Chapter Text
Stories are told through reflection. A narrator of one sort or another will consider a noteworthy series of events, and, by way of retelling to an audience, reflect upon them. Often, these stories will be told with structure – a steady, traceable line that flows from one point in time to another, not unlike how each moment had occurred.
Of course, to hear a story as it truly happened – in perfect chronological order, no less – is to follow a reliable narrator.
So what is one to do when the story, exactly as it occurred, is not chronologically legible?
The narrator must try his best to be as clear and concise as he can be. As reliable, despite challenges this particular noteworthy story will hold. Then, of course, the interpretation and understanding of the story told will fall upon the reader.
Follow along as best you can, for this particular story is as unpleasant as it is chronologically convoluted.
—
John hummed Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls every morning as he brushed his teeth. It was normal, a repetitive instance Sherlock had grown used to over the years. Part of the routine. A perfect piece of the mundane, domestic living they’d grown to share.
Years ago, the word ‘home’ – stored away in Sherlock’s brain at a young age and reflected upon throughout the wide variety of wretched, lonely experiences he’d encountered throughout boarding school – may have been defined alongside a distant memory of a house in the countryside, or the crowded halls of Dulwich College, or the lab in St. Barts he’d spent more time in than his in-between flat.
Only as of late has the word has grown to fulfill its true meaning. Not an empty promise, not an inadequate label plastered on equally inadequate living conditions – home.
221B Baker Street. John. Mariana. Archie. Swindon mug. Burnt sofa. Violin. Office phone to ring with cases. Mobile phone to chat with fans. A place to think, a place to pace uninterrupted. John’s bunny slippers. Mariana’s glasses. John’s desk, where he falls asleep editing more often than he does in his bed. Archie’s jar of treats.
Now, 221B is miles away, nestled safely in the familiar confines of Baker Street.
Spray stings against Sherlock’s back, cold, sharp, lingering on his skin and sinking inexorably into his clothes. His sodden overcoat hangs heavily from his shoulders, hair sticking to the side of his face. His feet are planted, and there is a gun in the palm of his hand. It won’t save him.
“How, exactly, had you described it?” Moriarty drawls, sweat sliding down his throat. “Only the most determined bore through the hardest rock? How wretchedly shallow. Determination, Holmes, is a poor match for real, profound intellect. In the end, it’s almost amusing to witness something so simply described as ‘unwavering resolve’ – for waver it will, when one comes to realize, all too late, that mere determination was futile. You witness this yourself, Holmes, backed between a rock and a hard place, as it were. And your simple Doctor John Watson MD , gone away, off to help the poor Englishwoman – surely you must’ve known that to be a farce, yet still, you sent him on. And what now? The great Sherlock Holmes, all alone – what determination has he present to bore through this final problem?”
Sherlock stands on the edge. There are so many things he could say, so many ways he could refute Moriarty’s insidious monologue. He could take the opportunity to stall, ramble on about the true meaning of his words and the twisted gaps between Moriarty’s. But what good would that do?
Sherlock stands on the brink of a chasm. Sharp edges of glistening, coal-black rock line the drop into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable depth. The river above hurls itself into the abyss, a long sweep of green water roaring forever down, and a thick flickering curtain of spray hisses forever upwards.
Moriarty stands opposite him, poised in the center of the path to return. There is no other way out but down. Indeed, Sherlock is faced with two equally untenable circumstances – neither of which present ample opportunity for escape. This final problem. He cannot run from it. He cannot escape it.
He must face it. He must consider the stage as it has been set, every conceivable avenue. Moriarty has made his move – it is Sherlock's turn.
“You’re finished, Moriarty,” he states. He is confident in this. If nothing else, the majority of Moriarty’s supporting forces have been apprehended, and those few that were not have gone deep into hiding – though they wouldn’t stay hidden, not for long. Mycroft would be sure of that. If nothing else, Moriarty would not survive this encounter – Sherlock would be sure of that . “You’ve lost it all. And this, this desperate attempt at vengeance, is just that: an act of desperation. Of hasty, ill-applied hatred – and one that has led you to your end. You may kill me here, but do not mistake your circumstantial position of power for invulnerability. Perhaps in this you will find the answer to your question – for while it may be true that determination is only as powerful as the will and wit it is matched against, I believe you’ll quickly find you are not so insurmountable an opponent when one disregards self-preservation.”
Moriarty scoffs. “Simple words from one that holds a pistol. Convenient also, that you would so quickly discount how you’ve been left alone.”
“And you, to disregard my readiness to trade my own life for yours.”
“Tut tut, Holmes. What would the poor Doctor think?”
The moments that follow topple all semblance of control and caution over the edge. There is a line of movement, in the corner of Sherlock’s active periphery. Once hidden by the darkness of the approaching path and Moriarty’s tall frame, a figure jumps outwards, all heavyset limbs and bright, ferocious eyes. Never once has John been so focused, so intent on a singular, shining goal. His arms wrap around Moriarty’s shoulders – it’s all he can reach – and pull this way and that, furious and unerring.
Yet he can’t manage to tip Moriarty’s balance, can’t bring him to meet the rocky ground. Rather, they sway along the cliff’s edge, fists throwing, limbs flailing, a perfect, intolerable dance of death.
It ends in a matter of moments – it ends, really, before Sherlock’s even begun to understand where it had started.
John, of course, had recognized Moriarty in his near-frantic ascent to Sherlock’s position. And it, of course, had only taken John a moment to realize he’d been deceived. And John, of course – loyal, impulsive, empathetic John – had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the very solution Sherlock had so carelessly conjured for himself.
Loyal, impulsive, self-sacrificial John, his arms wrapped tightly around Moriarty’s shoulder blades.
They linger on the brink, twisted together in some evil, perfect balance – and then tip just this side of too far. They fall. Sherlock imagines, some time later, that he could see John’s eyes shift to meet his – but gravity is a fast, heartless thing, and he’s gone over the edge before any of them can do anything about it.
It’d been seconds. Seconds, and not a word between them. Seconds, and suddenly Sherlock is alone. The chasm roars, breathes, screams in the face of its own incalculable depth and the future it had just viciously robbed John of.
Disbelief and horror come hand in hand, threatening to drown Sherlock in their abrupt cruelty. They crack and splinter at his control, leave him stopped and staring in shock.
…the weight of what had just happened, however, takes its time. It sinks in like an old friend, building upon itself until the cracks in his composure shatter into thousands of tiny shards. He will never piece them back together again.
The thief, the roaring chasm, drops into its boundlessness by his side. There is an end to it, one Sherlock cannot see, and a second of consideration provides the quickest, easiest way to reach it.
He turns and takes the long path to the bottom.
—
He finds John there, draped across the ground. It would be needlessly grievous to describe, in-detail, the state of his body. The rocks were not merciful, yet the spray of the falls does its best to clean away the blood that stains his clothes, mats his hair, runs from his nose. And still – John’s chest shudders, breaths forced through torn lungs – he is alive.
He won’t be for long.
Sherlock drops to his knees by his side. “John,” says a voice that sounds nothing like his own. “John, what do I do? Tell me what to do – tell me how I can help you.”
He can’t.
A single broken hand drifts unsteadily into his, pressing something small and heavy into his palm. “It’s – okay,” John manages, even as his eyes lose focus, fatigue stealing him away. “It’s okay. It’ll – be alright. You’ll…” His voice drifts away, his breath hitching in his throat.
He coughs, his chest shudders.
“John.”
Silence.
“John.”
Still hands, still chest, still eyes. John’s microphone sits heavy in Sherlock’s hands.
And suddenly, he is alone again.
—
Sherlock slips away from himself, moments drifting past like particles of dust through a line of sun. He sees them – only for a moment, only long enough that he might surmise their existence, consider them briefly – and then they’re lost again. He cannot hold onto one particular fragment, one particular moment – they trail away into a distance he has no effort to reach for. He could not recall them if he tried.
Then there is a hand on his back, and the world drops upon his shoulders.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, her voice a thin line of carefully crafted composure. She is experienced in loss – she knows this, is familiar with it, and will keep her calm until she is alone. “You should go home.”
They are…standing in a waiting room. Sharp, fluorescent lights sting the edges of his vision. A floral freshener is tucked away in some dark corner – the room reeks of it. The morgue will be downstairs. John is there, waiting. He’d wait. He’d be so patient.
“Yes,” Sherlock replies. He should go home.
He ends up on a train back to London. Not three days ago he’d been a passenger on this very same train, John settled by his side. Not three days ago they’d been caught up in reflection, thinking back on all of their favorite moments together. They’d known Moriarty was hot on their trail, knew, silently, the end of something was coming.
And Sherlock had been so content. Sherlock had known the end was on its way – had known it was rising to meet him, to take his hand in its calm, impartial cruelty – and he’d resolved himself to be at ease. It would only be right for him to go out in that way, in stopping Moriarty once and for all, even at the cost of his own life. He understood. He was at peace with the future that was coming.
Now, John is dead.
Sherlock can’t fathom it. He cannot understand such a simple thing. How foolish he was. How cruel an ending is. How unimaginable. The world spits at him in its fury. How could he have thought to leave John to face this? How selfish he is. How heartless. How desperate he is to take it back now. He could never. The world is uncomfortable in its presence. He exists in it, still, without John. John is locked away in a cold drawer, all by himself. He must be so alone. He must feel so abandoned, his silent heart freezing in the confines of his cold, still chest. Sherlock can feel it now, the burn digging through.
Take it all back. Take him back. Give him another chance. Let him breathe it away. Let it not have happened at all.
The train goes along all the while, scything ever-onwards – its gentle, earthly gleam of lounges and bedrooms, the pulse of flickering televisions fluttering against windows. Reds and ambers of traffic lights and road works, blues and greens of electric car charging points and pedestrian crossings. The brilliant white shine of LEDs radiating that same shade of moonglow – and all the while, the train continues on.
It carries him to London, to Baker Street, to 221B.
Yet still, it carries him away from his home.
He’d left it behind in a freezer.
—
Mariana stays with him for days.
—
He cannot put his pipe down.
—
Sherlock’s bedroom ceiling twists and spins, obscured by the darkness of the late hour and his exhaustion. His room is cold. He can’t bring himself to stand, nor to turn up the thermostat. His blankets are…somewhere. He has a sheet – but it provides no comfort, only serves to irritate his skin and leave him itching for the weight of his blankets.
Discomfort – now so familiar, to Sherlock – wears on his stability. He longs to stand, to pull his blankets back, to slip into the heady calm his pipe will so quickly provide. A poor imitation of true comfort, but silence, silence, silence. He needs it. He needs to get up.
“John,” he says, abruptly.
…it startles him. The sound of his own voice is gone as quickly as it had appeared. Yet, strangely…it had felt right. The word fit, managed to hold the weight of his frustration, was a relief to let out and hear.
“John,” Sherlock tries, again.
And it’s such a tricky thing, memory. He can almost imagine John’s voice returning.
“Yeah, mate?”
“John,” he manages, finally. John’s microphone stays, heavy in the palm of his hand. He’s not let go of it. He won’t let go of it.
He doesn’t cry. He just wants John back.
Sherlock just wants him back. He just wants the chance. He just wants to go back, to fix things – yet the permanence of death could not be challenged.
Finally, sleep steals him away.
—
Adrenaline.
It’s pounding in his chest, thrumming through his arms, his legs are moving, he’s running, he’s running, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Something wet drips down his stomach, there is light past his shut eyes.
He is running. There is pain, distantly, buried under the force of the sickening rush of the adrenaline.
Sherlock opens his eyes.
There is a man in front of him. The man is speaking, a microphone held in one hand. “What - what did you just say?” The man says.
And of course the man is John.
Sherlock trips on the treadmill beneath his feet, legs kicking out from beneath him. His hands rip from the handles of the thing, electronic pads tearing away from his chest and back. The monitor on the counter to his side flatlines. The floor rushes to meet him.
Thankfully, so does John, who is by his side in seconds. “Holy - are you alright?”
Sherlock blinks, holding his head as he sits up from his spot on the floor. Blood dribbles from the knife wound in his chest. The smell of heavy-duty cleaning spray lingers in the air. The floor is familiar beneath him, as familiar as the room itself is.
St. Barts. October of 2023.
Deductions draw themselves up in Sherlock’s mind, race and tumble and twist before he can properly consider them. This is a moment he remembers. This is something clear. This is – a memory. Yet, it’s going all wrong.
“Mate? Are you ok?” John repeats, hands drifting inches away.
“We are strangers,” Sherlock breathes, the moment the conclusion comes to his mind.
“Yeah, and you’re bleeding, mate. What happened? ”
“I was monitoring the – the hypothalamus.”
This is not his John. This is the John of the past. What little hope had gathered in the pit of his heart is swept away by that familiar wave of grief.
How cruel, that he’d be given another chance – but only one that ripped all he’d grown fond of away from him anyway.
Obviously he’d woken up – back in time. Or perhaps this was all some heady delusion brought on by too much time spent cradling his pipe and too little spent sleeping, and within moments he'd wake up to his cold, empty room.
Meanwhile, John is helping him to his feet, guiding him towards a chair. “The what? ”
“The hypothalamus,” Sherlock replies, for lack of anything better to say. What should he say? How should he guide this opportunity? Should he try to replicate the past?
His legs are unsteady as he moves, John’s grip firm on his forearm, guiding him, holding him still and steady. He is real. He is real and strong and caring, even to a stranger.
…if Sherlock walks away now, would John live?
They would not grow to be friends. John would never develop his podcast towards true crime, Mariana would return to Spain, and their thousands of fans would go about their lives, occupied with other things.
…if he replicates the past, would John die?
No. He’d be careful. He’d keep things as they were, follow as closely as he could recall. In theory, knowing all that he does now, he could take care of Moriarty before the podcast even got off the ground. He could.
For once in his life, he’s been given a second opportunity. A singular, shining opportunity to fix things. To have John by his side, still. He would not so carelessly throw it away.
And of course, these conclusions come to him quickly, race to the forefront of his mind and push all else aside. He is speaking before he truly recognizes it. “The hypothalamus endorphin response from the vigorous exercise is nature’s painkiller , Doctor Watson. For the first time, I, Sherlock Holmes, am recording the volume and response of these hormones.”
“Right,” John replies, hesitantly. “And – why are you bleeding?”
“Because I stabbed myself in the chest.”