I'm a 16 year old who girl who loves Sherlock, Doctor Who, Supernatural, Harry Potter, Merlin, Hannibal, Disney, Avengers, Benedict Cumberbatch, Misha Collins, Tobuscus, Jacksfilms, Grimm, Tim Burton, and many other things that tickle my fancy :)
Sherlock stood on the roof of St. Bart’s for a second time. He looked out over London, one final glance at the city he loved. This time though, this time, there was no back up plan and he didn’t want one.
There was no reason for a fail safe, not anymore. He reached up and touched his eye, a smarting reminder of why. Sherlock had anticipated the punch. John was a man of action after all. What Sherlock had not predicted was what John said next.
"Leave. You made me watch you die. You watched me grieve and didn’t care enough to tell me you were alive. You are dead to me."
And he had meant it. There was so much anger and hate in John’s voice and face. Sherlock could live in a world where John mourned him or even in one where John didn’t believe in him. But he couldn’t live in one where John hated him.
Sherlock stepped up onto the ledge. He closed his eyes as he felt the wind whipping around him. One last breath and —
The arms came out of nowhere, pulling him off the ledge and flush against another, shorter body. Sherlock’s eyes shot open as he felt John burying his forehead into his back. He felt, rather than heard, John’s shuddering sobs. Then, a whisper, a promise of hope, that held none of the hate and anger that had been there earlier.