A/N: I've read and loved lots of fics about what would happen if there had been a recording of Sherlock's conversation with Moriarty on the roof, but...

In canon, there is a recording. This one.

So for months I've been hunting for a story about this recording being listened to, but I haven't been able to find a single one. And I most certainly didn't want to write it; I feel a little disjointed when I try to write Sherlock, it doesn't flow as naturally as Pandora Hearts does for me.

But this idea just wouldn't leave my head, and I really haven't been able to find a single fic about this (If there is one, please tell me, I wanted to read this, not write it) So at last I took a deep breath and gave it a shot :)

I ended up finding a sort of peace while I was writing this (hard to explain) and, while there are still parts I'm not entirely happy with, I'm glad I wrote it in the end.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to its original creators, I don't own the characters, Sherlock, or the song. The cover art is from my Tumblr: lunar-echo

Oh, I hope someday I'll make it out of here

Even if it takes all night or a hundred years

Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near

Wanna feel alive, outside I can't fight my fear

—Lovely, Billie Eilish ft. Khalid—

The hall was long, too-bright fluorescent lights gleaming above crisp white tile floors. It receded into shadow, a few small lamps hanging near a lone door in the distance which presumably lead to the back edge of the building.

He focused on it, clenching and unclenching his left hand. The stiff movements stretched his bruised knuckles and made them sting, a sickening reminder of what he had done. He focused on the pain, trying to breathe past the hard knot that had formed inside his chest.

His footsteps clicked quietly against the floor, the rhythmic sound all that broke the stillness of the wing. The sound seemed distant, cold and impersonal. If he tried, he could almost imagine they weren't really his footsteps, walking down this long hall, not his fist that had slammed into his best friend's face hardly hours ago. Not his fault that any of this had even happened at all.

"Well, you certainly weren't very quick on the draw..." Disapproval bled into Mary's voice.

He didn't even glance at her as he passed, he could already see the look on her face.

The door he was looking for appeared much too quickly, and he found himself hesitating outside, his pulse loud and harsh in his ears. It swung open before he could work up the courage to turn the knob, the weary face of the DI blinking out at him.

"John? How's he doing?" His eyes were dark with worry, and John bit back the feeling that tugged at his stomach. Lestrade stepped aside to let him in, and John let out a long breath.

"He's asleep." He swallowed, rocking on his heels. John opened his mouth again, but for a moment his voice wouldn't come. "He's...I didn't…"

"It's alright, mate." said Greg quietly, lowering his gaze. "It's a lot to take in. It's understandable that you'd need some time."

John nodded, swallowing thickly. His eyes burned, and he stared down at his hand, watching his fingers tremble when he flexed them.

Greg sighed, sinking onto the couch in the center of the room. He passed a tired hand over his face, glancing up at John. "You ready?"

John stared at him, forcing himself to nod again and shove down the fear that washed through his chest. He sat down beside him, hoping Greg hadn't seen his trembling legs.

Outside, it had begun to rain, distant thunder making the ground quiver. The drops pounded the roof, muffled and dull against the thrumming of the pulse in his veins.

Lestrade brushed a hand through his hair, still eying John anxiously. "They probably won't be able to use this as evidence, but…" He cleared his throat, "...I thought it would be good...to…" John nodded, breathing in shakily. Greg nodded back and reached for the small audio player on the coffee table before them.

A quiet beep rose into existence, John's own heartbeat already racing ahead of it. He wasn't sure if he could do this, if he could sit quietly and listen to Culverton Smith trying to choke the life out of his best friend, knowing that he'd almost been too late. A single moment could've changed his life forever. He clenched his teeth, his left hand tightening into a fist around the fabric of his jeans.

But I have to, he reminded himself. It was the least he deserved after what he had almost allowed to happen. His stomach gave a frightened twist. Mary's eyes met his from where she stood near the window, and he wondered if that look was on his face too.

And then, from the speaker: a voice.

"You've been ages waking up."

John steadied himself, his fingers digging into his thigh. It was alright, no matter what happened everything would be alright, he'd made it in time, Sherlock was still alive. He just needed to keep reminding himself...

"I watched you. It's...quite lovely, in its way."

Sherlock swallowed quietly.

"Take it easy, it's okay." Culverton's voice lilted, and John didn't need to close his eyes to see his smile. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

There was a long pause, and then John had to close his eyes because it was Sherlock.

"How did you...get in?" he breathed, the words taking effort to push out.

There was a rustle and a step that drew closer. "Policeman outside, you mean? Come on...can't you guess?" His voice rose with challenge. John sank his teeth into his lower lip.

There was another long moment of steady beeping, before at last Sherlock murmured, "...Secret door."

"I built this whole wing. Kept...firing the architect and builders so no one knew quite...how it all fitted together. I can slip in and out anywhere I like, you know," he breathed out a laugh, his voice shifting, "when I get the urge."

Lestrade shot John a glance, and he found his own aphrenshion mirrored on his face. He tried for a tight smile, hoping to ease both their nerves.

"H.H. Holmes," Sherlock murmured.

"Murder castle, but done right."

Lestrade shook his head slowly, still stunned by Smith's cruelty. His fingers were tight around the armrest of the couch. John flicked his eyes toward him and back again, flexing his hand.

"I have a question for you," Culverton breathed, "Why are you here? It's like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me. Why?"

John's stomach dropped, a ball of dread crawling down his throat. He swallowed quietly, hoping Greg wouldn't hear it, but the inspector looked at him kindly.

"You know why I'm here." said Sherlock quietly, the words slow, with something almost like trepidation threaded beneath.

John closed his eyes, raising his head to the ceiling and pulling in a soft breath.

"I'd like to hear you say it."

The hair rose on the back of his neck. He shifted his legs, pulling his hands together and clasping them tightly.

"Say it for me, please."

The silence that followed was deafening, John's pulse thundering loudly in his ears. Outside, rain battered the windows, nearly drowning out the steady beep of the heart monitor.

"I want you to kill me."

John's heart crawled into his throat. That sickening feeling, the cold fear and panic that had gripped him as he stood outside Bart's rose again inside his chest. Lestrade sat back hard against the couch cushions, turning to John in horror.

They had come so close to losing Sherlock again. For real this time.

Smith shifted closer, and John focused on the sound, trying to keep his throat from closing.

"If you increase the dosage four or five times, toxic shock should shut me down…" Sherlock breathed in slowly, "within about an hour…"

John flexed his hands, waiting. Any moment now Culverton would...He pursed his lips, trying to keep from having to swallow again.

Culverton stood, his languid footsteps drawing nearer to the recording cane as he rounded the bed. "Then I restore the settings. Everyone assumes it was a fault, or...you just gave up the ghost." He breathed out another laugh.

"Yes."

"You're rather good at this."

Beside him, Lestrade swallowed quietly, lowering his gaze to his lap. John wanted to say something, anything, that might comfort him, but he could still feel the bitter taste of despair in his mouth from that long two years he'd spent alone.

But Mary— He stamped the thought down as soon as it came, but couldn't escape the twinge of pain that struck his chest.

"Before we start…" Something rustled and dropped down quite close to the recording cane, a brush of static blurring Culverton's voice. "Tell me how you feel."

"I...I feel scared."

John breathed in slowly, his stomach twisting. There was a quiet clink as Smith dropped something smaller. His cufflinks, John's mind supplied. His thoughts were jumbled. Anger, fear, fear, pain, rage, Sherlock, pain, fear, Sherlock.

Culverton scoffed quietly. "Be more...specific. You only get to do this the once."

"I feel...scared of dying." Sherlock's voice was slow with exhaustion, but he paused on the words, his own confusion at his transport's betrayal bleeding in.

He'd been afraid. He'd known something could go wrong, hadn't really wanted to die, yet he'd trusted John enough to come after him and had accepted the alternative if John had been too late. John's stomach crawled into his throat. Shame at what he'd done in the morgue flooded him once more, hot and thick in his veins.

"You wanted this, though." Another quiet clink.

"I have...reasons."

John remembered when they'd talked to Molly outside the ambulance, how earnestly Sherlock had looked at him as he spoke of Culverton.

Not a trick, it's a plan.

"But you don't actually want to die."

What plan?

Not telling you.

Nearby, Culverton fiddled with something.

Why not?

"No." As though it should be obvious.

You won't like it.

John felt sick.

"Good." Culverton breathed in, the sound curving as he smiled. "Say that for me."

John dug his fingers into his palm.

"Say it."

"I don't want to die." Sherlock complied, mild irritation threaded through his tone.

"And again."

"I don't...want to die." Sherlock's voice was firm, clearer than before. He spoke the words slowly.

Culverton's voice dropped to a whisper. "Once more, for luck."

This time there was a beat before Sherlock spoke, and John's knuckles whitened as he clenched his hands.

"I don't...want to die. I don't…" Sherlock's voice broke, the final realization of that truth dawning over him as he said the words. "...don't want to die..."

John stared at the small device, his eyes burning. He'd never heard Sherlock sound so afraid, the vulnerability that shook his friend momentarily stunning him. He couldn't move, couldn't take his stinging eyes off of the device for fear he would shatter the dream and that Sherlock's cold body would already be resting in Culverton's favorite room.

"Lovely." Breathed Culverton, "Here it comes." He shifted, a louder beep rising into existence as he fiddled with the taps.

They waited. Outside, the rain rattled against the building, and John found himself glad for its presence. Something visceral to distract from the raging feelings inside him. A part of him found he was still angry at Sherlock. Angry at him for breaking his vow, for talking Mary into her grave. For the fact that Rosie had to grow up without a mother. He clenched his jaw without meaning to, and Lestrade discerned the hardness that settled over his expression.

He caught Greg's sorrowful glance, and a rush of pain crushed his throat. Mary was dead, there was nothing he could do that would change that hard reality. And Sherlock had almost followed. Because of him.

He'd tried to talk to John, to be there, to comfort him. And maybe, he thought wryly, to comfort himself.

Go to hell, Sherlock.

Mary had understood both of them in ways John still couldn't fathom. He suddenly found himself wondering how much her death had affected Sherlock as well. Had he grieved for her? Not just for the relationship John had severed between them, but...had he grieved for her on his own? As a friend?

John swallowed down the lump in his throat.

He remembered the puddle of blood on the floor of the morgue, the tears in Sherlock's eyes.

Let him do what he wants. He's entitled. I...killed his wife.

Yes you did.

John let his eyes close, raising a tired hand to his temple. Quietly, Lestrade shifted closer to him, letting their arms brush. The hesitant touch was surprisingly grounding, but John didn't open his eyes.

He remembered Sherlock's staggering gait, his quivering hands, the pallor of his face.

If you keep taking what you're taking, at the rate you're taking it…

You've got weeks.

Nausea crawled down his throat.

Are you really a doctor?

John opened his eyes, blinking back the wetness that threatened to blur his vision. Sherlock had trashed himself on drugs to force John to save his life.

But…

Who came to my flat?

Sherlock's horror had been visceral in that moment, the moment everything his genius mind had planned had unravelled around him.

He swallowed thickly, the thought of Sherlock, alone in the flat, grieving for Mary and John suddenly sharp in his mind. The thought of Sherlock turning to drugs to ease the pain, going too far, taking too much.

Sherlock had told him himself that he wasn't an addict. Though John had at the time doubted the truth of those words, he'd always felt at least a little certain that Sherlock was capable of knowing when to stop. He'd used around John before, after the wedding, after Magnussen.

It had never been this bad.

"He tried to turn to you, but when you refused him…" Her voice was quiet.

John lifted his eyes, gazing past Greg's worried face and meeting Mary's. She leaned back against the wall, watching them sadly.

He was suddenly standing before that dark headstone, alone again, this time walking through the cemetery to visit two graves.

The thought crashed down on him, stealing the breath from his lungs.

If Culverton hadn't killed Sherlock tonight, he probably would've died soon after.

"But you made it in time," said Mary softly, trying for a smile. She looked at him knowingly. "You saved him." Sherlock was in hospital now, his health was being monitored. He would pull through.

He had to.

He had to.

Because if he lost Sherlock, after all of this, after everything that had happened, without getting a chance to fix things between them…

He could never forgive himself.

Greg must've read something of his anguish in his expression, for he opened his mouth, but his words were cut off by quiet footsteps from the recording. John schooled himself, trying to blank his face again. He flexed his battered hand.

"So tell me...why are we doing this?" Culverton paced slowly, a predator circling his prey. His steps receded as he rounded the bed again. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wanted to hear your confession. Needed to know I was right."

The footsteps stopped. "But why do you need to die?"

"The mortuary," Sherlock mumbled. His voice began to slur again. "Your favorite room."

Smith was silent, not even his breath reaching the recorder.

"You talk to the dead. You make your confession to them." The words took effort to press out, and John licked his lips. His mouth felt dry. Lestrade had begun to absently tap at his knee, restless anxiety pulling at them both.

In the recording, someone sniffed quietly. Smith sank into a chair.

"Why do you do it?" Sherlock breathed. For a moment, he was almost himself again, the confident detective who could solve any case. But John could still see him on the mortuary floor, weak and trembling as he slammed his foot into his ribcage. He bit his lip again.

"Why do I kill?" Culverton shifted quietly. "It's...It's not about hatred...or revenge, I'm not a dark person, it's...killing human beings…"

He paused, John's heart fluttering as he broke into a laugh. "It just makes me…" Culverton let out a sigh. "Incredibly happy." He breathed out again, pushing himself to his feet.

"You know how i-i-in films, when...when you see dead people pretending to be dead and it's just…" He sucked in a breath. "Living people lying down?"

Greg glanced at John anxiously.

"That's not what dead people look like."

The air sizzled tensely, neither man able to keep his growing worry from bleeding into it. It almost relieved John, somewhat, that Greg was as nervous as he was.

"Dead people...look like things." Culverton's voice lowered, held a dangerous edge. "I like to make people...into things. Then you can own them."

Greg's face was pale, his eyes shadowed with disgust. John forced himself to keep breathing. Culverton's next words made his stomach drop.

"You know what, I'm getting a little impatient."

There was a quiet hum as he lowered the bed. His clothes rustled gently as he stood, coming halfway around the bed and pausing for a moment. His steps drew closer, and then John's blood ran cold.

"Take a big breath if you want." Culverton whispered.

John stared at the recording device, his heart in his throat. Sherlock sucked in a stuttering breath that cut off abruptly, the beats of the heart monitor quickening. John released a silent breath through his mouth, his eyes burning. He couldn't do this. He couldn't—

"Murder is a very difficult addiction to manage," said Culverton, his voice tight with the effort of holding Sherlock down. There was a weak rustling as Sherlock struggled beneath him. "People don't realize how much work...goes into it. You have to be...careful."

John's heartbeat thundered alongside the erratic pulse of the heart monitor. A muffled noise pressed through, Sherlock's panicked sound silenced by Culverton's firm grip. Skin struck skin as Sherlock hit him weakly, already too weak and beaten to push the smaller man off of him. John forced himself to straighten, locking his jaw.

A soldier, he was a soldier. He had to be. Had to hear this, to understand, even if it hurt, if it made his chest ache with regret. He needed to know how far it had gone. How close it had been.

"But, i-if you're rich, or famous, and...loved," Culverton's voice strained as he fought to keep his grip. Sherlock writhed, flailing at him desperately. "It's amazing, what...people are prepared to…ignore." He breathed harshly, the sound almost drowning out Sherlock's quiet struggling.

"There's always someone desperate, about to go missing…" Culverton grit out, "...and no one...wants to suspect murder if it's easier to suspect...something...else." He panted, Sherlock's writhing becoming more desperate.

John sat stiffly, Lestrade frozen beside him.

"I just have to ration myself, choose the right heart to stop," Culverton's voice shook. The heart monitor blared Sherlock's rapid pulse as his distress rose. John didn't realize he'd been biting his lip until blood welled up against his tongue.

"Please, maintain eye contact. Maintain eye contact—"

John lurched to his feet, dragging in a ragged breath. Staring up at him worriedly, Lestrade leaned over to pause the audio.

"John?"

John flexed his hands, trying to restrain the sudden fury that twisted inside his chest. He paced absently, breathing hard, trying to hide his expression from Greg's anxious eyes. Lestrade straightened, his gaze clouding with worry.

"Mate, you alright?"

Letting out a puff of breath, John managed to shake his head. He pressed a hand to his forehead. "He's—" His voice wavered and he tried again, "I can't…" The words died in his throat. He shook his head again.

This is all my fault.

They could hear Sherlock's fear through the whine of the heart monitor as Culverton had nearly killed him. John focused on breathing. He felt well and truly sick, physically sick, at what his actions had almost caused.

That angry part of his mind tried to remind him of Mary, but he snapped it away. Across the room, she smiled gently at him.

His stomach churned at the thought of Culverton's manic joy. John's eyes burned, and he blinked furiously, unable to focus the feelings in his chest into any single emotion. A hand brushed his shoulder and he turned, his eyes widening as Greg tugged him into a hug.

John tried to speak, but all that came out was a pathetic sound. He clenched his teeth.

"Y'know, sometimes...I'd like to punch him, too." said Greg quietly, not releasing the hug even as John made to step back. His eyes watered. Mary's grin blurred over Lestrade's shoulder. A laugh escaped him, wetter and shakier than he'd expected.

Greg gave him a squeeze and pulled back, nodding toward the audio player. "What do you think, want to just leave it there? Bloody idiot's going to be fine now, might as well leave the past in the past."

John swallowed, pressing his lips together. They tasted of blood. He remembered Mary's blood, coating his fingers in warm red. He remembered Sherlock's blood, dripping onto the mortuary floor, splattered over his knuckles.

There was a ball of something heavy in his stomach, sinking slowly lower and dragging him down along with it. He'd thought it was anger, but now he wondered if it was something else.

"I'd like...to finish it…" he said quietly, unclenching his left hand. It still stung. "I'd like to know the rest of it." He swallowed, trying for a smile. It must've looked like more of a grimace, because Greg's face pinched.

He wanted to know how close it had been. Needed to know.

"Wish we at least had a drink," sighed Lestrade as they sank back onto the couch. "Might've made all this a little easier to swallow." A rumble of thunder shook the earth.

John smirked, still working his lower lip between his teeth. It stung too.

Greg hit play, and the sounds of struggle rose again from the audio player.

"Maintain eye contact." Culverton breathed. "Maintain eye contact. I like...to watch it...happen…" His voice quivered with repressed energy. John's heart raced, unable to push the vision of Sherlock's panicked eyes from his mind, glazing slowly, staring up into the face of a murderer...

From farther away, there was a rattle as someone shook the doorknob. John clenched his fists, exhaling slowly. The breath trembled.

"And off…we….pop…"

The heart monitor was slowing, dying away. It flattened out into a single tone. Sherlock stilled. John's heart crawled into his throat.

He'd flatlined. His heart had stopped.

Lestrade glanced at him anxiously; he realized he must've made a sound. In the recording, there was a thunderous noise from the door and Culverton pulled back. Sherlock's pulse returned. He gasped desperately, a long sound that grated on John's ears.

Greg slowly leaned to stop the audio. For a moment, both men were silent, almost afraid to meet each other's eyes. Outside, the rain pattered on.

"Thank you," said John at last, "for…" He waved his hand absently, pursing his lips to hide a swallow. Greg bobbed his head, his fingers tight around the couch cushion.

"Yeah—Of course." He glanced down, his eyes thoughtful. Thinking of Sherlock. John felt another rush of guilt and tried to push it away.

But it lingered, pulling uncomfortably at his stomach. He could still hear Culverton's voice inside his head. Wondered if he'd dream of it. Sherlock probably would. A shiver trailed down his spine involuntarily.

He swallowed dryly, the lingering effects Sherlock would need to cope with already beginning to haunt him. If he hadn't been so blind, none of this would've happened. Thunder rattled the windows, and he could feel the hum of it deep inside his chest.

If Sherlock Holmes dies too, who will you have then?

It had almost happened. Sherlock had very nearly died, and John had almost helped to kill him. The beating, leaving him behind in the hands of someone Sherlock had already warned him was a dangerous killer, both had contributed to the near-failure of the detective's great plan.

A wave of anger washed through his chest. How could he have put his life on the line that way? What if there had been traffic? But it evaporated quickly, replaced by a heavy exhaustion.

The weight of the faith Sherlock had in him was almost unbearable.

He believed I would save him, was so certain it would happen that he was willing to nearly kill himself. John pressed his hands to his thighs to keep them from trembling. But I almost didn't make it in time.

Sherlock had allowed John an hour to come rescue him; the time it would've taken for him to overdose. He hadn't counted on Culverton's impatience, or John's reluctance to help him.

He hadn't counted on Faith Smith being a complete stranger. On John's reaction in the morgue.

John sighed, leaning back against the cushions. Greg smiled sympathetically, his gaze glinting with worry. Across the room, Mary peered out into the rain, resting a hand on the windowsill. John closed his eyes.

"—Yes, of course. Rosie."

Behind Sherlock's chair, Mary's clasped hands tightened. "Go and solve a crime together, make him wear the hat!"

John sat forward, watching Sherlock. His chest felt tight, the breath catching there and sticking unpleasantly. Mary tried to catch his eye, burning with disapproval, but he kept his gaze resolutely forward.

"You'll be okay for...twenty minutes?"

"Yes—yes! Sorry, I…" Sherlock swallowed, shaking his head. "...wasn't thinking of Rosie."

John pushed himself to his feet. "No problem."

"I should, uh, come...see her...soon." Sherlock looked up at him hesitantly, and for a moment he could hardly breathe. Sherlock's haemorrhaged eye glistened in the faint light.

"Yes." he pushed out. His heart beat rapidly inside his chest, a sick feeling making his stomach clench.

Mary gazed toward the fire, her fingers tightening again. "Actually, he should wear the hat as a special tribute to me. I'm dead, I would really appreciate it." She sent him a sideways glare, but he turned away.

The tension in his chest rose as he neared the threshold, an odd feeling rising up and threatening to choke him. Sherlock's voice was almost a relief.

"Oh, by the way, the recordings will probably be inadmissible."

His heart skipped a beat. The recording. The long scream of the heart monitor was still loud in his ears. Culverton's voice swelled beneath it, a cacophony of whispers melting into a single phrase.

Maintain eye contact.

John stopped, turning back. "Sorry, what?"

"Well, technically, it's entrapment, so it might get thrown out as evidence." Sherlock shifted, rambling on, trying to keep John's attention, even if only for a moment longer, "Not that that matters; apparently he can't stop confessing." He smiled timidly, a breath of a laugh escaping him. He fingered his mug. Nervous. Hopeful.

Desperate.

"That's good." John's eyes darted toward the floor.

Sherlock gave a short nod. "Yeah." He glanced away, lips pressed together tightly. John flexed his hand, the sting gone from his knuckles. He turned away again.

"Are you okay?"

A laugh bubbled from his lips. He swung back, facing Sherlock with raised brows. "Uh, what? Am I...no, no I'm not okay." Mary tilted her head, listening. "I'm never gonna be okay."

Sherlock's fingers were tense around the mug.

"...but we'll just have to...accept...that. It is what it is." He glanced away and back again, letting his gaze rest on Sherlock's thin face. "And what it is is...shit." Weariness at everything swelled within him.

"John, do better." Mary's hair glowed in the light filtering in through the window. He stared at her, the knot in his chest rising to a peak and shattering all at once. Sherlock dipped his head, and John looked down, breathed out. Steeled himself.

"You didn't kill Mary."

Sherlock's head snapped up, meeting his eyes. They shone with hope, even as the left gleamed red. Red like Mary's blood on John's hands, like the pool that had gathered beneath Sherlock as John turned from him in the morgue. But already the sting of those moments had faded too, something distant and unpleasant that lingered at the edge of his memory. Not as overwhelming as they'd once been.

For the first time in long time, John could breathe again.