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Let me through. He's my friend.
Squash balls in place, one in each armpit. Sherlock relaxed the rest of his body into the limp form of the recently deceased. He felt cold liquid pool and soak his hair.
Let me through. Please, let me through.
It was time. Sherlock applied pressure until his pulse cut out and --
John Watson broke through the wall of people. I'm a doctor. Some words will get you anywhere, Sherlock thought blankly. He faced the wall of Bart's, away from John. An accidental eye movement, even under closed lids, could break the illusion. John would notice even a subtle sign of life. I'm a doctor. But it was essential to the plan that John know nothing. He would be under the strictest surveillance of Moriarty's network, and his mourning was necessary to sell the ruse. If he seemed to know that Sherlock was alive, he would die.
(And you weren't worried that your parents' absence from the funeral would raise alarms?
John, my parents are legally deceased. Mycroft had it done years ago for their own safety. They don't even visit me without an elaborate set of safety precautions, and they certainly can't be seen at my funeral, real or not. Moriarty knows this. Besides, I think he thinks they aren't quite fair game.
What, and I am?
...you're marginally interesting.
Oh, thanks for that.
Words spoken more than two years and more than one broken heart later.)
Sherlock felt John kneel beside him on the grey pavement, heard the brush of fabric on fabric. He fancied he felt the warmth of John's body, though the heat difference would be imperceptible through the barrier of thick coats and cold air. Perhaps it was a sense of presence, a memory of what the proximity of a trusted person should feel like. Then he felt a hand, clammy and cold with fear but still absolutely steady, lift his wrist and search for his pulse.
The muscles around Sherlock's eyes tightened in spite of his efforts to stay relaxed. The only person on the street who didn't know what was happening, the only person on the street who felt real, the only person -- just the only person.
His hand was released. It dropped limply to the ground. Two fake paramedics hauled him onto a stretcher, and it was done.
He couldn't even feel the ghost of John's fingers.