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“I’d die for you,” that’s easy to say.
He didn’t though, did he? He should have. Instead, Mary had died for him. Why would she do that? She wasn’t supposed to do that. It should have been the other way around.
We have a list of people that we would take,
A bullet for them, a bullet for you,
A bullet for everybody in this room.
John, Rosie, Greg, Mrs Hudson, Molly, his parents, Mycroft.
The inner circle. Obviously.
Angelo, Stamford, Anthea, Wiggins, Janine, Harry, Donovan, Anderson, Irene...
The list went on and on.
Everyone at the yard, every client that walks through his door.
Maybe not deliberately, but it was implied in the danger he’d put himself in to solve their cases, so they didn’t have to.
A bullet for you and you and you and you and –
Mary.
Metaphorically I’m the man,
But literally I don’t know what I’d do.
Except he did, now. And he’d fallen tragically short. He’d thought he could do it, die for someone else. And he could, if he planned it and didn’t leave himself an out for when his resolve wavered, Culverton Smith would have killed him if John hadn’t intervened, just like Sherlock had planned, but he would have fought it if he’d been able to. If he hadn’t made utterly sure that he was in no state to fight back to make sure he didn’t fail a second time. Couldn’t have John barging in after Sherlock had already incapacitated his would-be murderer, because he was too weak to commit to dying.
But in a split second decision, when it had really mattered he’d frozen, not like John when he’d attacked Moriarty at the Pool all those years ago. Not like Mary, who’d jumped in front of him, who had taken the bullet for him. Sherlock had seen her tensing, preparing to do it, when the finger tightened on the trigger. He knew that he could have stopped her if he’d been faster. One step forward was all it would have taken to block her trajectory, keep her out of the path of the bullet. He could have taken that bullet for her, if he hadn’t frozen, if he hadn’t hesitated, if he’d acted, if he’d been faster, if he’d been better, if he’d simply been enough. It didn’t matter what John said now, he’d had it right the first time. It had been Sherlock’s fault. Sherlock’s failure. Because Sherlock couldn’t save anyone, not when it mattered, not Victor, not Mary. Maybe John? No, John would have been fine without him, eventually. John wouldn’t even have been in need of saving without him. What if it happened again, what if he failed again? Who would it be next time? Who would he fail to save next? John? Rosie?
But I don’t seem to see many bullets coming through,
See many bullets coming through.
Just the one. One was all it took.
All it took for John to loose faith in him. His unwavering faith that Sherlock would always find a way out, that he’d fix everything, the way he’d fixed his limp during their first case. Sherlock had believed that too, once upon a time. He didn’t anymore, never would again. And if he ever did Mrs Hudson would set him straight with a single word: ‘Norbury’ He’d lost John’s trust before, when he lied to him. He’d lost his friendship when he made him watch. He’d managed to recover both. Sherlock had never lost John’s faith before, though, even when John believed him to be dead, he was still asking Sherlock for a miracle.
This time he’d lost all three with one bullet and a split second of indecision. He’d recovered the friendship for a second time when he’d attempted to die for John. Somehow he’d also recovered the trust, also for the second time, at least he thought so. John had left Rosie alone with him for hours when he went to work, that had to imply trust. He didn’t think John’s faith was recoverable though, because Sherlock had completely failed at last. Failed to keep his promise, the vow he made at John and Mary’s wedding. Up until now there was always something to do, some sacrifice to make, in order to make things right again, in order to keep his word. There hadn’t been this time. There was no recovering from death.
John had forgiven him for his failure, for whatever reason, but that didn’t mean he’d ever see Sherlock the way he did before, the way Sherlock wanted to be seen. How could he, when not even Sherlock himself did? John had finally looked past the last of his carefully constructed walls and he hadn’t liked what he’d seen there. How could he? What was hidden behind his walls was always too weak, too slow, too stupid, and never ever enough. Not when it mattered. He could solve the problems of strangers. Cases, adventures, stories on John’s blog, they worked, he was good at them, but he failed as soon as it involved his friends. He could never save his friends. He only ever hurt them. He could only stand by and watch them suffer and die. He didn’t even deserve to die for them.
“I’d live for you” and that’s hard to do,
Even harder to say when you know it’s not true.
He’d always jumped at the chance of dying for his friends. He’d met Moriarty alone at the pool in order to keep John safe. The day Moriarty had died, there had been 12 possible scenarios. John, Greg and Mrs Hudson would have survived all of them. Sherlock would have died in four. He hadn’t told Mycroft about those. Breaking out of hospital to make sure John heard the truth about Mary had been a calculated risk. Dying for that truth would have been worth it. When he’d shot Magnussen, Sherlock had known how it would end. MI6 had been trying to recruit him ever since he’d almost taken down the most powerful crime-syndicate they knew of. They already had a mission for him and he’d given them the leverage they needed to force him into their schemes. John still didn’t know how it would have ended if the plane hadn’t turned around.
Then there had been the drugs and Culverton Smith, all in the name of saving John Watson. He hadn’t even considered for one second what it would do to John if he was too late. If John had failed to save Sherlock, Sherlock would in turn have failed to save John. Too desperate to do something, anything, even to die, in order to fix things that couldn’t be fixed, he hadn’t even considered the possibility. And it had been a possibility, far too likely in hindsight. If John had hesitated just a bit longer, if he hadn’t found Mary’s message at exactly the right moment, Sherlock would have died. He had miscalculated. Again. He had assumed that Culverton Smith would be content to wait until Sherlock died from the overdose of saline, giving John all the time he needed. Afterwards he’d acted like he’d had everything under control, like he’d planned it like this all along, when that couldn’t be more wrong.
The cane had been a lucky coincidence, not meticulous planning like he’d let John believe. He’d hidden the bug in there years ago, right before he’d faked his death, to assess John’s mental status from afar. The device was activated by movement and would record for five hours after being disturbed and then send the recording to an untraceable phone that was now lying smashed in a forest somewhere in Serbia. But the cane had barely been moved, leaving it with anough battery for another recording. John had taken it with him when he’d moved out, but apart form that it had stayed in the bottom of a closet, undisturbed, until now, until John attempted to say goodbye and meant it.
He’d never attempted to die for Mycroft before Sherrinford, but it had been the obvious conclusion. He couldn’t kill his brother, it didn’t matter what he’d done and how much Sherlock wanted to strangle him, there was no way he’d put a bullet in him. Killing his brother was impossible, killing John had never been an option, but killing himself would give him the satisfaction of having crossed Eurus and Moriarty’s plans even if he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it for long. It was both an option and possible. It had to be, he’d come close often enough already. On some level he’d expected someone to stop him, John probably. He didn’t though. Did it mean anything that he’d blamed Sherlock for Mary’s decision, but accepted Sherlock’s? Even though Sherlock’s sacrifice was for someone John had little love for, while Mary’s had been for his best friend? Probably not, they were different situations.
Even harder to write when you know that tonight,
There were people at home who tried talking to you,
But then you ignored them still.
John had tried talking to Sherlock, after. After they’d picked up Rosie and returned to John’s home. When there was tea and a mutual understanding that they wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. John had awkwardly not-quite-asked. Apparently seeing Sherlock hold a gun to his own head, ready to pull the trigger had made him see some events in a different light. “Did you know she would stop you?” Those had been his words, but they hadn’t been what he’d asked. Sherlock had pretended not to understand the hidden layer of the question and lied. Lied that of course he’d known, the experiment wasn’t over, there was still data too collect, there was no way she’d let her specimens commit suicide. What he didn’t say was that there was a real chance that his suicide was the data she was after. John had kept asking questions. About Culverton Smith, about his interrupted exile and the overdose on the plane, always evading the real question, but trying to find an answer anyway. Sherlock hadn’t given him one. John had come to a conclusion anyway.
All these questions they’re for real,
Like who would you die for?
That’s when John made it very clear that he didn’t want Sherlock to die for him. His exact words were: “I’m never forgiving you if you get yourself killed for my sake.” Sherlock didn’t believe him. It was nice to hear that he was wanted, though. “I need you alive. Promise me you won’t try to die for me again.” Because those who are worth dying for, they love you and they don’t want you to die for them, because they’d rather die for you than have you die. It was a vicious circle. He’d still die for John, even if John didn’t want him to. He hadn’t wanted Mary to die for him either, but that hadn’t been Sherlock’s decision. This was.
Who would you live for?
John had waited for Sherlock to answer, to promise, another promise he probably wouldn’t be able to keep. Sherlock had evaded again, told John about being shot, carefully leaving out Mary’s name, and how he’d made the decision to live for him then. He didn’t tell John that he had fought only because he wasn’t done saving him yet, because John wasn’t safe yet. John noticed the evasion. Tried again. Sherlock continued his evasion with another half truth: “You heard the recording, I don’t want to die.” That was true he didn’t particularly want to die. There was no reason for him to die. For now. John managed to pick up on what he wasn’t saying again and asked the first question with no double layers of the night: “But does that mean you want to live?” Sherlock didn’t know.
I’ve been thinking too much,
Help me.