BBC Sherlock Fic: I Believe I Can Fly. Rated PG
Tuesday, January 17th, 2012 03:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
evila_elfTitle: I Believe I Can Fly
Rating: PG
Word Count: 748
Pairing None intended.
Spoilers: For the final episode of Series 2!
Summary: Everyone has to have a contingency plan. Even for death.
Thanks go to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
daasgrrl and karaokegal for the beta!
It hadn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Asking for help. Finding out that Molly had as much blind faith in him as John.
Heights didn’t bother him. He liked feeling on top of his world, his London. But looking down from atop Saint Bart’s a few hours later, he felt fear ripple up one leg and hover around his knee, making it weak.
“Oh you’ve got an audience now.” Moriarty. So close Sherlock could smell his breath. Mint with a hint of insanity.
Sherlock perched on the ledge, his legs bending with a little difficulty. He glanced one more time at the ground before training his focus on the rooftops. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Had hoped that he could trump Moriarty’s hand.
But Moriarty held three aces. Sherlock’s friends. Nothing could beat that. A bluff? Perhaps. A gamble he was willing to take? No. No!
He needed Moriarty to step back. Give him some space so that he might still work something out, so that he could think.
“Of course,” Moriarty acquiesced.
Sherlock was puzzled and relieved. He listened to the retreating steps and started to reach into his pocket. Inside, his mobile. Displayed on the screen were three random letters. What they stood for had no meaning; their message, however, would be crystal clear. He hesitated, his hand retreating as a thought flashed across his mind. He started to laugh. He knew the laugh would unsettle Moriarty, and it gave him confidence.
Yes. A new plan. A better plan. Force Moriarty to call off the killers, had been the idea he had voiced out loud. Kill him, had been his real intent. Even if I have to go down with him, it will be well worth it. Kill myself and my friends are safe this one time. Kill him and they are safe forever.
Oh the smile, the smile on Moriarty’s face as he took Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock braced himself, ready for anything, especially for Moriarty to make a run for the edge of the building.
But the thing about insane people: They were unpredictable.
Because of the assumption that Moriarty would bolt toward the roof’s edge, Sherlock hadn’t been ready for Moriarty to pull the gun, to put it in his mouth, to pull the trigger. Sherlock jerked on the hand, but too late, the body was already falling, the blood pooling. He stared in horror. He had just compared himself to Moriarty. Unpredictable. But would the results be the same? Lying in a pool of its own blood?
Feeling ice run through his veins, Sherlock thought he might throw up as he stumbled back from the body. Time was running out. Think, Sherlock, think!
The ledge. There was no helping it. No escaping it. It pulled at him like a magnet until he found himself on top of it once more.
He glanced down and reached for his mobile as he saw John arrive. Right on schedule. Damn it and damn him. Moriarty, even in death, had screwed things up. Sherlock wasn’t ready. But he sent his cryptic message, then phoned John.
He called John because he wanted to stall, give himself a few extra minutes. But what he ended up doing instead was saying goodbye. This is why you don’t have friends, why you aren’t supposed to have friends, he told himself, fighting back tears, yet still feeling them drip off his chin. Always someone to disappoint. He had thought jumping would be the hardest part. But it was easy compared to having to say goodbye. To see that look of understanding flash across John’s eyes, to hear him scream out as Sherlock spread his arms and jumped. To fly with the angels. To crash and burn.
The landing was softer than he had anticipated...
...and the group of people who were to be witness to the Suicide of a Fake Detective flocked into action.
Sherlock rolled to his right and the inflated cushions were stabbed, stomped, and tossed into a nearby bin truck. The prick of a needle and he already felt his heart slowing, then slam to a halt. He was technically dead by the time the warmed blood bag exploded against his face, its contents mixing in his hair; by the time the bin lorry pulled from the curb, taking away all evidence; by the time John kneeled by his side, shaking, with a steady hand to check for a pulse that wasn’t there.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 748
Pairing None intended.
Spoilers: For the final episode of Series 2!
Summary: Everyone has to have a contingency plan. Even for death.
Thanks go to
daasgrrl and karaokegal for the beta!It hadn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Asking for help. Finding out that Molly had as much blind faith in him as John.
Heights didn’t bother him. He liked feeling on top of his world, his London. But looking down from atop Saint Bart’s a few hours later, he felt fear ripple up one leg and hover around his knee, making it weak.
“Oh you’ve got an audience now.” Moriarty. So close Sherlock could smell his breath. Mint with a hint of insanity.
Sherlock perched on the ledge, his legs bending with a little difficulty. He glanced one more time at the ground before training his focus on the rooftops. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Had hoped that he could trump Moriarty’s hand.
But Moriarty held three aces. Sherlock’s friends. Nothing could beat that. A bluff? Perhaps. A gamble he was willing to take? No. No!
He needed Moriarty to step back. Give him some space so that he might still work something out, so that he could think.
“Of course,” Moriarty acquiesced.
Sherlock was puzzled and relieved. He listened to the retreating steps and started to reach into his pocket. Inside, his mobile. Displayed on the screen were three random letters. What they stood for had no meaning; their message, however, would be crystal clear. He hesitated, his hand retreating as a thought flashed across his mind. He started to laugh. He knew the laugh would unsettle Moriarty, and it gave him confidence.
Yes. A new plan. A better plan. Force Moriarty to call off the killers, had been the idea he had voiced out loud. Kill him, had been his real intent. Even if I have to go down with him, it will be well worth it. Kill myself and my friends are safe this one time. Kill him and they are safe forever.
Oh the smile, the smile on Moriarty’s face as he took Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock braced himself, ready for anything, especially for Moriarty to make a run for the edge of the building.
But the thing about insane people: They were unpredictable.
Because of the assumption that Moriarty would bolt toward the roof’s edge, Sherlock hadn’t been ready for Moriarty to pull the gun, to put it in his mouth, to pull the trigger. Sherlock jerked on the hand, but too late, the body was already falling, the blood pooling. He stared in horror. He had just compared himself to Moriarty. Unpredictable. But would the results be the same? Lying in a pool of its own blood?
Feeling ice run through his veins, Sherlock thought he might throw up as he stumbled back from the body. Time was running out. Think, Sherlock, think!
The ledge. There was no helping it. No escaping it. It pulled at him like a magnet until he found himself on top of it once more.
He glanced down and reached for his mobile as he saw John arrive. Right on schedule. Damn it and damn him. Moriarty, even in death, had screwed things up. Sherlock wasn’t ready. But he sent his cryptic message, then phoned John.
He called John because he wanted to stall, give himself a few extra minutes. But what he ended up doing instead was saying goodbye. This is why you don’t have friends, why you aren’t supposed to have friends, he told himself, fighting back tears, yet still feeling them drip off his chin. Always someone to disappoint. He had thought jumping would be the hardest part. But it was easy compared to having to say goodbye. To see that look of understanding flash across John’s eyes, to hear him scream out as Sherlock spread his arms and jumped. To fly with the angels. To crash and burn.
The landing was softer than he had anticipated...
...and the group of people who were to be witness to the Suicide of a Fake Detective flocked into action.
Sherlock rolled to his right and the inflated cushions were stabbed, stomped, and tossed into a nearby bin truck. The prick of a needle and he already felt his heart slowing, then slam to a halt. He was technically dead by the time the warmed blood bag exploded against his face, its contents mixing in his hair; by the time the bin lorry pulled from the curb, taking away all evidence; by the time John kneeled by his side, shaking, with a steady hand to check for a pulse that wasn’t there.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-01-19 12:41 am (UTC)