by a man on a bicycle. The doctor's head swam- foggy from the knocking it had just received- but he fought it and as quickly as possible, rose to his feet. Stumbling over to where his best friend had fallen, John Watson pushed through the crowd begging to be let through. It took him several moments to clear the throng but as soon as he had the man's heart jumped to his throat, as the truth came crashing down upon his already weary shoulders.

There- upon the pavement was Sherlock Holmes- bent at an incredible angle with his head bashed in- a pool of dark crimson surrounding his still form. John shook his head at the sight- fighting desperately to purge it from his memory, but it stayed. And as the man looked upon down upon the corpse, a breathy, choked cry escaped him.

John watched brokenly and in a daze as they raised Sherlock's limp body onto a gurney and pushed him away. But even after the body was gone- the remembered images of two familiar iceberg blue eyes staring off lifelessly into space, and the crimson pool of his friends' blood on the pavement remained. . . They were the two details of Sherlock Holmes' death that John Watson knew he would never be able to forget.

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He stood amongst the gravestones, sheltered by the trees and hidden by the newly woven shadows of the oncoming evening. As always, the detective in question was tall in stature and as straight as a board, though there was absolutely no reason to stand on ceremony.

With steely iceberg eyes, he gazed upon the quaint cemetery before him, mentally documenting the details and factors around the graveyard without a second thought. And then his eyes came to rest upon a solitary headstone made pure black- but more importantly, the detective paid his attention to the man who currently stood before it.

It was this mourning man that had forced the detective's hand. This doctor- returned from the wars- that had turned his life upside down and made him care. Him- Sherlock Holmes- a person who had never cared before; a man who had never deemed sentiment or companionship good or smart qualities. And yet, here he stood, secretly mourning alongside the man he had called friend . . . unable to step away and silently let the past go.

Sherlock continued to watch John with foreign emotions and thoughts scattering across his head. But the detective effectively ignored them, and settled on what John said to 'his'grave.

With the distance between himself and John, Sherlock couldn't actually hear what the doctor was saying. But being a superbly talented individual, the detective was able to read the other man's lips and know the words all the same.

The entire message was touching- heartbreaking even- but it was a simple, three worded request near the end that gave Sherlock pause.

"Don't be dead."

Those three simple words meant more to Sherlock than the rest had, for it gave away John's entire character and all this sincerity. . . Every thought, every memory, every case, every argument, every laugh. It was a mass requiem to their friendship, and it made Sherlock ponder harder than he could ever recall doing.

Silently, the detective watched as John walked away- past the graves and cemetery gate- but still he didn't move. He had to be sure that John was gone before he attempted to leave; otherwise his plans would be useless. John had to think he was dead, he couldn't know the truth now or perhaps ever. He had to remain oblivious to stay safe. . . There was no other way.

After what seemed like a very long time, the consulting detective raised his iceberg blue eyes to the sky- a single, almost invisible tear sliding down his chiseled cheek- and he whispered a farewell to his one and only friend.

"Goodbye, John."

Then, knowing that he might never be able to return as himself, Sherlock Holmes strode out of the cemetery, never once looking back. Though the memory of the pain and loss would never truly leave him . . . Nor would the sight of John Watson crying over his grave, ever ease in his mind.

A/N: I rewatched Reichenbach Fall for the second time and bawled like a baby when Sherlock fell. . . My gosh, so many feels. I want to curl into a little ball and cry for several days. My mind can't take all the ideas and feels darn it!

Anyway, hope you like this. It was mostly just my point of view for some insights, but hopefully yall can still enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I do NOT own BBC, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Martin Freeman, Benedict Cumberbatch, or the Reichenbach Fall