L'Appel Du Vide

L'appel du vide' is a French idiom, meaning 'the instinctive urge to jump from high places'. Many thanks to Ariane DeVere, whose transcript of TRF was massively helpful :)

Sherlock stands with his eyes closed. Since Moriarty's game has become apparent, he's had to think fast, faster than he's ever thought before. He's been caught up in the thrill of it, the dramatics with the tea, leading John around by the hand. But now, in the calm and the quiet, the implications are starting to rear their ugly heads.

He is discredited. After this, no more cases from Scotland Yard. After this one big thrill, there will be nothing but boring, boring, boring. And John will be dragged down with him.

Molly's footsteps begin to echo faintly in the hall. He does not open his eyes. He must decide, if this plan, this insane, horrible plan, is his only option.

Mrs Hudson's face rises before his eyes and he snaps them open, allowing the harsh white glare of the lab lights to drown her out in the second his eyes take to readjust. When she is gone, he stares at the many-coloured bottles on the clinical shelves instead. As Molly reaches the door, he decides. And opens his mouth, because this next part is crucial.

"You're wrong, you know," he says. He has to play this right. He came to Molly because she saw him. She saw his sadness in the spaces around John, and she saw his fear as he was lead to the pyre. As well as this, she is infatuated with him, and this is no bad thing any more. It means that she won't betray him, even if she refuses to help. Which she won't. Even as she spins around with a surprised intake of breath, he prays she won't. "You do count," he continues, because it's true. She does count, now, now that she's the only one who he can turn to for help. "You've always counted and I've always trusted you." On the grand scale of things, it's not much of a lie. He's never mistrusted her. And while she's never been much more than a passing thought to him, that's more than most people ever are. He turns to face her, and hopes she can see the plea in his eyes, or hear it in his voice, as he admits, "But you were right. I'm not OK."

Molly is visibly shocked, and he rewinds over every memory he has of her. It takes all his power not to wince, not to break this all-important eye contact. His behaviour towards her in the past has not been conducive to cultivating the absolute trust he is about to place in her.

"Tell me what's wrong," Molly says softly. Sherlock can hear her reservations in her voice, can follow the slow ticking of her thoughts through the searching of her gaze. (Why's he telling me this now, when he's never treated me as anything more than an imbecile before? What does he want?)

He takes a deep breath and a step towards her. "Molly, I think I'm going to die." Her face softens and stills with fear. The same fear that is quietly writhing in his own breast. Lying heavy in his gut. But not the same; because his fear is selfish and hers is not.

"What do you need?" she asks. Her voice reflects her face in the harsh lab light. Another step forward over the lino, Sherlock, he orders himself, and obeys. Past that steel table. Past that bottle of acid.

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am - everything that I think I am - would you still want to help me?" he returns, trying to stop his voice from faltering. John. Mrs Hudson. Even Lestrade, to a point. They will be safe from Moriarty. But only if he gets this right, if he can beg help from this woman whom he has slighted so many times.

Molly's is regarding him with worry as she repeats herself. "What do you need?" she asks again, looking up at him as he forces himself to step closer still. All he wants to do is crawl back to Baker Street and forget Moriarty and this horrible, horrible plan, but he can't do that. He has to keep the other two inhabitants of 221 Baker Street safe, and he can't do that without implementing this. And for this, he needs Molly. One more step, closer and closer.

"You," he says, and to his surprise, the word is strong and firm, not broken and weak. "I - I'm going to need you."

Not surprisingly, she looks taken aback. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, you're going to have to explain." He nods, sadly, and crosses back to his chair. Being so close to her - to anyone except John, or Mrs Hudson, or Irene - unnerves him for some inestimable reason. He rests his head in his hands, knowing the vulnerability this portrays can only help, but hating it because he cannot see her to judge her reactions.

"In an hour - maybe less, maybe a little more - Moriarty is going to have me kill myself," Sherlock whispers, making sure he sounds defeated, although there's nothing he hates more, except perhaps Jim Moriarty. There is a faint gasp behind him, and he finds he does not need to see her. Molly Hooper's horrified expression arrives in his head without any of the conventional methods to aid it. "I can - I can fool him. I think, Molly. I think. But even if I do, then John - Mrs Hudson - you -" he stops, rubs his eyes. A slightly choked tone entered his voice in those last sentences, without his noticing. It's convincing, and that is good. But it's also a sign of his dangerous emotional state, and he needs his mental faculties clear now more than ever. He cannot afford to be feeling anything on that rooftop. He looks at her, his last hope. His forehead is still on his hands. The clinical metal table is cold beneath his elbows and he focuses on that. He is cold. He is steady. He will not break or bend or shatter, and if he cries, well, this plan deserves it. "None of the people I love are going to be safe from him, unless..." he takes a breath, "unless he sees me die tonight, Molly."

There is a moment of silence, filled with hesitation and unsurety, and he thinks she will refuse to help.that this plan will not work. That he will have to throw himself off the building for real, and he faces a moment where he is unsure as to whether he will be able to do it. Then a hand lands lightly on his shoulder, and Molly asks,

"What do I need to do?"

He has never been more thankful.

And so, as he stares John down through the intervening air, phone to one ear, and says, "Goodbye, John," calmly into it, the tears on his face are not a sign that he is breaking. The fact he does not break eye contact as he tosses the phone backwards only shows that he is clinging with all his might to the life that will be gone in a few short seconds. He glances down, at the busy street, then hears his name echoing off the walls of the hospital as John screams it, aghast.

(Time to go.)

He topples forwards, not backwards. He'll need to see.

As he falls, he can only wonder if he'll ever get l'appel du vide again.