Watching from Afar

Sherlock watches John from the rooftop.

John's scared. John's hurt. John's panicked, John's worried, John's desperate.

Don't do it, Sherlock. Get down, Sherlock. What the hell is wrong with you, Sherlock?

His loyalty is touching. It really is. For Sherlock, it is something that he has never known before.

Which is why he has to do this.

"Goodbye, John."

It isn't as if Sherlock doesn't have better things to do with his time. He's been trying to track down Moriarty's men, and he's accomplished it to an extent. Not every single one of Moriarty's men are gone, however, so Sherlock is, rightfully so, still dead.

Except, he isn't.

He never has been dead.

John, of course, doesn't know this and Sherlock tells himself that it's all for the best. John doesn't need to know that he's alive for now. Someday, perhaps soon, he will need to know. But that day is not today.

Sherlock watches John from a rooftop.

It's the most inconspicuous place that he can be. No one ever looks up; they always look straight ahead. Besides, it's not those people that Sherlock worries about, because if they see him, they'll just think it was a trick of the light or their mind playing tricks on them. Sherlock just strives to make sure that John never sees him, because Sherlock knows how very detrimental his presence before John could be, if the time isn't right.

He's been watching John deteriorate.

It's sickening, really, how quickly John's life spiraled out of control after Sherlock left.

Sherlock had been gone for about three weeks, out of the country. He had slunk back into London, unseen and unheard, to find John broken with no real intent to pick up the pieces.

He tries to keep tabs on John at least once a week. He isn't sure why. He suspects that it's sentiment- the idea of it disgusts him, but he can't shake the urge to see John. So, he keeps tabs on John at least once a week.

This week is slightly different.

He's followed John into town and to, of all places, St. Barts. Sherlock leans back against the stairwell door on the roof opposite the hospital as he waits for John to resurface.

When John does resurface, it's not where Sherlock expects him to be.

John resurfaces on St. Barts' roof.

Sherlock immediately blends into the shadows, drawing his coat tighter around him as he watches John. Even though he's across the street, Sherlock feels the need to make absolutely sure that John cannot see him.

What is John doing...? After June, John had appeared to have taken on a fear of heights. He seemed to have developed an aversion to it, at least, as well as an aversion to St. Barts itself.

The movements John takes are familiar to Sherlock. It was the path that he had taken so many months ago now, as he had walked across that rooftop, stopping by the ledge to look down.

John pauses for a long minute after he glances down. Sherlock imagines that John's eyes are now closed, given the fear of heights.

John steps up onto the ledge.

Sherlock has had epiphanies in his life. He knows what they are- sudden realizations- and he is used to them.

Sherlock experiences another epiphany, right after John steps onto the ledge, and this one leaves him breathless.

John wouldn't jump. He couldn't jump. Well, technically speaking, he could, but he wouldn't.

Would he?

Sherlock does a quick recalculation of all the weeks that he's been following John around. He knows full well that John was left shattered by Sherlock's death, but Sherlock hadn't for one second imagined that John was irreparable. He hadn't imagined that John had thought that, either. Time heals all wounds, didn't they say? Normal people lived by old proverbs like that. John was normal-

Except, in a very, strange, nearly invisible way, John wasn't just normal.

John had been someone that had put up with Sherlock for a year and a half. John had become someone that he had trusted, that he still trusted, someone that he could rely on and look to. John had, somehow, become Sherlock's friend. His best friend. John still was Sherlock's best friend. His only friend.

John would not do this to his best friend.

Sherlock lets out a breath that he isn't aware he's been holding. It leaves him in a heavy rush and the exhale of air trembles and splutters off at the end.

John will not do this to Sherlock-

Except, John thinks that Sherlock's dead. John doesn't know that Sherlock is watching him right now.

And Sherlock realizes this, much too quickly, and he realizes that it's simply not 'John will not do this to me' but rather 'John will do this to himself'.

And all Sherlock can do is stare.

He vaguely wonders if this is how John felt so many months ago. Yes, yes, this is probably exactly how John had felt so many months ago. Scared. No- not scared. Terrified. Yes, that was more fitting. And helpless. Very, very useless and very, very helpless.

Sherlock fumbles for his mobile. His hands are shaking. All the crime scenes, all the deaths and murders and gore, and his hands had always been steady. He has always remained emotionless. He could always stay detached. But his hands are shaking now, out of genuine fear, for nearly the first time as he fumbles for his mobile.

He realizes what he's doing as his fingers curl around the cool surface of his phone. What is he thinking? He can't call John. John thinks he's dead, after all, and Sherlock reasons that John probably wouldn't take a phone call from a ghost very well.

Suddenly, his text alert chimes. He nearly drops the phone from surprise before looking at the screen. A new message. From John.

I still don't forgive you.

Sherlock blinks at the message. He doesn't expect John to forgive him, not really, whenever they happen to meet up again. (Although, now, a small part of his mind says if we meet up again.) Nonetheless, it hardly seems like a message that someone who was contemplating-

His text alert chimes again.

I don't know why you did this, Sherlock.

Sherlock barely has time to read this before his phone chimes again, and again, and again...

You were so selfish to kill yourself just because you got caught in a lie?

And it wasn't even a lie, because I know you weren't a fake.

I just don't understand any of this.

You never stopped to think about what this would do to me.

You never knew how I dreaded the thought of coming home to find you passed out from nicotine overdose

or how I used to hope against hope that you somehow wouldn't get killed on one of your cases because I couldn't bear the thought of the silence of the flat

because I couldn't bear the thought of you, the ONE THING in my life that actually happened RIGHT, leaving

And then you left.

And you didn't even think about me.

Sherlock flickers his gaze back to John, who is still standing on the ledge of St. Barts.

To John, who doesn't know the whole story, it must seem like Sherlock did this for selfish reasons. And why shouldn't it seem that way? Sherlock has always been selfish. And, in the one time he had chosen to be selfless...

I'm so alone, Sherlock.

Sherlock wants to text back, to demand to know why John isn't remembering that he still has his sister, and Mrs. Hudson, and Greg and Mike and Bill. He still has all of his old rugby friends, and he has the co-workers from that surgery job. Sherlock wants to text him back and remind him of all the things that he still has...

...but, even if he could, Sherlock wouldn't be able to bring himself to.

Sherlock stares across the street that separates them. They are so close, and yet, so far.

And all Sherlock can do is watch.

And hope.

Hope against hope that John comes to his senses.

Sherlock watches the doctor place his face in his hands, rub his eyes and cheeks and face, and Sherlock can only just make out John's shoulders shaking.

Sherlock wants to give into sentiment. For once, he really wants to give into sentiment, go to John and wrap him in his arms and actually hug him and prove to his silly, overreacting doctor that everything is fine.

Except.

It isn't.

It isn't, and his hands are still shaking, and he's bitten his lip so hard that he can taste blood in his mouth. He realizes that it's fitting, because, in falsely killing himself, he had, and still was, really killing John.

And he's sorry and scared and sad and angry all in one, and the overabundance of emotion drives him crazy. He swallows hard. His throat is tight. In a bizarre moment, he realizes that his eyes are gearing up for tears- not fake this time- and he shakes himself mentally.

Get a grip.

You have to believe. Believe in John.

He will not do it.

(Sherlock doesn't know if he tells himself this because he believes it, or if it's because he can't fathom the alternative.)

When the earth decides to finally carry on and revolve, when time decides to finally continue ticking, Sherlock watches John as the doctor backs away from the ledge.

Sherlock can breathe again.

John turns his back and strides away from the ledge, although it's much less a stride and more of a slouch. He vanishes back into the stairwell.

Sherlock is forced to take a very deep breath to chase away the lingering emotion.

John is safe.

That's all that matters.

Sherlock admits to himself, as he slowly retreats down his own stairwell, that he needs to finish this mission rather quick.

He rather misses John and wants to get back to him as soon as he can.

Because, without each other, what are they but empty shells?

Sherlock had messed everything up, but he was determined to fix it.

Not for himself.

But, for John.

So, I was feeling rather angsty and this jumbled up mess of emotional Sherlock ended up happening. Was John really going to do it? It's all rather up in the air, honestly; I feel like John is going to be severely broken from the Reichenbach events. Do I think he would go to such extremes? I'm not sure. Do I think John would go back to Barts just to stand at the last place that Sherlock had been- alive- just to feel closer to Sherlock? Possibly. Do I think we're going to see anything like this in the programme? Not really. I think we'll get a bit of John's unhappiness before the Reunion scenario starts up.

As usual, thanks for reading. Your thoughts are appreciated.