Shadows of the Past (BBC Sherlock) -1-

22. The Day the World Came Crashing Down

I'd never known what a hangover felt like, but it sure felt like I had one right now.

I propped myself up, slowly blinking my eyes open. Things were blurry and slightly dark. I closed and opened my eyes a few times to readjust.

I rubbed my pulsing forehead. God, I was sure to have a bruise there. How long was I out for?

Despite the pounding in my brain, I was able to remember what happened. I'd been trailing Sherlock, seeing what he was up to. He'd caught me; I'd managed to delay him. He'd told me something huge, and the name he gave me was the last one I ever anticipated. I shook my head slowly from side to side.

It just wasn't possible. Sherlock's theory—claim, whatever it was considered—couldn't be true. He had to be saying that so he could throw me off balance, distract me from delaying him from marching up to the rooftop to confront Moriarty.

I realized that I was alone in the stairwell. Sherlock was gone. I inhaled quickly, staring at the flight of stairs in front of me. When I find you, Sherlock, you have some serious explaining to do. You are a dead man.

Tenderly, but as quickly as I could manage, I used the wall to rise to my feet. I crossed the space to reach the railing, using it as a guide as I hobbled up the stairs. Things were moving a little too fast, so I tried to take my time, but not too much time.

As the monotonous climb towards the top continued, I began to focus normally. My mind was working at top speed, no longer fogged by confusion and dizziness. I knew that Sherlock was getting himself into even more trouble by meeting Moriarty. For all I knew, he could be up there right now talking with the snake. I knew that John was probably at Baker Street right now, checking in on Mrs. Hudson, who either was or wasn't hurt.

John.

Sherlock's theory still rang crystal clear in my head. John Watson is your father. It was like one of those huge bombshells that was dropped on a dramatic TV show. I had been quicker to accept Moriarty's true nature than Sherlock's theory, only because I had legitimate proof on Moriarty. All I had with Sherlock's theory was his word, the truth according to him.

Was his word enough to make me believe? No. He had to be saying it to distract me. My temper flared. It sounded like something Sherlock would do to get away from someone trying to stop him from getting where he wanted to go.

As I continued my hike up the stairs, I had a temporary urge to punch the nearest wall in frustration.

I alternated breathing through my nose and mouth as the journey continued. The top has to be close. I have to be getting close. All things came to an end at some point, right? The flights of stairs had to have an end.

As I was guessing how close I was to the rooftop of St. Bart's, a loud, abrupt noise pierced the silence. It made me halt where I stood. My blood froze. I replayed the sound in my head, reaffirming that I'd actually heard it and not dreamt it.

I'd just heard a gun go off above me. A gun which either one of them could have had. Sherlock was definitely up there with Moriarty.

Someone had been shot, or shot at. It was hard to tell if a body dropped.

I wasn't about to start guessing what happened or who the victim was; I bounded up the stairs with new, frantic energy. I could hear the clock ticking in my head, ticking the seconds away. The ticking made me feel like my progress was slowing down.