The Note

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

Her voice is broken and Sherlock strains his eyes to try to see her more clearly, "Clara, what are you doing? Get off that roof, now!"

She sobs into the phone, "Please.. Will you do this for me?"

He shakes his head, "Clara-"

Clara runs a hand through her hair, "I'm so sorry.", she apologizes and holds the phone closer to her ear.

Sherlock looks at her, her red coat making it easier to spot her position on the roof. He tries to read her, but the distance is not working in his favor. He never could read her, though. She was a mystery. An enigma he could never solve and, oddly, he didn't mind. She challenged him, challenged his mind and he cared for her - which surprised him because he always thought of love as nothing short of a disadvantage. Something that should be avoided. But, he cared for her and that was the reason she was up there. The reason Moriarty wanted to take her down.

Because how to destroy Sherlock Holmes more than to kill the person he - with the exception of John Watson - cared about most?

He doesn't look away, "It's my fault."

She ignores his words, "This phone call, it's.. It's my note."

"Clara, wha-"

"That's what people do, don't they?", she says, "Leave a note?", a sad chuckle escapes her lips, "I died so many times and I always left a note. Except that was different."

The cold air burns his lungs, "How was it different?"

She smiles, "'Run, you clever boy.', that's what I always said to him, 'And remember.'. But you're not the Doctor, are you? You're Sherlock Holmes, and I-", she pauses, "I just hoped we'd have a little more time."

"What are you talking about, Clara?", he asks, "We've got all the time in the world."

She shakes her head, closing her eyes as tears stream down her cheeks, warming her face. Her lips are salty, "No, Sherlock. We don't."

Sherlock looks away for a moment, looking down at the ground. He then glances at John - who could swear on his life that the world's only consulting detective never looked more disturbed - and then averts his eyes back to her as she stands on the roof of St. Bart's. As she stands a bit too close to the edge.

"They'll kill you. And John. And Lestrade an-", her voice breaks and she shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts, "I have to do this, Sherlock."

He blinks, "Do what, Clara?"

She puts a hand on her mouth to cover the sob that escapes her lips and then brushes away her tears. She swallows, "I'm so sorry.", she apologizes again, "I love you, Sherlock."

With a hesitant shake of her head, she drops the phone on the floor of the roof and moves closer to the edge. She considers closing her eyes again, but the urge to see him one last time emerges from the back of her mind and they sprung open as fast as she first shut them, finding his face in the group of people who gathered.

He looks so small. So tired. So.. broken.

She can't even imagine how he'd look like after-

Clara takes one more step and spreads her arms wide. She closes her eyes and lets herself fall.

He throws away his phone, "Clara, no!", his yells echo through the streets.

Clara Oswald falls, and so does Sherlock Holmes.

The only difference is that the latter had Doctor John Watson catch him as he fell apart.

A.N.: Parts of the speech belong to Steven Moffat, as you already realised. Don't lie to me, I know you have that thing memorised, just like I do. Seriously, I remember it at the worst time possible and then can't function for the next half hour. Thank you, Steven - or should I say Satan?
I've toyed with this idea for a while and finally gotten the time to write it out. It took me about two hours as my fingers refused to cooperate - or maybe it was the fact that I couldn't stop crying. I JUST BROKE MY OWN FEELS, OKAY. Leave me alone to die, because I ship them way too hard.