Operation: Redbeard

Prologue:

"Don't do this."

"I have to Sherlock. You know that."

There was something in the way he spoke, the soft lilt of his voice that set the consulting detective on edge, an air of resignation if you will. But, in the haze and heat of the moment, though, he couldn't quite place the significance of this deduction.

"There has to be—we can figure out another way, just give me some time to think. I can't—"

The words weren't coming out right. They felt hollow and rough against his lips.

Sherlock Holmes was truly at a loss for words. His mind a scattered mass of thoughts which, flitting angrily by, never gave the detective a clear portrait of an idea that could see him through this wretched mess.

It infuriated him.

Didn't it?

Isn't that what he felt? Fury? Anger?

He didn't like being stumped. He didn't like not knowing, not understanding.

The cool breeze against his cheeks played against the slick of sweat that creased his brow and seeped into his curls.

But the wild beating of his heart against the chest, the way his breathing came out rapidly, in short bursts, never quite filling his lungs and the all too familiar sensation of hyper-awareness—of his surroundings, the noises of the passers-by, and the soft breathing at the other end of the line signaled that it wasn't quite fury that he felt.

It was something else, something deeper, more painful, and wholly unfamiliar to him.

What was it?

His mind scrambled for answers, analyzing every possible way in which his body's responses to the situation might hint at what he was experiencing.

His pulse was quick.

This was wrong. All of this was wrong.

He felt something sour on his tongue, burning his throat.

"I can't…you just have to give me…" he wasn't sure what he was going to say. Logic screamed at him to recognize the reality of the situation.

He refused.

"I just need a minute to sort through this. We can—there's another way."

'Liar' his mind supplied easily

"There is no other way Sherlock. I'm sorry."

The finality in his voice, the soft sigh as the last words crossed the line between cell phones sent the detective's heartrate into a frenzy. A sense of foreboding filled his senses, and the inevitable realization that he couldn't change the situation weighed on his shoulders.

He had to try though. He had to do…something.

'Not possible.' His mind retorted.

Time seemed to slow down as he gazed upwards, looking towards the rooftop. The burgeoning sounds of the city-street blared in his ears, blending into an indistinguishable mish-mash of overbearing noise that threatened to drown out all semblance of thought.

A lump formed in his throat.

The world around him ceased movement.

The phone slipped from his hands as he tried desperately to move.

There was the frantic bleating of a car horn, the angry shouts of pedestrians as he barreled through the throng of people as he kept his gaze fixed firmly upwards.

He watched, as the figure, clad in his all too familiar dark jacket, with arms outstretched, stepped forward.

Off the roof.

Sherlock's stomach dropped, while his mind finally registered the sensation he'd been feeling:

Panic

"John!"