At first, he almost doesn’t hear it. His phone. It’s going off in his pocket, frantically begging for him to answer, but John ignores his phone, each ring pushing him closer to the edge. He didn’t care who it was, ‘important’ or otherwise. He couldn’t even be bother to silence his phone. Whoever it was, they were just too late. They weren’t important enough anymore. No one was more important than Sherlock, and nothing was more important than seeing him again.
Sherlock presses his mobile to his ears a little harder as though that will magically force John to answer his phone faster. It doesn’t. John doesn’t answer at all, simply going to voicemail after it rings out. But Sherlock doesn’t allow himself to dwell on why John isn’t answering his phone (he’s tossed it aside, he doesn’t have it… he’s already jumped), only that he isn’t, that he should be called again. Sherlock hits redial over and over, pleading with a God he didn’t think he would pray to. He focuses on the sound of each ring, lets it grow inside his mind, visualizing it because it’s so much better than visualizing John on the roof of Saint Bart’s. It’s better than wondering what he was thinking. What he was seeing. How fast his heart was beating… if it was beating.
No, Sherlock told himself. He wasn’t going to be too late. He was going to save John just in time.
His chest hurts. Everything hurts. From his head to his toes, and he wishes he could’ve gotten home sooner. No, he thinks again, trying and failing to breath. He can’t dwell on the fact that Mycroft could’ve helped him sooner, that Mycroft shouldn’t have sent him in the first place. What he really doesn’t want to dwell on is the fact that he lied to John. If he hadn’t lied, John would be back at the flat just waiting for Sherlock to return.
Again, Sherlock was going to hit redial, but the cab had stopped. Sherlock was quick, jumping from the cab and pressing redial. He turned on his heel, phone tight to his ear, eyes searching. It didn’t take long, but Sherlock could hear John’s phone ringing. It was distant and soft.
He had hoped, but like a bug it was squashed as soon as his eyes darted up. His heart stumbled in his chest and Sherlock struggled to keep from collapsing as he spotted John standing there with his eyes closed.
As the phone rang again in Sherlock’s ear, John stepped over the ledge.
Sherlock didn’t feel himself run or hear himself screaming John’s name. He was not aware of the people around him as he shoved them aside. He didn’t care about the cars heading his way as he jumped over them. And he had no clue where the strength to run was coming from. Sherlock had no clue where his strength for any of it was coming from. To move, breath, think, speak.
His eyes stayed on John’s face, on the disturbingly calm expression that he wore. It was so peaceful, so perfect, so beautiful, but it hurt so much. It was the expression Sherlock had imagined on John’s face the day they would get married, not the day John decided he didn’t want to live anymore. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. None of this was supposed to happen.
He watched as John hit the pavement, knew the sound would haunt him for the rest of his life. In his chest, his heart snapped in half before falling and shattering completely, and every bit of strength Sherlock had on reserve left him. His legs gave out and he landed with a whimper that had nothing to do with his scrapped palms.
Pain exploded deep within his chest and the flames of it spread through his body in seconds. It washed over his organs, through his muscles, and in his veins. It consumed him completely. Burning and burning, Sherlock struggled to his hands and knees to crawl the remaining distance between him and John. Miles, it seemed like, but it was mere meters.
