BBC Sherlock Imagines (Book 3)

John: Falling for You... Literally

Request for star700007

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"Hello?"

"John," you croak, watching his tiny form from on high. He looked like a bug, so small and helpless.

"(Y/n), you okay?"

"John, please get back in the cab." His body swirled around, looking everywhere for you. Of course, he would never think to look up. Why on earth would you stand at the edge of a building for? Oh right, for him.

His voice is tending towards panic, the familiar sound of tension causing his tone to take on one you've only heard when he is worried about Sherlock. "No, no. Where are you? The call I got about Mrs. Hudson was phony, she's fine. Are you fine?"

"Just do as I ask. Please."

"What are you talking about, (Y/n)? You're really starting to worry me." You watched him walk from cab towards St. Bart's.

"Stop right there, right where you are," you ordered. John was in seeming perfect sight of you on the street, right where you and Sherlock had planned for him to be.

"Wha—"

"John," your voice broke when you said his name, hating to have to do this. "Look up. I'm on the rooftop." Even from up here you could see his mouth dropping in shock, his body going rigid.

"Why-why are you up there? Come down," he begged, breathlessly.

"John, I can't come down. I have to..." You were gutted, the words unspeakable.

"You have to what? You don't have to do anything, (Y/n). You just have to come down from there, c'mon."

"John, I have to tell you."

"Tell me what?" He was still paused in the spot you told him to stop. Thank goodness he listened, thank goodness he did just as Sherlock guessed he would.

"I-I've been working for Moriarty, this whole time."

"What?"

"I lied to you and Sherlock about all of it. I have been working for Moriarty, feeding him information so he knows how to mess with Sherlock."

"No," John protests, shading his eyes from the overcast sky. "I know you, (Y/n), you would never do that. And Sherlock would have found out—"

"Jim is smarter than Sherlock, we were able to fool him. We even fooled Mycroft."

"No, you're lying. I can tell."

"You don't know me, John. I'm a fake. Tell Sherlock I'm sorry."

"No, (Y/n), you're not. You are real. You are the realest I have ever met, please—" His voice cut out, for a single second, muffling a sob that you saw shake his shoulders. From up here, you watched him trembling wildly.

"I am a good actress, John. If I was not a criminal, I would be an actress. You know I would be good."

He chuckled at that, and the sound brought flutters to your heart. To hear his laugh was to be alive. "(Y/n), you are a terrible actress. Terribly terrible. Whenever we play charades, you can't even hold it together."

The memory of laughter burns in your brains, memories in 221B, a place you longed for now more than ever. "You somehow always guess what I'm acting out though, so I must be good, somewhat," you reply. 

"No," he says, and from up here you can feel his eyes beating into you, feeding into your own. "I just know you. I know you really well, (Y/n). Now come down from there and we can play charades. I can buy you ice cream and we can play charades." Last week he found out your favorite flavor of ice cream and had already treated you to one carton from the supermarket, his gift to you.