Chapter Text
The other side of the moon, or as known in popular culture as the dark side of the moon, is just the other side people can’t see from earth. By the works of mysterious universal powers, the speed at which the moon rotates its own axis, and the speed at which it rotates the earth, synchronises so perfectly that the earth had no idea for the longest time about what was on the other side of the moon. It’s not like it was missing something. The moon was still there with the borrowed silver lights and its craters and less amount of gravity. But earth still didn’t know all about it. Although the relationship goes way back. Thousands of years ago when all of it started.
People can live with someone and be in synchronisation for the whole time and they can be friends, spouses, acquaintances, colleagues, more than friends, and still there are things they might not know. Things that we might not be told. Secrets that might be kept. It doesn't matter who that person is. Sometimes everyone might not be part of everything in everyone’s life. There can be valid reasons behind them, sometimes there aren’t.
Did the earth ever feel betrayed because the moon hid the truth? No one knows.
But what about a human being? Certainly more emotions come into the equation because humans are humans. A messy creation.
Surprisingly, his hand doesn’t shake. And his vision doesn't go blurry. Sherlock doesn’t know what that says about his nerves. Is he too courageous? Or too scared out of his mind?
Lazarus is go.
He types with utmost concentration.
Are you absolutely sure? There is no looking back from this.
You questioning me back was not part of the plan. It is go. Don’t waste time.
Consider it done, brother mine.
He closes his eyes and braces himself for the inevitable.
“Sherlock? Sherlock!”
It’s not really easy to distinguish a broken whisper from the chatter. The necessary chatter all around, irritating. But of course like everything it serves a purpose. It’s there to make the scene as real as possible. To let it seem as if everyone is shocked. Everyone is horrified beyond their limits because a human body was laying on the ground. With his skull cracked, blood splatters everywhere. Blood flowing free on the pavement, under his shoes, over the cold, hard stone.
Because a human body just jumped from the rooftop of a four storied building in front of a dozen pairs of human eyes. It's not supposed to be a pretty sight.
Actually, only one pair of eyes. The rest knows that he clearly didn’t jump. That all of it was fake, an elaborate farce to make a lie the truth, as exactly as he said before jumping. It’s all a lie.
It’s so easy to pretend. It’s so easy to know and still act as if surprised.
But is it really? Didn’t he learn this lesson already? Or he thought he did.
The gasps are clearer now. Because now it’s easy to separate them from the fake ones around him. This one is full of pain. As if someone was dying. As if the body lying dead on the ground was more alive than the owner of that voice.
The hand on his shoulder warns him that he is supposed to be a lifeless body right now. Because the only person whom he needed to pretend in front of is there.
As if he doesn’t know John is there. As if he doesn’t know how John breathes. How John walks. How his footsteps sound when Sherlock touches his ear flat to the floor. Yes, he has done that countless times. John doesn’t know. He never will, obviously. He always told himself that it was just a part of his usual John related experiments. Cataloguing John and everything about John.
As if John wasn’t already in his mind more than necessary. More than he would prefer. But less than he would like. He would like John to consume every vein, every molecule and the flesh of his body. He really would. But that’s not possible anymore.
“I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please.”
Pain and pain and so much pain. Sherlock considers that it would be very convenient if he could go deaf at will.
The words are coming out with a struggle. And Sherlock realises he didn’t really think this through enough. He did not think enough about the consequences and the impact on John. Because the case was priority at that moment. His death was priority. And now he has broken John, might have killed him as well.
Why does he never think of that? He never thinks about what will happen after. It’s always living in the present for him. It must be a huge character flaw. Nobody ever told him that it’s a flaw. Why didn’t John ever tell him anything?
And it gets so hard to not sit up. To not tear away the farce and tell John that he isn’t what he seems like. That he is alive. That it’s not easy. That it’s never been easy to pretend. And now it’s too hard.
He didn’t want this, did he? He didn’t, certainly.
He wanted a lot of things. He wanted to sit in the kitchen and keep an eye on the microscope and feel John all around the flat. He didn’t want to leave 221b and everything and everyone that makes it home. The dust on the mantelpiece. Or the forgotten petri dishes under the sink which were never really forgotten.
Or the smell of the mothballs from John’s jumpers. And the toast heating in the kitchen. He never bothered with breakfast. But he liked the smell. Loved it, actually. It was an essential part of his existence.
He would buy milk for the next decade. He would even try to keep the flat clean. To be back there again. To walk on the carpet barefoot and watch John get ready and come down the stairs and scold him again for the state of the kitchen, saying how he can’t tolerate it anymore. He would try to concentrate on the texture of the carpet under his feet so that he doesn’t do anything to startle John.
He could watch John coming down the stairs for another hundred years and he would not demand anything more than that.
He didn’t want to leave John. Ever. If it was convenient, he would never have unlocked the handcuffs from last night.
Will John understand that? Will John ever know that? Would it be best if he actually left a note? Instead of half killing himself and John with that phone call?
Or maybe it is indeed better like this. What John doesn't know can't hurt him. Isn't that the popular phrase?
Actually, it is for John’s safety. The less he knows, the less of a target he becomes. It doesn’t matter how well John can keep a secret. Because over everything, the only thing that matters is that John cares for him.
Sherlock cannot compare how much that care matches with his own kind. But it is there. And sentiment makes people weak. And that’s why he needed to die, so that the snipers shot is removed from John. It doesn’t matter that Moran saw him alive. The only thing that is paramount is that John can’t know. That John will be safe.
Sherlock doesn’t even want to acknowledge how much he is arguing with himself. It’s a common psychological occurrence. People try to back up their own mistakes with every little argument they can find. Because mistakes and wrong decisions make you weak. And no one wants to be weak, not even to the sanctuary of their own brain. The human mind has too many manufacturing defects.
Love makes ordinary people vulnerable. How much a fool was he to consider himself extraordinary.
It’s an awful sound. The fake chatter around him. And it shows no sign of stopping. He needs everyone to shut up. He needs everyone to stop acting for a moment so that he can think clearly.
There are familiar footsteps. All wrong and miscalculated now. Everything is so wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.”
He can't remember if he’s ever heard John like this. It doesn’t even sound like John. It sounds like a hollow, broken shell echoing sounds inside it. John doesn't sound like a human at all.
What has he done? Mycroft had asked him over and over if he was sure. If he was absolutely sure. He thought he was.
And then a hand touches his pulse, his seemingly unbeating pulse. Fingers that never touched him unless absolutely necessary. Touch that he never felt, touch that was a dream.
It is touching him now. John’s fingers trying frantically to search for a sign of him being alive.
The ball under Sherlock’s armpit is making sure that John will not find one. Just a magic trick.
And then it goes away. Before Sherlock can even decide if touching him back would be a good idea, if dead bodies could touch the living back but another pair of hands tugs John’s adamant hand away. Taking away the last opportunity to touch him for who knows how many years. Maybe forever.
It’s not fair. None of it is.
He never wanted John’s fingers on his pulse point to be the only kind of touch ever, let alone the last one. There was a lot he wanted and even gave himself permission to think about and all of them are meaningless now. Lost in circumstances, decisions and a fake death. All his fault. Bad timing everywhere.
The phantom touch still lingers after John isn’t even touching him anymore. But he can still hear his pained breath.
Was he just a friend to John? Was John just a friend to him?
The question isn’t new. And the question has a tendency to appear at the most inappropriate places, at the most inappropriate times. Like when on a seemingly quiet evening, John came back from the grocery store and flopped onto his chair and Sherlock silently turned the tea kettle on and thought about their relationship. Would John want or mind for something more? Would he himself hate if there was more than just that? But he didn't ask about it. He always handed John his tea silently and went back to think about whatever he needed to distract himself from John related thoughts.
He had thought about it a lot. Between examining blood stains on a torn piece of carpet and watching dust particles under the microscope. When John, being absolutely unaware of it, had watched the telly.
He had thought about it when John had been jealous and felt threatened by the wrong people. It was almost funny. But in retrospect, it really wasn't.
Or the times after a case is closed and Sherlock was running on an adrenaline high for hours and John looked at him with some unreadable expression in his eyes. Some of it was fondness. And the rest of it… Sherlock wanted it to be something more and still didn’t dare to ask.
What are you to me? What am I to you?
The answer isn’t simple. That is the only thing he is sure about right now. Lying in a pool of fake blood, face down on the pavement, pretending to be dead and killing his best friend for real.
And the other thing he is sure about is that John wasn't just his best friend. No, that wasn’t all. He could fool everyone. Even John when he wanted to. But he couldn’t fool his own conscious and arguing mind.
Maybe it was better that John didn’t know the whole. This was good. The half truth. John never knowing what he was to Sherlock. There was no expectation. John would mourn less. The pain is to be borne alone and alone only.
“Please, let me just…”
At that moment, he wishes that John would touch him again. Just once. So that he can savour it this time. Record every response of each of his follicles, and keep it tucked away in his mind palace forever. For the times he will miss him, which will be a constant thing.
Someone turns him over and he can see through the haze of fake blood in his eyes.
It’s John. And not a face of John which he wanted to see ever in this life.
“Jesus, no.” He can hear John saying.
The incredulous and horrified tone is just too much. Sherlock can’t really believe his own willpower at this point.
John looks dead. As if someone took away the light from his eyes.
He did that. Of course he did.
John tries to stand up, probably because he can see his face now. His fake blood covering a very much dead face. The blood must not be very shocking. But the face must be.
“God, no.”
That’s the last thing he can hear. Before he is pulled up on a stretcher and being taken away.
Maybe it is really a mistake after all. Maybe Mycroft was right all along.
The fall didn’t hurt. It was never supposed to. What hurts is the separation. And the continuous tug that it was a mistake.
What hurts is to leave the home, the home which stopped being a place long ago.
“So?”
“So, what?”
“Did you really think it through? I mean...”
“Mycroft.” Sherlock calmly interrupts his brother. “Don’t question me.”
“Just making sure, brother mine. I am not willing to be invasive but you know me. I see everything.”
“What are you trying to say?” Sherlock straightens on the chair. Trying to not remember painful gasps and breathless whispers.
“Maybe it would be better if he knew. Just an observation.” Mycroft curls his lip. “Saved me some effort and saved him from some unnecessary emotions. You two are practically joined at the hip. I can’t imagine what it feels like for him.”
“What would I tell him?” Sherlock snaps. “What? I would leave a note saying that I need to go into hiding and I might not see him ever again? How would that be better than this? Uncertainty would be better?”
He stops for a breath. His eyes are burning but Mycroft should not see the tears trying to come out. Stupid tear ducts. The reality is he never even had much time to sit and think about the repercussions his little stunt would cause.
“Absolution is better, Mycroft. Me being dead is better than me being anywhere and nowhere all at once.”
“And what if you do come back? Not if... pardon my language.” Mycroft sighs. “What will happen when you come back?”
“Then I will come back and apologize and…”
There is a pained smile on Mycroft’s face. He is being sympathetic, he is showing pity. He is taking pity on his little brother who did not think through the whole of a plan. It’s hateful. Pity is hateful. Sherlock Holmes never did anything to deserve pity.
“You didn't think about the consequences, did you?”
“I only thought about protecting him.” Sherlock says, and then adds like an afterthought. “And the safety of the others around me.” It isn’t the same, but it does make him upset to know that he is also dead to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.
“I understand that, Sherlock. I absolutely do.” Mycroft shakes his head. “But at this moment right now, you can feel it. It isn’t enough. Is it?”
“You don’t get to say another word on this matter.”
Mycroft doesn’t reply to that.
“Promise me something?” Sherlock asks, taking a deep breath.
“About what?”
“About what else? John, of course.” Sherlock furrows his eyebrows to display annoyance, but also to hide the fact that his voice is faltering a bit. Even the mention of him makes his heart skip a beat. Will he ever get used to this? Does he want to get used to missing John?
“I am listening.”
“Just keep him safe, will you? Without invading his boundaries and without being too prominent, just do the annoying thing you do and just… keep an eye on him.”
Mycroft looks at him again. This time Sherlock can’t see any pity or the usual Mycroft pride of ‘I told you so. Never get attached’. It’s just sadness. Mycroft is sad for him. Sherlock is sad for himself. Mourning a death already, the death of whatever he had.
“You want me to babysit… Why? You think he will wait for you?”
“I am not saying that, am I?” Sherlock glares.
“You think you are not.” Mycroft replies, pursing his lips, apparently thinking about something else.
“Just do this as a favour for me. I am not asking much.” Sherlock turns his face away from his brother, hoping that he doesn’t notice his lip twitching.
“Okay.” Mycroft nods and looks at his own feet. “As you wish.”
“Keep him safe for when I come back so I still have a chance. If I come back… and…” Sherlock realizes his own voice is giving away the state of his mind.
“And?” Mycroft looks up. Sherlock can see him holding the table hard, knuckles white, as if controlling himself from saying something. Sherlock wishes Mycroft would just say it.
“And if I don’t… still keep him safe. Maybe as a memory. You know fully well what he is to me. Still. And no,” He looks pointedly at Mycroft, “ you don’t get to pity me for that.”
“I wasn’t planning to, Sherlock.” Mycroft smiles. “I am not really that cruel.”
Sherlock nods silently.
“Be safe.” Mycroft says again. “You know who saw you alive. And my protection has a limit.”
“I will.” Sherlock stands up abruptly. Anymore time in that stuffy room Mycroft calls an office and he would die for real.
“Goodbye, Sherlock.”
“Yes.”
“And if you want to see him, he will be at your grave today. In an hour or so. Your transportation will be here in two hours.” Mycroft drags his chair to sit. “So if you want to...” He gestures vaguely.
“Right.” Sherlock can’t understand how this one piece of news can be simultaneously happy and devastating.