Messages – Drafts
John Watson
Just wanted to let you know I didn't die.– SH
Sherlock's finger hovered over the Send button. It should have been simple enough, he thought. It had been five months since the jump from St. Bart's. Everything had gone perfectly, and with Mycroft's help, leaving England undetected had been a breeze. What came next…wasn't so easy. Sherlock had already begun to infiltrate Moriarty's vast network, and he knew that it would be a long while before he completely dismantled it. But this…this was harder, much harder than he'd thought it'd be, telling John.
John should know. He thinks you're dead.
Sherlock's long, nimble finger began to curve down towards Send, but stopped in midair again. The message doesn't look right, he suddenly decided. I'll tell him later.
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Message Deleted
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One month later...
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Messages – Compose
John Watson
Hello. It's me. – SH
Shouldn't send that. Too casual.
Later. I'll send it later.
Delete
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Three months later…
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Messages – Compose
John Watson
Remember how you wanted a miracle? – SH
No. He couldn't send that. John would be furious if he realized Sherlock had been in that graveyard, less than a hundred feet away, listening to his friend's heartbroken, one-sided conversation.
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Message Deleted
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Six months later…
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He tried making a joke out of it.
Messages – Compose
John Watson
I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. – SH
His finger was on the Delete button in less time than it took to blink.
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Four months later...
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Messages – Compose
John Watson
Being dead is overrated. – SH
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to tell John...just yet. After all, he could let the fact slip. Couldn't have all of London knowing he was still alive when he had work to do, now could he?
The argument was weak, he knew. But he stuck with it nonetheless.
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Two months later…
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Messages – Drafts
John Watson
Turns out, I was faking. – SH
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Message Deleted
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Eight months later...
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Messages – Drafts
John Watson
I'm alive. – SH
Remember how I died two years ago? About that. – SH
I've been a bit busy, but I just thought I'd let you know that I didn't, in fact, die. – SH
As it turns out, falling from a multi-story building isn't as fatal as it seems. – SH
Remember that incredibly clever detective friend of yours that fell from a roof to his death? Hello again. – SH
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If Sherlock was being honest with himself, he knew why he hadn't been able to get in contact with John all this time. Every time his finger hovered over the Send button, all he could hear was John yelling his name with desperation, just before the fall, and all he could see was the disbelief in his eyes as the doctor knelt over Sherlock's supposedly dead body, still dazed from his own fall to the pavement as he took his pulse. The denial…and then the pain. The hurt that could be seen and felt, even from a distance, as John stood by his friend's grave.
"Don't…be…dead. Would you do that...just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."
It had to be done, Sherlock told himself over and over. He had had to do it. Not only did he have to be absolutely certain that the immediate danger to John be taken care of – after all, things could have gone horribly wrong with the plan to incapacitate the sniper – but if he hadn't done it, if he hadn't done what he was doing now, no one he loved would ever be safe. Especially John…his best friend.
Finally, after all this time, he admitted it to himself, what John meant to him. John had thought that Sherlock had saved him, but it had truly been the other way round. Before he'd met John, Sherlock had been cold, distant. Love was a weakness, a disadvantage, something to be avoided at all costs. The work was the only thing that truly mattered, and he couldn't allow himself to be distracted by petty relationships. He told himself and the people around him that he was a high functioning sociopath, over and over, and he had convinced himself that this was the truth.
In reality, he had just been fooling himself. Sociopaths didn't care like he did. And for once, he had been happy to have been proven wrong.
Regrettably, though, he knew this feeling could never be mutual. What he had done was unforgivable, and he knew it. Who could forgive something like this? How could they possibly begin to?
There was one last link in Moriarty's network in Serbia, and then, after he had finished with that, his hard work would finally be complete.
He wasn't planning for what he would do after that.