Are You Watching Closely?

Inspired by a video I saw on YouTube: "Are You Watching Closely? / Sherlock" by Liisakee. It was brilliant!

Dr. John Watson sat in his armchair at 221B Baker Street, staring at the empty armchair across from him. The empty chair. Its occupant would never use it again. He was being processed at the morgue of Bart's Hospital. John closed his eyes as, once again, he found himself lost in the memories from earlier that day, the memory of his friend stepping from that rooftop.

"I'm on the rooftop."

"I invented Moriarty."

"I'm a fake."

"It's a trick…just a magic trick."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

"This phone call—it's, er…it's my note."

"Goodbye, John."

Why? Why had he done it? It didn't make any sense. Sherlock? Suicidal? The two words made no sense when put together. Sherlock loved the Work too much to just give it all up, even in the face of the lies Moriarty had thrown at him. And speaking of, those lies—and the fallout from them—would never have affected him in that way. Sherlock had stated numerous times that he didn't care what people thought, and John had seen for himself day in and day out that it was true.

So, why?

"Just do as I ask."

"It's all true."

"The newspapers were right all along."

"Nobody could be that clever."

"It's a trick…just a magic trick."

"It's what people do, don't they—leave a note?"

"Goodbye, John."

John stood and moved over to the window, staring out at the street below. It was all still going: the pedestrians, the cabs, the buses—everything. It was all still moving on. Surely, it should stop? The city—the world—should pause at the loss of such a great man.

"Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day—if we're very, very lucky—he might even be a good one."

John's head dropped as he closed his eyes. He was standing almost in the exact spot as he had been when Lestrade had told him that. And it was true. Sherlock's final act had proven that he was a good man.

"It's all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"I'm a fake."

"The newspapers were right all along. Tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Nobody could be that clever."

"It's a trick…just a magic trick."

"Please, will you do this for me?"

"Goodbye, John."

John turned away from the window, turning to look around the flat he now had to live in without that flashpoint of energy and life. Now, he was trapped in nuclear winter.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off.'"

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan."

"He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here."

"How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

"Late?"

"What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"I'm never bored."

"I'm glad no one saw that. You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

"People do little else."

"Do you just carry on talking while I'm away?"

"I don't know. How often are you away?"

"Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

"We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

"As ever, you see but do not observe."

"Observe what?"

"The ashtray."

"You went on the Tube like that?"

"None of the cabs would take me."

"I don't have friends. I've just got one."

"Please, will you do this for me?"

"Goodbye, John."

"It's a trick…just a magic trick."

John froze, staring at the floor. Magic trick. Why had he said magic trick? Surely, the word "trick" conveyed what he was trying to say. Why had he used the word "magic"? Sherlock was not one to use words superfluously. So, why? Did it mean something?

John paced towards his chair and back again. Magic… Magic… Did it mean something? Or am I reading too much into it?

As he reached his chair again, his eyes fell on the television sitting in the corner behind it. And placed haphazardly on the DVD player was the DVD case of the movie "The Prestige."

John's eyes widened. "Magic trick…"

"Every great magic trick consists of three parts, or acts. The first part is called 'The Pledge.' The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But, of course…it probably isn't."

"Okay, look up," said Sherlock. "I'm on the rooftop."

John turned and looked up at him, his face filling with horror. "Oh, God."

"Stay exactly where you are," said Sherlock urgently. "Don't move. Keep your eyes fixed on me."

"The second act is called 'The Turn.' The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary."

"This phone call—it's, er…it's my note," said Sherlock. "It's what people do, don't they—leave a note?"

"Goodbye, John," said Sherlock.

Sherlock spread his arms to either side and fell forward, plummeting towards the ground. A couple of seconds later, the body impacted the ground.

"Now, you're looking for the secret…but you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know. You want to be fooled."

John pushed through the crowd. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please." He reached down to take hold of Sherlock's wrist, searching for a pulse.

Two people gently rolled Sherlock onto his back, revealing his blood-stained face and wide, staring eyes. Four people lifted Sherlock's body onto the stretcher and then rapidly wheeled it away into the hospital.

"But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough. You have to bring it back. That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call 'The Prestige.'"

John's mouth twitched at the corner, threatening to break into a smile. "You have to bring it back." He huffed out a laugh. "My God…"

After a moment, reality caught up with him, and he slowly deflated. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. John had seen Sherlock fall with his own eyes, had checked the lack of pulse; he had seen it. Sherlock had made sure of it.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!" Sherlock told him urgently.

"Are you watching closely?"

John stopped in his pacing once again. That's what the character of Alfred Borden had said just before they had executed him and his twin brother seemingly resurrected him.

"It's never twins, John."

John smirked a bit at the phrase Sherlock had uttered on multiple occasions. Was that what this is about? Does Sherlock have a secret twin, and he was the one who died?

John shook his head. That couldn't be it. Sherlock wouldn't do that to his brother. Not to mention: secret twin? That was just grasping at straws. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something there. Some kind of message. A note specifically for him.

"This phone call—it's, er…it's my note."

John's eyes opened as he smiled. "The phone call." He closed his eyes again and tried to remember everything Sherlock had said.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now."

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"I…I…I can't come down, so we'll…we'll just have to do it like this."

"It's all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"I'm a fake. The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly… In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Nobody could be that clever."

"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick…just a magic trick."

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"This phone call—it's, er…it's my note. It's what people do, don't they—leave a note?"

"Goodbye, John."

John shook his head, unable to see it. What he needed to do was think like Sherlock. Based on the assumption that John would get and understand the message as Sherlock gave it to him, then "magic trick" would have been the key word to clue him in. So, everything Sherlock said after that would have been the message.

"It's a trick…just a magic trick."

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"This phone call—it's, er…it's my note. It's what people do, don't they—leave a note?"

"Goodbye, John."

Don't move. Keep your eyes on me. It couldn't be that simple, could it?

John turned and looked down at Sherlock's empty chair. Could it really hurt to check?

John grabbed his coat and hurried out the door, hailing a taxi and giving the cabbie the destination of Bart's Hospital. When he arrived, he stared across the pavement at the place where Sherlock had landed. He closed his eyes and winced, turning his head away. He opened his eyes and moved towards the pavement past the ambulance station. Trying to find the general place he had been standing that morning, he stopped in the middle of the area, took a deep breath and turned around, facing the hospital. For a brief moment, he saw his friend standing on the roof's ledge. He closed his eyes, took a breath and opened them again.

John looked up at the roof, his eyes searching out the spot where Sherlock had been standing. There was nothing. He looked all around—the ambulance station, the pavement under his feet, the roof and windows of the hospital—but there was nothing there. No message, no note.

"This phone call—it's my note."

The phone call… John realized, pulling out his phone and dialing Sherlock's number.

As the phone on the other line began ringing, his foot began humming. Frowning, he looked down at the ground, spotting a break in the pavement in the shape of a rectangle. And whatever was in there was vibrating. Just as he began to move his foot so he could kneel down and check it out, the irregularity of the vibrations made him pause. As he cocked his head to the side to figure it out, it came to him: Morse code. And it was repeating the same message over and over again.

They're watching.

John stared at the ground for a moment before he dropped the phone to his side, lowering his head. He hunched his shoulders and brought his other hand to his face, letting his shoulders shake and his phone to slip out of his hand. He continued the act for a moment longer before pretending to bring himself back under control. He glanced down at his phone and knelt down to the ground, using his legs to hide his action of propping up the hidden panel in the ground. He gripped what felt like a mobile phone and pulled it out, replacing the panel. At the same time, he grabbed his own phone and stood, slipping them both into his pocket. Taking one last glance at the roof, he turned and moved back to the road, hailing a cab.

Once he was inside, he slipped the mystery phone out of his pocket. It was Sherlock's phone. He activated the screen and was met with the lock screen. He didn't even know where to begin guessing it. Which Sherlock would have known.

"The engraving."

Sherlock looked down at the engraving on the back of the phone: "Harry Watson From Clara xxx."

John smirked and flipped the phone over, slipping the back off of it. Inside, there was only the battery. He glanced at the cover and flipped it over to look at the inside. A piece of paper was taped to it. Fingers trembling slightly in anticipation, he peeled it off and unfolded it.

363-2C Green Street

Come at once if convenient.

If inconvenient, come all the same.

John stared at the note, a smile starting to form on his face. This was it. It had to be.

John looked up at the cabbie. "Actually, can you take me to 363 Green Street please?"

The cab pulled up to the old block of flats, and John paid and hurried inside. The place looked like a crack den. Then again, if he was being watched, Sherlock would pick a crack den to meet up in. A perfect alibi for a grieving, invalided ex-soldier.

John moved down the dilapidated hallway and reached the staircase, taking them two at a time until he reached the second floor, rushing down it to the door labeled "C." He threw the door open and looked around.

A dim lamp was shining on top of a beat-up table in the corner. A torn, lumpy couch sat next to it with an old duffel bag on it. John paused in the doorway. Did he just walk in on some random junkie? Or someone else?

He looked towards the right side of the room at the sound of running water. He stepped further into the room and looked over at a small kitchen, where a man was standing at the counter, his back to the rest of the room.

The man was wearing worn jeans and a black t-shirt with very familiar black curls. John stared, not willing to let himself believe it yet. It could still be—

"I wasn't expecting you until 6:35. You're five minutes early. You're learning."

John's jaw dropped at the familiar voice. Was he really standing in front of him?

Sherlock Holmes turned away from the counter, facing him with a smirk. "Abracadabra."

John stared at him for a long moment before he let out his held breath, closed his eyes and shook his head. "You cock."

"I know," said Sherlock, turning back to the counter to fuss with whatever was there.

"You made me watch you die," said John angrily. "You let me go through all that!"

"You should be grateful," said Sherlock without turning around. "I could have gone with Plan B."

"What's Plan B?" asked John.

"Telling you I was alive after I'd taken down Moriarty's network, and that could've taken years." Sherlock turned to look at him with a shrug. "When you think about it, a few hours' deceit is not that bad, is it?" He smiled. "Tea?"

John rolled his eyes as Sherlock turned back to the counter. "Why all the secrecy? Couldn't you have told me the plan beforehand?"

Sherlock picked two mugs up from the counter and headed towards him. "We were being watched."

John nodded, remembering the Morse code note.

"Snipers to kill you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson if I didn't kill myself," Sherlock told him.

John stared at him at the news.

"Your reaction needed to be genuine, and you're a horrible actor," said Sherlock, handing one of the mugs to John.

John took the mug, glaring at him. "For your information, I did a pretty good job at Bart's just now."

"Feel free to sulk all you want, but be quick about it." Sherlock moved back to the counter. "Our plane leaves in three hours."

John lowered his mug, his eyes wide. "Plane?"

Sherlock turned to him with a frown that suggested John was an idiot for not figuring it out. "You didn't expect me to hunt down Moriarty's network without you, did you?"

A smile slowly appeared on John's face. "I thought I was being watched."

Sherlock gave an exaggerated thinking face. "I think they'll find that John Watson has just decided to take an extended vacation to his cousin Thomas in Australia to deal with the loss of his very dear friend."

John shook his head as he chuckled.

"Mycroft's people arranged a credit card trail," said Sherlock, walking over and handing him a ticket. "You'll seemingly board a flight to Australia before doubling back and boarding another. I'll meet you there. All you need to do is pack."

John stared down at the plane ticket in his hand. Sherlock wanted him to come with him to hunt down Moriarty's network. He had worked out everything so that he not only would be saved from who knows how many months of boredom but the knowledge that Sherlock was dead.

"So, what do you say?" asked Sherlock.

John looked up at him.

"Could be dangerous," said Sherlock. "Interested?"

John smiled as he pocketed the ticket. "Oh, God, yes."