Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There he is: six minutes after seven (precisely). Right on cue. As if there is a cue, or an issued command. A horn blowing somewhere, an order, something shouted out into the morning: get out of bed, John Watson. Make coffee.The Consistent Habits of John Watson: Predictions From Morning Through Evening. Five sixths of a cup of coffee and no more (milk, no sugar); three taps on the table with his ring finger as he walks past it. (Why? No hypothesis. Can’t imagine why.)

He’s rubbing his eyes now, most likely. As he does. For no reason: there’s nothing wrong with his eyes. Just habit. (Comfort? Don’t know.) He inhales, exhales. Breathing in the morning and pushing it back out again. Waking himself up. Coming to.

He grinds his teeth when he fills the kettle. Tap open: water.

Can’t hear the grinding, of course, not from here, not with the tap running, but it’s true: another consistent habit. Ironclad.

He moves slowly, his feet are so gentle on the floor. Cautious. He’s trying to be a ghost. Shhh, quiet; he thinks he might wake me. Shhhh, don’t break the calm. Don’t wake your flatmate. I’m awake, John. I can hear you. It’s all right. I don’t mind.

Inhale, exhale again: a sigh. I can hear that. The walls are thin. Breathe in, breathe out. Breath against the tile, the glass (not shattered yet).

It’s cool this morning. It’s going to rain later on. There’s nothing to do today but think about dying. Not him, though. No. I won’t let that happen. Only Moriarty.

And me.

There are no cases: John could find me one in the papers. Lestrade might call. Or something worth the time could come in on the website (unlikely). But something could.

Perhaps, perhaps: let’s hope so. Otherwise my brain will be left to its own devices. Dangerous. Possibly productive.

He’s coming, I know. It’s all written already, and we’re following a script. Left, right, left: marching orders. There’s no way out; I constructed it. I know. Remember my advantage. Death without dying: consider. How? There’s a way. There is.

There’s time. There’s still time. I’ll sort it out. But a case first: yes. A case. Something to distract me. Something entertaining.

Do you guess, John? Do you guess yet? Can you see it? It feels so obvious. The clock is ticking. It’s coming. You don’t see it, do you. It’s the hinge. Impending. Shattered glass hovering over the floor. It will hurt.

Plastic click: kettle on. Steps: left, right, left. The stiffness is gone. He yawns. He’s coming here. He’s going to come in.

He does that. Not always. From time to time, he checks on me. Pushes the door open wider, steps in. Don’t know why. (Control issues again?) He wants to know where I am. Wants to see me. (Safety? His, or mine? Does it matter?) He looks in on me when I’m sleeping. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me.

Does he know the difference between when I’m asleep and when I’m pretending to sleep? He’s seen both. (I haven’t: practically impossible to watch yourself sleep. I’ve only seen him; he doesn’t pretend.) Does he study me? Can he tell the difference? Is that why he looks at me? No: not his way. He only looks at me to see me: it’s a habit.

Is that right? Perhaps. Like tapping his finger on the table. (Ring finger. Left hand. Three times. Why?)

Sleep is slow: slow breathing, through the nose. Slow down a beating heart. Lowered body temperature. Eyes closed, posture open. Senseless. Vulnerable. Atonic. It’s what sleep looks like: limp and huddled under a duvet. Head dug into a pillow; mind cannibalising itself. Shhh, don’t wake your flatmate, John. I’m sleeping. I’m asleep.

A van driving past. A dog starts barking somewhere to the west and slightly north. Part Borzoi, if I had to guess. Nervous. Unexpected motion.

His fingers touch the door: so gently, cautiously. The hinge doesn’t squeak. (Installed as part of a renovation, nineteen-eighty-one; strong.) He’s looking at me. (Why? Why precisely?) One hand resting on the doorknob. Inhale, exhale. Inhale.

I can feel him; he’s a warm point. Barefoot on the floor. His warm breath. His hand resting on the doorknob. The silent hinge. I can hear the shape of him, standing there. Echolocation: I could reach out and touch him without opening my eyes. I could catch his wrist, feel his pulse.

Roll over so he can see my face, my eyes fluttering open. See: this is me asleep, then waking.

It happens quickly, the moment from one state to the next, but it takes a moment to adjust. Distraction of moving from one universe to another. Both seem real from the inside, and vanish from without.

A beat for my subconscious to recede, consciousness to take over; brain activity resolving into a regular pattern. Awake.

Can you tell this isn’t real, John? Reality or performance: do you care? Do you mind what you see? It doesn’t matter. I’ve been awake for hours, you know. I was waiting for you to force the day to begin. I was thinking about a way out.

(Warehouse; power station; river bank; parking lot; tunnel: where? How, exactly? Die, don’t die. I don’t know. Not yet. I don’t know.) I’m starting to wonder if I have to let him kill me.

Not an ideal solution, I admit. But final, at least. For him. But also me.

Kettle rumbling on the worktop; his morning routine. Time moves on inexorably, doesn’t it. Nothing can stop it, not my nerves, or my brain, or the force of my will. I can feel you there, John. Look: the pantomime of waking. I know how it goes, inch by inch. I’ll play it for you.

He can watch: I’ll perform. Our routine continues. Morning. Habits. Coffee, toast. The paper. It’s coming. It will end: badly, I’m afraid. No: I’ll find a way out. I will. And this set of habits will go on uninterrupted.

“Morning.” He says it softly. Gently, like his feet against the floor. Waking is a process he respects. It starts gently and quietly, and he doesn’t disturb it. It lets it unfurl. Small flower in the sunlight. Awake. “Coffee?”

He knows the answer already, but he always asks. It’s not an offer, not really: I understand that now. He means hello. He means here we are again, you and I. It’s morning, and we’re awake, and our constant conversation needs to start again. As if it might not start, if he didn’t ask. Like performing a ritual to force the sun to come up every morning. It will come up anyway, you know. Be assured. It will. For now.

He’s framed by the door. His hair is ruffled from sleep. His hand is still resting on the doorknob.

The kettle has gone quiet; it’s about to boil. The hinge in the sitting room will continue to swing for another day. Many more, before it breaks and makes him pull on a pair of slippers in the morning. Nothing will change, for a while. He smiles at me. The light is weak and milky through the window.

“Yes.” It’s what I always say. It’s my part of the script. “Coffee, yes.”

Neither of us will die today. Not today.

Chapter Text

Linseed oil: start there.

It’s what he wants, and what he expects. Follow the clues, the script. Follow, follow, follow. Trail of breadcrumbs. Like a good little boy, pick them up, nibble on them, be clever. (Only so clever, though; not too clever. Not clever enough to escape. You’re underestimating me, Moriarty. I’m more clever than that, and far more motivated than you imagine.) I can play this game, too. And I will. There are two sides: I can see them both.

Follow, follow, follow, and leave a hidden little trail of my own. Can you see it, Jim from IT? I don’t think you can. It’s not complete yet. It can’t lead me all the way home. (Not yet. Not quite yet.)

Lab won’t be busy: just Molly. Good. Extra pair of hands. Lunch time: John will want to eat. Fine. Will Molly? Should bring something, then. Can’t bear to be interrupted by the bodily requirements of others. Not now.

I need all the time I can get. I’m running out. (Not ready. Not nearly ready.)

Forced inhale: John’s adenoids are swollen again. (Mildly.) Allergy? Possibly. Occasionally more noticeable when it rains. It’s fine out today, though. Still. There they are: John’s swollen adenoids. (His clear breathing in Baskerville, second night, no snoring at all: I remember. Hm. Pollution a possibility.) He clears his throat. He knits his fingers together. He’s thinking.

He’s worried.

Why? Doesn’t he know? Does he guess?

Oh. Of course not.

Children. Right. Kidnapped children: they’ll be fine. Or they won’t be, it doesn’t matter.

Keep breathing, John.

It will get worse as he gets older. He should retire to a country house somewhere, when the time comes. South Downs, perhaps. Sea air would help. (Suggest it? No. No: definitely not. He might guess, and that wouldn’t do. He’d want to know why I’m giving him retirement advice, as if I won’t be around to recommend it when the time comes. No advance warning, I can’t. It’s not in the plan.)

I wish he could guess. (Guess, John. Guess. I need your help.)

Vending machine lunch, will that do? Doesn’t matter. Molly will stay, she’ll help me. Packet of crisps will be fine: all that’s required is the appearance of an excuse. Fine. Vending machine inside the door of Bart’s: John has a couple of pounds in his pocket. I heard them clinking together as he sat down. There’s lunch solved.

Good.

Linseed oil. A clue? Perhaps. Dual clue: two sides. Always two sides, this time. A game with two faces. Two intentions: the obvious (to Lestrade, to you, John) and the hidden (to everyone but me). The first game to tease me, to keep me entertained, to string me along. The second to destroy me, I know. I know it. I’ve given him everything he needs. He’s nearly done. I’m nearly ready for him.

Nearly.

Not quite. I need a little more time. How? I don’t know. I don’t know.

He would make it interesting, wouldn’t he. I O U. Fairy tales. Villains. Couldn’t resist it: one last, irresistible game. The last one, and the best one.

Can’t say there isn’t something I enjoy in it, even now. Delicious game; delicious trail of bread crumbs, yes.

But it’s moving too fast this time. Always too fast when you need it to go slower: that’s deliberate. It’s a pace too fast for thinking, for seeing clearly. Too fast, almost, to get this right.

There isn’t enough time. (That’s the end of me, isn’t it.) No time left. Too soon.

Breathe. (John’s adenoids: rough breath in, rough breath out.)

There’s time enough to solve it. (Is there?) Yes. No: not enough by far. I’ll have to be clever. Very, very clever. (Well, I am.) Think. He can’t see everything, not just yet.

Worst case scenario: we both die. And it’s over anyway.

That’s something, isn’t it?

He’s right, in the end: we are two of a kind. We are two sides of a coin. I could have been him; he could have been me.

(Is that true? Hm, yes: yes, I think it is. For the most part: true. For the most part. Close enough.)

Will John believe it, in the end, if I can’t return and tell him the truth?

Moriarty wants you to believe it, John. So you will. You will. You’re an idiot, he can fool you.

That’s not quite fair, is it.

He managed to fool me, once. Just for a moment. Remember? The smell of chlorine and concrete. Wet towels. You parroting his words. For a split second, I believed it was you, that you had been the one to turn against me. One of the most terrifying moments of my life. If he could fool me, why shouldn’t you fall prey to overwhelming evidence as well? Why shouldn’t you suspect me when all the signs are pointing directly at me?

It’s not his wont, is it. No. To take the truth of the evidence over his belief that his faith for me isn’t misplaced. He believes he has peered into my heart and found it worthy. It is practically impossible to shake him on this point. Isn’t it.

Strange, loyal, dedicated John. I don’t know where you peered, and I don’t know what you saw. But you’re right. This time, anyway. You’ll be right. Whatever that means. Even if you never know it.

He swallows; clears his throat. Post-nasal drip. (Pollution likely. Seasonal? Need more time to observe. There is no time; I’ve wasted it all.) Pang of something: regret? Fear? No time for that. No time for any of it.

He’ll snore in the night, wake himself up a few times. A reedy sound, his voice layered inside it. Oddly comforting, that sound. A little sonata his throat plays for me in the night. For now.

Traffic: rows of taxis, three volkswagens travelling together, a bus. Not followed, not this time. He doesn’t care to today. Not yet. He’s watching in other ways. The endgame has begun.

John won’t believe Moriarty’s lies. He won’t. He can’t see me as a villain, not now. Not unless Moriarty finds a way to paint me as something beyond the pale. Does he know you well enough to know he has to, to force you to betray me? Perhaps he does. (Terrifying thought. Nothing I can do about that: it will play out as it plays out.)

He will believe it. He must. Ultimate betrayal, my desecration, destruction: that’s the whole point. He has to turn you against me, doesn’t he. Or it won’t make sense. I need to be utterly cast out. Alone. His. That’s what he wants: he wants to ruin me in every way. To leave me with no one else but him. A nemesis as the truest of friends.

It will be too difficult not to believe, even for you, John. I know.

Consider.

Scenario One: Moriarty succeeds. John believes I am a fraud, along with everyone else. Just as Sally does, just as Anderson and Dimmock do. The pieces will all fit together, as they’ve been designed to, and he will see the clarity of it. There will be evidence. It’s in the papers. The logic will appear flawless to the mind attempting to be rational. It will feel right. It will feel true. It will confirm everyone’s feeling that they were right all along about me. No one could be that clever. A villain, a liar: me. I’ve never been a very nice man, have I? It’s been a hoax the entire time. Of course it has! A plea for attention, a posh trick. He’ll use my inability to care what anyone thinks against me. (It’s perfect, in its way. Even I can see that. Perfect. He knows me so well.)

Scenario one: John believes it.

Picture him unsurprised. (His eyes: blank. Cold. I’ve seen that expression on his face before: buried outrage. His ethical backbone straight as a ramrod.) He’s learned; knows what I’m capable of, for good or for ill. It makes sense to him that I went off the rails somewhere. Any niggling concerns he ever had (the drugs, the experiments, the forced entries and accidental ASBOs) will reify it. I kept a head in the fridge. I shot holes in the wall. Whose skull is that, anyway? He’s learned to look at hard evidence and make a conclusion; there is only one conclusion he can draw. Consider: he believes it.

Probability: somewhat low. (Isn’t it?) Moderately low. Low to moderate, then.

John isn’t that rational, nor that moved by evidence. He isn’t. He won’t betray me easily. Or at all. Will he? Perhaps he will. With the right kind of evidence. (What?)

Scenario Two: Moriarty fails to cause this particular betrayal. John doesn’t believe I am the root of all evil, no matter the evidence presented to him. (Wishful thinking? No. Surely not. A valid possibility requiring consideration, at least.)

The evidence at hand. John: is an optimist with a perverse attachment to his flatmate, his friend, and no mere evidence will sway him from that; thinks I’m a better man than I actually am; has great faith in me and my abilities; knows my methods, but prefers to use his own; will hear no word spoken against me (unless he’s saying it himself, to me, as a kind of sign of affection, or so I’ve come to interpret it). He brings me coffee. He is my friend.

Scenario Two: John remains my stalwart supporter, and ignores the newspapers, the telly, the Met, and all of his friends, and continues to believe that I have been framed.

Probability: reasonable. At least that, at least reasonable. It’s in keeping with his character. Nothing I do or say can change his mind now, can it? He believes in me. Doesn’t he? Utterly. (Wishful thinking? Cloudy on this point. ) I apologised about experimenting on him at Baskerville. I did. He accepted that. Didn’t he?

When I come back, or my name is cleared, or Mycroft tells him the truth, he’ll nod that curt nod of his. He’ll say he always knew all that nonsense couldn’t be true. Won’t he. Surely. Surely so. (I don’t know. I don’t know.)

You’ll have to make the decision on your own, I’m afraid, John.

And I’m sorry about that. I am. Genuinely. You know I’m capable.

There are shackles on my arms already: I can feel them. He’s watching. Every step has already been choreographed; my own path has to be hidden in these pre-existing footprints. The map is drawn and I have to follow it. Precisely, precisely. Or all is truly lost.

I’ve left you all the evidence I can afford to, John. It’s meagre. But there it is.

Linseed oil. Not a mistake. He’s luring me in. (Of course he is.) It’s time. How will he pull the trigger? It will be soon. Very soon. Maybe today. Maybe not.

I’m not sure yet, not sure. There are possibilities. Another challenge; turn Lestrade and John against me first. Leave me utterly alone. Definitely: it’s a goal. Is it in here? In linseed oil?

Already I showed too much glee over kidnapped children, that was a mistake. Surely that was the start of it all. He knew I would be delighted with his work. He knew. I’m a terrible man, John. You know that. No compassion for suffering children, too easily distracted by a beautiful case. I can’t help it; I am what I am. I know how you think. So does he. It’s true, it’s true. Two sides of a coin, he and I. I could have gone so wrong.

Someone vomited in this cab within the last week. (Four days ago. Perhaps five.) New mats, smell of cleaner. John hasn’t been on a date in six months. Why? Eleven forty three. We’ll be at Barts before noon. Vending machine. Molly Hooper and her chemicals. Yes. Linseed oil. So it begins.

I O U. (Why?) Two sides, two sides. Have to create a third one. One he can’t see.

He looks nervous. Wants to talk; always wants to talk, but never says so. What is it, John? What is it?

“But how did he get past the CCTV?”

What?

Ah. Moriarty, kidnapping children. A school. You’re walking through his map too, your feet are falling exactly where he wants them to. Left, right, left. He knows what kind of coin you are too, John. He can feel you asking.

He doesn’t care about CCTV. Probably made sure to give it a lovely profile, in fact. It doesn’t matter, because he planted even more damning evidence against me. Of course he did. Details, details. They don’t matter anymore. They’re mostly lies at this point. Don’t believe them, John.

You’re thinking the thoughts he wants you to. Focusing on the details, as if this is any other case. He thinks these questions will lead you to questioning me, you know. Question him, question me. (Have you been wrong about me? All this time?) He’s sure of it. (He’s probably right.) We’re building the moments you’ll remember. How did I do it? How did I become a monster while standing right next to you? How did I react? How did you fail to notice that I am the murderer you tried so hard to stop?

If I could have told you everything, John, I would have.

Maybe I should have planned it that way. I can’t change it.

Too late now. Too late.

I hope you won’t think too ill of me.

I suppose it doesn’t really matter, in the end.

Now: the lab. Linseed oil. Though: the children are irrelevant in the end. Just a smokescreen. Just a place to lay the groundwork. (There I go again: being the wrong sort of man.) There’s a second set of questions here, John. There’s a set of footprints leading us all the way home. Do you see them? I O U. I can’t stop staring at them. My time is running out.

Chapter Text

Breathe. It’s done. It’s over. He’s dead.

Is he? Yes. Of course he is. Look at him.

What if he isn’t? He could stand up. (He really couldn’t.)

He could: he could fool me. It could be a bluff. He could find a way to fake a point blank shot to the head, surely he could. It’s possible. It’s a possibility.

He could blink. Right now, while I’m staring at him. Blink, and roll his eyes over toward me. That would be the end of it. I have only one plan, one way forward, only one way through this, and I’m compromised. I can’t invent a new course of action, not now. Shaking. It’s cold.

He could brush his hands against his suit, shake the blood out of his hair. He could stand up and laugh. (Stop: don’t panic. He’s dead. I felt that bullet rip through him: there’s no way to fake that. No way at all, or I’d know. He’s dead.)

He could stand up quietly, get behind me, push me, make me fall the way I can’t, the way I mustn’t. (No.)

He could push me and I would fall in exactly the wrong way. He could watch me hit the ground. Watch my neck break, my skull shatter against the pavement, my blood rushing out and down into the gutters. (No: he’s dead; he’s dead. He can’t hurt me now, not with his hands.) He could look down and see exactly how I planned to outwit him, all those angles, all the help, the performance of it, and he’d laugh. He’d laugh, and I’d die. In front of your eyes. And he would have won completely. He’d kill us both.

There’s a chance: it’s rational. Don’t underestimate him.

No: stop fixating. I’m inventing things; imaginative overdrive. I won this round; I was right. He’s dead. It’s over. It’s all in my hands now. (It is. Isn’t it?)

Bloody hindbrain fear. It’s nonsensical. I can see bits of brain matter. He’s dead. There’s nothing left to fear from him; only his last orders, his plans. His trap. I only need to follow through. I need to fall, and you, John, you need to mourn.

It’s cold. It will rain later. The evidence will wash away. No: not all of it. There will be a mark that remains: his, and mine. This place marked forever with proteins, a bloody signature on the place where he died, where I died. Except I won’t. I won’t, John. Trust me.

Traffic lights; pedestrians, someone carrying packages home.

No one looks up, not ever. Funny. A whole dimension of the world no one pays any attention to: up. As if nothing at all happens on rooftops. No one’s seen me; they go about their day the same as they do any other day, thinking there’s a safe roof of sky over their heads. As if there is no malevolence in it. They pass through the world without seeing, without even looking. Plod plod plod, workaday world, as if it’s not all writhing and screaming around them, below them, above them.

Good; that’s what I was counting on: the non-observing fog of the general population. Don’t need Lestrade here; don’t need panic below. Not yet. I need John, and I need him to stay outside of a fifteen foot radius of my fall for at least a minute and a half. When it happens. And I need to watch him until then. I need to see.

It’s one last vulnerability: I need to look down. I need to be sure.

It’s not a suicide, John. You know me better than that. If I were going to kill myself I wouldn’t do it like this. Never like this. You know that. No chance to explain, though: I can’t. You have to know.

If it doesn’t work, Molly will tell you, won’t she? She might not. She might hold to my last command: don’t tell John. Don’t tell him anything. He can’t know. It doesn’t matter. It’s not a suicide, John. Not mine, at least. If I actually die, it will be a murder, or a mistake.

There’s no room here for mistakes.

Breathe: my feet are going numb. Drug: yes, that’s what it is. Pale skin, slowed breathing, it’s all right. All I need to do is fall.

A sound behind me: movement. Moriarty? Standing up, looking over at me? Wiping blood off the back of his neck? No: no. God. He’s dead. My heart in my mouth: breathe. (Norepinephrine, adrenaline: every neuron transmitting panic. Blood is turning to sludge. I can’t do this.) It’s only the wind. Just the wind. I’m imagining things. Emotions too close to the surface; brain creating threats where there are none. There are none, not here. He’s gone. The threats are below.

His blood is coagulating against the concrete. His blood; he’s dead. Why is that so hard for me to accept just now? Every neuron ready for an assault, for panic. It’s normal: it’s expected.

Breathe. I need to be calm. I need to be convincing. Not sure I can. I don’t want to be. Don’t believe me, John. Or: believe me now, question it later. Question everything. Think back to what I said to you. Think!

As if you will. All you’ll do is feel. That’s what I’m counting on, that’s what I need you to do. And it will hurt. I regret that: I do. I wish there had been some other way. Surely there was, somewhere in the beginning. But not now: it’s cold. They’re watching: I can see them from here. To my left, to my right. Guns pointed. They’re ready for you. And you’re coming. You’re in a taxi, peering out into traffic, worrying. Maybe you’re angry. Confused. I lied to you; you know it now. Hold on to that, John: why would I lie? What else am I lying about? Don’t just feel, John. Think. When the time comes. Think.

Focus: no time to get distracted. Not now. Logistics. It has to be perfect. I have to fall, and land, and play dead. I have to. You have to believe it. And if you don’t, we’re both dead.

Breathe: I’m dizzy. Don’t: don’t lose control. Come on, John. Hurry. I can’t stand here all day, you know. I’ve got an appointment with the pavement.

It’s really not funny, is it, but I can’t help it.

Can’t hear anything over my heart beating, and the wind. Breathe. Weirdly calm and quiet up here. It’s cold. It’s going to rain again. I’ll need a change of clothes. Nothing from home, nothing that isn’t brand new.

That’s sad, isn’t it. Sad. A clean break: I can’t take anything with me. Everything left behind; John, and my life. I didn’t mean to grow connected to things. Things are meaningless. There will be other things.

I’ll need a new suit, shoes. I wonder if my coat will be salvageable.

Life goes on, down below. People, traffic, street lights. Tourists, people walking across the street, gormless. They talk to each other, they laugh. I can’t hear them: there’s only wind now.

His eyes are still wide open, staring up into the sky. My face was the last thing he saw; that’s what he wanted. It’s practically romantic. Twisted kind of affection: it’s dangerous to win the love of a psychopath.

He had much faith in my ability to fail, in the end. Why? You underestimated me, Jim. You’re used to underestimating people; it was easy to force you to underestimate me, too.

Didn’t you wonder why I hadn’t worked it out? You should have questioned that, at least. It should have at least occurred to you that I might be bluffing. Give me that, at least; the potential to outwit you. That I might lie. Imagine it, at the very least. You owed me at least that much.

So that was your weakness, in the end, faith in my failure. I take offense to that, really I do. I’m disappointed. You think I didn’t know what you were going to do? What you were trying to do? You think I couldn’t work out all your clues? All your games, all this time: don’t you think I’d have learned your tricks by now? Learned how to fool you? We weren’t made for each other after all, in the end. Not two sides of a coin. Not at all. So good riddance to you.

He looks happy, for a certain value of happy. Serene. At peace. I wish he’d known, a second after it was too late, that he’d been wrong. That I’d just beaten him. I think, on some level, it might have pleased him. I’m better than he thought I was. (Of course I am.)

It’s cold, and getting colder. Stiff fingers. It’s just the drug: she warned me about that. Stiff, cold, inching toward dead. Heart seems too loud: breathe. It’s adrenaline. Overactive amygdala. Fear response, emotions so close, and twisting around my neck, gripping my chest. Making it harder to breathe. Blood draining from my extremities. Cold. I’m tired. Heavy. To be expected: textbook. It will be easy to lie still, to play dead. I’ll be convincing. I should have tested it first. So I’d know. I could ignore the dizziness and cold if I’d known it would feel this way. Delusions, fear, pang of regret. And sadness. I guess that was always there, now impossible to ignore. Sadness. There was no time to test any of it. I’m not ready, am I. It’s a little overwhelming. I can feel it gathering in the corners of my eyes.

Regret. Fear. Sadness. I’m sorry, John. There’s no other way.

Breathe. Just breathe. All I need to do is fall.

Smells like exhaust and a bit of smoke. Vapourized lead: a bullet fired. Just minutes ago. Blood. He’s dead: it’s over. Now it’s my turn.

Just one more piece; any moment now. The taxi will arrive just there; you’ll get out. You’ll walk toward the hospital entrance: mustn’t let you get to the pavement, not before I’m ready. I need you on the road, looking up. Watching me. I know it will hurt. I’m sorry. It’s necessary.

There you are. There. John. Warm streak in the wind. I can tell everything you’re thinking by the way you walk across the street. Frustration, anger. You’re concerned. You’re scared. You’re full of questions. It’s the last time you’ll see me, when you look up. You’ll understand when you see me, won’t you. You’ll know what I’m going to do. You’ll try to convince me not to. You’ll fail. I’m sorry, John. I am.

Here we go.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t need to be artful. She would adjust it even now if she could: make it prettier, more dramatic. Not so close to the eyes, maybe. More tragedy around the chin. She’s a painter, she wants to paint me better. Make me more gruesome, or more tragic. I can tell. No time for that: no time. Do your job. Keep him at a distance. Fifteen seconds, twenty. It needs to be realistic, and this is realistic. Blood; pallor. (Too soon: wait another minute, then it will be accurate.) A strange quiet: I can hear your footsteps, John. I can hear you. Thirty seconds. Wait for me to catch up. Pause. Ready.

No shots. Gun lowered now? Such a limited view from that window, it was an idiotic location. Way too easy to hide the entire operation from that vantage point. Does he believe it? He’ll watch you to verify. He’s watching you, John. Through a sight, through crosshairs.

So much of our time together we had laser sights dancing on our chests, even when we didn’t know it. (You loved it, didn’t you. All that time. I know I did. We were so well-matched, against all odds.)

He’ll keep his eyes on you as you keep your eyes on me. You’re hiding me, John. You’re protecting me right now, as you always do. Would that please you? A gunshot through a window to keep me safe: it’s in reverse this time, keeping the bullet in the gun, but the effect is the same. I’d feel safer with your finger on the trigger, but this will work. You’ll believe me, because you always do, and he’ll believe you. Volumes spoken without words. I’ve never been terribly good at that.

Sharp pain in my armpit: hard bit of rubber. Press into it without shaking. Such a delicate balance of pain and stillness. Wet pavement: still water seeping into my trousers. The tickling feeling of a brush on my temple. I’m cold. Don’t shiver: play dead, don’t shake. The shallowest breath rattles my ribs. I can’t swallow. I should have practised this.

I’d love a cup of tea just now: my throat is so dry. (Let’s just go home, John. Let’s go home.) Door’s shut on that now: no more tea in Baker Street. Not for me, anyway. Not for a while. Possibly quite a long time.

(Burst of warmth once the front door is shut; the weak latch, wanting one more screw in the mechanism. Carpet on the floor growing threadbare in spots. The texture of the wallpaper, the smell of old upholstery, coffee, starch, Fairy liquid. Sound of a hoover. Your voice, talking about nothing. Your laughter: your shoes on the stairs. No: no Baker Street for me, not any longer. I know, I know.)

Dead is easy: study corpses long enough, it can almost come naturally. Be a corpse. Awkward angles, bleed all motion out with the blood. I’m chilled through, I’m wet, I’m broken. I am, I am. Dead. Eyes open: glassy. Don’t blink. See: see nothing.

Look, John. Look. The volume of blood on the pavement: it’s too much, really. Slightly too much. I know it is. Will you note that? (No.) You’ve seen head trauma before, though. More times than average. You’ve seen a fatal head wound. (Though: a gunshot wound is different, of course.) It’s a hint, too subtle to catch, I suspect.

You’d only notice if it was too far wrong, which it isn’t. Much more blood than this would be a farce; but too little, even a perfectly realistic amount, soaked up by my coat, my hair, that would make you look twice. It wouldn’t seem like enough. It would make you doubt. You’d think I might have survived. I know. Maybe I’m wrong: you’ve seen enough crime scenes. Maybe you’ll guess the moment you get close enough. There’s an extra quarter of a pint on the pavement. A quarter of a pint that should still be in my body. It’s a hint, John. Do you see it?

They won’t let you look, though. Not for long. Observe all you can, John. Study the scene. Take it in. You know my methods. Observe me, and think. Be rational. Is there truth in what you see?

But don’t. Don’t ask: not now. Don’t start thinking clearly now, god forbid. Don’t go breaking character and doing something unexpected like being rational. It will kill us both. Such irony: I spent months trying to change your behaviour, trying to get you to observe and deduce, see the facts and only the facts, and now I’m relying on you failing to do so. I’m a terrible teacher.

I need you to be yourself. React, don’t think. Mourn me needlessly. I need you to perform your irrationality for our hidden audience. I need you to witness this passion play and take it at face value, as you are most likely to do. I’m playing into your weaknesses. I’m using your trust in me against you. So that you can protect us both, John. For the greater good.

Such a strange conflict: what I need and what I want are suddenly such different things.

Witness it now, then. As you must. And even believe it, if you have to. But think back on it, John. Later, after the rain has stopped and the newsreaders don’t talk about me anymore. Remember me like this. Question everything. Isn’t there too much blood on the pavement? It’s all happening too fast, it doesn’t make sense. These details, they’re unlikely. Unlikely is always a lie. So this is a lie. Listen, John. See it. Observe. Think.

Think, John: all this blood. With my head still roughly intact as it is? Come on. Come on: there should still be a volume of blood in my body at this point, calculate what it should be. It would still be moving out of me at this point. Down my neck, into my coat. Underneath me, not pushed by my heart anymore. It would slow down. There shouldn’t be this much of it on the pavement. Not this soon.

Of course head wounds always bleed a great deal, that’s true. And you didn’t see the impact. You don’t know how long it’s been: you’re in reaction mode, and time seems to stop. You don’t know exactly when you stepped out of the taxi. You don’t have enough information to go on. Your heart is pounding in your ears. You’re in no fit state to be rational. Maybe you’ll never guess.

You won’t be allowed to look twice. Just once; one look. One convincing look at me. You’re my coroner, you’re my court of public opinion. I’m dead. Broken, covered in blood. (It’s not mine, John. You should know that: you’ll be able to tell, if you observe carefully. Which you won’t. Look. See. Remember. Please.)

I don’t want you to doubt me, John. I only need you to.

You’ll imagine the back of my skull is completely shattered based on the volume of blood. (But look at the rise of my head: it’s intact. If it were broken it would be compressed. Or if it shattered unevenly, on one side, I would be facing away, or into the pavement. You won’t notice it without me to point it out, will you. My medical man. Too subtle. I know.) Niggling doubt; hold on to it. Come on, John.

I can hear you: you’re arguing. You want through. You want to see me. You want to help me. You’re a doctor, as if I could use one in this state. You have hope. Even now. Even after watching me fall. Time has stopped for you, and on some level you believe that maybe you can still catch me, keep me from breaking. Save me.

You have doubts, then. Good. But it’s too late for doctors, John. Even one like you. You have to show them you believe that. Show them it’s true: no doctor can help me. I’m ready for the ministrations of someone more like me, now: someone who enjoys a fresh corpse. I’m bound only for the morgue. I’m dead.

“He’s my friend.”

That’s what I am, in the end, then: two words. An adjective, possessive. A simple noun denoting mutual affection. His. He defines the relationship first, before someone else does. He’s making an argument. He should have special access to me, to see me, touch me, save me. Friend: from time to time I say I don’t have any. In my weakest moments I believe that. Alone in the world, unpossessed, even by you. I’ve always been a solitary creature, John. We’re all alone inside our skulls, for the most part, aren’t we? I’ll be solitary again. This was a respite, being yours. Your friend. For a time. It was nice.

I’ll come back. I can’t tell you that. But I will.

Your face in front of mine; you’re looking at me. No breath, no moving, no focus. Everything’s blurry, but I can see you anyway. The colour of your eyes, the distress that shapes you. It’s in your shoulders, in your arms. The way you’re holding your head. Distress. I’ve hurt you.

Alone. Cold, hard emptiness like a spike in my chest. Lonely. Odd. Surrounded by all these people, and lonely. Already. I wouldn’t have expected that. It’s too soon. You’re right here, and I miss you already. I don’t like to lie to you, John. I’m alone here on the pavement, lying to you. I want to tell you everything, all the fine details and elaborate plans, but I can’t. There’s nothing more I can say.

I wonder if you’ll be able to forgive me.

Your adenoidal breathing. (You’ll have trouble sleeping tonight. What is it? The rain, maybe. Dampness. Clouds pressing down. You’ll snore, badly, it will rouse you and you’ll thrash in your bed, half asleep. Is it the rain that does it? Stress reaction, maybe. Is that it? No. I can hear it: ragged breathing. The sound of your voice in your inhale, exhale. Relative humidity, maybe a slight allergy. Mold. Reaction to a faint, new mildew against the brick. Maybe it’s a spore lifted off the buried Fleet River, down under the roads, rushing toward the Thames, rising up through the gutters to choke you.

Or could it be sorrow? It could; of course. Rising mucus, fluid in your lungs, reaction to trauma. To my trauma. To me being dead. Sadness. It’s tears in your throat. I can hear your heartbeat in your breath. I’ve heard it before. I can’t look at you properly. I can’t really see you. Goodbye, John. Goodbye.)

Fingers on my wrist: warm. You’re warm. Fresh from the taxi, you haven’t been in the wind up on the roof. I am already pale and cold. Does that make sense, John? Does it? I should still be warm, it’s been mere moments. Not even a full four minutes since I died, should I be this cold already? This pale? So soon? Think. Think, John. I haven’t been dead long enough for the lack of oxygen to discolour my face. Bluish lips, you must note that. You must see it. It’s too soon for that. Nearly a minute yet before it should be obvious. Are you counting? Does it all make sense? Look at your watch. Think. There’s too much blood. It’s too soon.

Work out the timeline. Don’t panic. You can’t help it, can you. You didn’t see this coming, though I did try to warn you. I did. Remember it, John. It’s a performance. Not just for you: also for the rest of this manic audience. You should know better; they never will. You know me. I wouldn’t leave you like this. I wouldn’t lie to you. I really am that clever. It’s been three minutes, not four. How long does it feel to you? Can you tell?

Breathe, John. Are you crying? Don’t cry. Don’t: look at me. It’s painted on me, John. The blood has been painted on my face. With a brush. There’s no pulse for you to find, but you saw the rubber ball, didn’t you? Everyone knows that trick. Everyone knows how to stop a pulse in the wrist. Child’s play. Literally.

You don’t want to let go. But they force you: you drop my hand.

“God, no.”

Ah. There it is. You believe it, then. Disappointing. No: it’s as it should be. As it must be. It’s done. We’re safe. No gunshots, no one else is going to die today. We’re protected. My lungs are pressing into my ribs and demanding air. Breathe breathe breathe not yet.

Your knees give out. You’re crying, I can hear it. Your emotion has become palpable, becoming flesh. You’re sad; I’ve made you sad. I’ve been alone all my life, and I’ve never been more aware of it. I’m sorry, John. I’ll come back.

They’re pulling you away from me. For your own good, of course. Not because I need the space to take another breath. Of course not: I’m dead. Look at all the blood. Look how pale I am, how cold. My lips have turned blue. (Irene was right: faking your own death is way too easy.) I’m dead. Even you believe it.

We could end all this in a moment. I could stand up, I could grab your hand and look you hard in the eye. It’s a performance, John. Can’t you tell? You’re too honest for that, it would never work. And I’m too dishonest for it. I have to be dishonest now: it’s required. Forgive me. What I need is not what I want. How to explain it? I can’t, anyway. I can’t.

Sirens; a woman screaming somewhere nearby. Some people don’t like crime scenes.

Your voice, somewhere in the distance, you’re saying something I can’t quite make out. I'm not even sure it's words. You’re raw and torn. I’ve never seen you like this. I’ve seen you afraid, and resolute, and angry. But not like this.

I’ll come back. I will. When I can. I’ll come back. Goodbye, John.