Wings of the Damned

Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: Wings of the Damned, Part 2, Along dem day
Summary: Sherlock's fall from his perspective.

Character/Relationships: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

So I ran to the Lord

I said, "Lord hide me, please hide me"

"Please help me"

Along dem day

He tucks the phone back in his pocket.

His mind feels calm.

He turns toward the ledge and somehow the cabbies words come back to his mind, "Not bored now, are you?" He takes carefully deep breaths and steps up, one foot then the other.

The transport trusts the brain even though the brain has repeatedly betrayed it. His stomach growls and he wishes he had a cigarette. A last sip of tea for his dry mouth would be heavenly. He wishes he had his violin, he wonders if he would have the control to play it all the way to impact. Of course he would, but what a waste of an instrument.

He's about to waste his mind as well, splatter it below. He feels slightly sick and wonders how John will take the news. John's voice; that would be far above a last supper. He wants his friend's voice more than any other last moments of comfort. He dials.

He should hang up. He sees John get out of the cab. And he's suddenly unsure where the sniper might be. It might not be a sniper, just another madman with a gun. Just an assassin with a hand gun who will walk up to John with a friendly smile and empty five rounds into John's head before anyone has time to scream

John has already figured out that the call was fake and rushed back here. He looks so small from here. He lifts his phone and his watchful eyes dart around, yet he has not noticed the man on the roof. " Hello?"

" John." Sherlock swallows, he can barely speak.

" Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

He doesn't answer that. The answer is no. He should just say something kind. He should say something to ease his mind. " Turn around and walk back the way you came. Now."

" No, I'm coming in."

God no. I have to see you. He looks down as some idiot backs an articulated-lorry onto the curb, and people begin directing it into place. He blows out his breath. Oh God. Molly's friends have arrived. John is going to see this whole mess in just a few steps. " Just do as I ask. Please."

" Where?" John is searching for him, thinking he's hidden somewhere. The lorry is in place, but Sherlock is pretty certain that it won't work. It is too small. He can't hit that tiny target and the bag is stuffed into the frame. It won't work. Any bit of him that exceeds the boundary of the safety bag will be severed. This could be even more gruesome than landing on concrete. If the bag doesn't deflate properly on impact, he will still die. Good God, how did they come up with such a stupid plan.

" Stop there,"he says trying to keep his voice from shaking.

" Sherlock?" John turns around still searching for him.

Sherlock forces his voice to sound calm. " Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

John turns and looks up. Sherlock sees the horror and shock fill John's face as he sees him. It dawns on Sherlock that there are no words of kindness that will ever make this moment better for John. The truth of what is about to happen will forever sever this friendship. John will be left to face all Sherlock's mistakes.

He will try to stand up for Sherlock. People will turn their disgust upon the dissenting voice of his loyal blogger. Moriarty's lies will ruin John's life, if he tries to clear his name. He is probably about to die beings this contraption looks so unsound. John will be tortured with his faith in Sherlock Holmes.

" Oh God," John says, snapping to the conclusion that something horrible is about to take place.

" I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock hesitates, trying to figure out what there really is to say. It settles in his mind that he must actually be cruel now. He will take a last moment of strength from this man and set him free. The destructive shadow of his supposed disgrace must be wiped away from John.

" What's going on?" he says, calm and hopeful that this is not what it appears to be. He assumes there is a great plan and he must only wait for instructions to know what Sherlock needs.

" An apology. It's all true," he says resolved to give John an avenue to survive what the vultures with cameras will try to do to him. If he denounces me, they won't turn on him. I have botched it all and this fall isn't looking like it's going to be pretty. That steel frame, on the articulated-lorry, will more than likely slice through him most gruesomely.

" Wh-what?"

" Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." Sherlock looks behind him at his great 'invention', and he wishes for once that Mycroft were watching and going to swoop in to save him, but there is no rescue this time.
"Why are you saying this?" John's face scrunches up in confusion.

What he needs to say and saying it are two different concepts. He has to stand here and honestly give up not only his life but all that he has ever been. He can barely say the three little words that end who he is in John's eyes. He will turn away or throw the mobile down and leave. " I'm a fake."

" Sherlock ..." his head shakes, but there is doubt.

That's right, hate me John for I love you enough to convince you. He can't stop the tears now, he will become nothing, no pride, no ego, no honor and then he will die just for the man before him. Maybe it makes up for the mistake he made. " 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."

John had always been a bit stubborn. " Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" John is angry with him, because he has always cared about how he appeared to others. Even hearing it as a confession, John is trying to have faith in his pitiful monster. The fact he is chewing the concept like a bull dog amuses Sherlock. He can't help the smirk that rises to his face. John could always amuse him.

" Nobody could be that clever." He answers, but it is almost a seductive sound. His John, wanting to see and being correct and that pride wells up, speaking of how he taught John this very thing, and now trying to convince him of the impossible, losing that person who is sure of you in every way, is so much harder.

" You could."

Of course, very good, John. Sherlock laughs and the love for John swells up in his eyes. It is their last laugh. Back to reality now, you always were such a distraction, John. " I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you." he wants to scream that all he ever wanted to do was impress John. He sniffs and for a second he wants to tell him, he ventures a double entendre, "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

John closes his eyes, almost giving in, then they fly open ready to shout orders and fight. " No. All right, stop it now." He's done trying to figure this out and he begins walking toward the hospital obviously intending to march up to the roof and drag Sherlock down by the ear like he's been known to do when he gets out of hand.

Sherlock panics, and demands, "No, stay. Exactly. Where you are. Don't move."

Something stops John, the panic or the desperation; he holds his hand up as if wanting to hold him in place. "All right," he says measured and calm.

" Keep your eyes fixed on me." He knows he has to hurry, John is quickly reaching his threshold of faffing around. " Please, will you do this for me?" Please, in case it is my last breath let my eyes see only you.

" Do what?" he asks, but it really means, 'Yes, anything you ask so long as you don't leave me.'
Sherlock, stumbles with so many things to say, but he is out of time, so he just says what he can, focused on his flat-mate, his friend, his heart. " This phone call – it's, umm ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"

John's head shakes. His hand becomes too weak to hold the phone, his mind too distracted, as he realizes and calculates how fast he could get to the roof and that it will never be enough. He raises the phone back to his ear and his lips barely move as he mumbles in despair, " Leave a note when?"

Below, one of the drivers, waves. He must go this moment.

" Goodbye, John." He says simply and tosses the phone onto the roof. It's only polite to say goodbye, at least he got to this time.

Confucius taught: Our greatest glory is not, in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

I will rise.

Sherlock took one breath, spread his arms and prayed they would turn to wings. And with no count or tension, just perform this act like he would sip tea, he stepped out before he lost his nerve. The urge to scream hit him when his stomach first felt the gravitational acceleration. He flailed and his legs involuntarily tried to swim or run, unable to figure out how to save the stupid computer this time.

He bit off the urge to scream, because he heard John. John is in anguish and he landed flat on the lorry, the airbag hurt but suddenly there was no more movement and other than being unable to breath, he knew he would live. He pulled the rubber tubing on each arm tight knowing it would stop blood flow and pulse. His skin would cool by the time the network let John touch him, just for a second. By now he should be getting a dose of H.O.U.N.D. and he would see exactly what he's told to see.

There are hands dragging him from the compartment, Molly sedates him, telling him calmly he has a dislocated shoulder and he feels the pavement and the first sprinkles of rain, there are drops put in his eyes and hands on him. Something splashes in his face. He is aware, but it is warped and far away, he feels paralyzed. If he stops breathing, they don't have long to get him tubed, before he suffocates. He and Molly calculated the dose carefully, but it is always a guess, especially with him.

His ears work fine and he can hear John. So different from that night. He would have been fine if this happened after that. Stupid, he should have, thought. John sounds broken, he is saying his name over and over. He's lifted onto a hospital surgery trolly, and wheeled away.

Just in time, he's screaming inside, his face is covered and air is forced in his lungs. He is panicked and tears of relief flood his nearly blind eyes. "I've got you. It worked. Now just wait for Mycroft and probably Greg. Don't worry, I'm right here and I will breathe for you, as long as it takes."

Mycroft Holmes glared down at the body. "Sherlock. You are not fooling me." He said watching closely. "He moved."

Molly looked down and she began to cry. He was taking too long. Sherlock was not breathing on his own yet and her watch seemed to be racing along while his brother poked, prodded and cajoled his brother to stop this game. "It is normal. He was pronounced. His body temperature is consistently dropping, his pupils are fixed and dilated, he is clearly…clearly. I have checked at least a hundred times." Molly began sobbing uncontrollably. It worked just as Sherlock had suggested it would. Mycroft made a quick exit, fine with trying to annoy his brother to return to life, but unable to deal with someone being emotional about him. On his way out the door, Mycroft demands he be sent the file before it is released.

She raced to fit the mask on his face again, He looked at her and winked. "Oh God. I thought you were dying."

"ssorr offfff va idea." He says with rubber for lips and gravel for sound.

"Joh-nn?"

"I don't know. He hasn't come. I think Greg is trying to calm him down. A bit." Molly says.

"mmmy hurt?"

"A bit. Don't worry."

"Ok, time to stain you up with some liver mortis and I need to get you undressed. Good thing you aren't shy." Molly says quietly.

Sherlock lays under the sheet for four hours, while the drug wears off. Molly bathes him and and prepares him for viewing, just as she would any corpse. People whisper about her and peek at her from time to time, but nobody else arrives to view Sherlock. The second corpse is brought out of hiding just as Jim is discovered and brought off the roof. She checks him in while Sherlock hides under her desk, dressed in scrubs and murderously uncomfortable.

By two p.m. Sherlock sits in a wheelchair, head wrapped like a mummy, wounds dressed, arm in a sling. He sits next to the display cooler, as if mourning a loved one. Molly whispers explanation and most people quickly view who they came to see, and leave. Only Lestrade comes to see Sherlock. Molly is just finishing up the post mortem, dumping the organs back in the cavity in no particular order. Greg glares at her as if this standard procedure is somehow insulting. He stands there, his posture dancing between seasoned detective, devastated friend, and angry father.

Molly waits for him to nod for her to pull the sheet back. "How bad?"

"Awful. Just, awful. I'm sorry. I did what I could, but it…"

"Mycroft identified him?"

"There was less swelling and rigor hadn't made the face so…"

"Ok. I know, just do it."He growls.

"You don't have to, you know. Sometimes, it's better."

"I have to. I have to, or I will always…It's my fault. I did this to him. He expected better of me."

Molly hears a breath suck in behind her, she clears her throat as Greg focuses his attention on the man. "Uhemm. Newly wed. So sad," she whispers. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't."

Greg nods and Molly lifts the sheet. "Oh. Jesus, Bloody Hell." Greg waves his hand that he's seen enough.

Molly distinctly hears snickering, though as she turns, it at once, is replaced by poorly faked, pretend sobbing. Greg has covered his own eyes with his hands and Molly rolls hers at the completely ludicrous scene.

"Has, John…seen this?" Lestrade asks.

"He hasn't been here."

"Good. Well that's good. Doctor or not, I ain't letting him see that. Jesus you made a mess this time, you bloody git."

"Excuse me?" Molly says.

"Oh no. Sorry. Him, not you. Don't, for the love of God, let John in here." Lestrade leaves and goes back up on the roof.

It is dark now and he takes Sherlock's phone out of his pocket and plays the recording again. The lights of London sparkle in the distance and Greg only sees the dark and knows every one of those lights will burn out at some point but up higher, above London, the truly brilliant lights will shine long past the small garish ones overwhelming them. He listens to the voice, and tries to erase the vision of his end with the moments when he was at his most shining. His blood still stains the sidewalk and people don't notice it as they make their way home in the dark.

This is Sherlock Holmes…and I am about to die...I take this action...I take...this action with full knowledge of its implications and consequences. Please see that this is played for Detective Inspector Lestrade. Greg, distance yourself from me as much as possible.

Don't fall with me.

I know you will try to blame yourself and seek to return my name to light, but that path will only bring you darkness, my dear friend. There is danger and if you find an unseen enemy, who makes your stomach boil with recognition, walk away. Have quiet faith in me Greg, but do not take my whipping upon yourself or advance your own disgrace in my stead. Let my name alone stand at their mercy.

I will burn in the heretic's fire alone. Let them laugh at me and drag me through the streets while you remember who I was like a forbidden scripture.

For all the times you stood for me, scolded me and came running to my aid, know that I did consider you above all, a good man and truly, London's finest. The only one in the Yard. Thank you for all the years.

One last favor, watch over John. There is an obscure gloom to him, I cannot name, but if he should fine unexpected tones, come to nightfall and take arms against things that he and I shared, please guide him away. Tell him, it matters no more and not to follow my larks of insanity.

Protect his life as you once did mine. Be kind to Mycroft. Both of you? He will be so alone and do take dear, Mrs. Hudson to tea while I am away. I shall miss you all…you bunch of sentimental fools. I will be so bored without you. Farewell."