Author's Note : Hey guys. This is my first Sherlock fic! Finally. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy it. There will be more to come. All reviews are welcome :)

The trees swayed gently to the wind. The sun was beating down strongly upon a black, polished grave. A short, sandy haired man stood in front of the black stoned grave, his head bowed in grief. His best friend, a man named Sherlock Holmes, had committed suicide.


Sherlock stood on top of St Bart's, a slight breeze dancing across his face. Moriarty had just shot himself and collapsed lifelessly onto the stone roof. Sherlock looked around frantically, uncertain of what to do.

Then, he took his phone from his long, black trench coat.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John quickly got out of the shining taxi.

"John. Turn around and walk back the way you came," he saw john's figure pause.

"No, I'm coming in."

"Just. Do as I ask. Please." Sherlock begged.

"Where?"

"Stop there."

"Sherlock."

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh, god."

"I— I— I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology. It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock—" John was nigga off by Sherlock's voice.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met—the first time we met—you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."

"No. Alright, stop it now."

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

"Alright."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" John asked, slightly confused.

"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"Leave a note, when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't—"

It was too late. Sherlock threw his phone to the ground. He stretched out his long arms, with his coat blaring out behind him. He tilted forward slightly, then jumped. He rapidly plummeted through the cold air, falling, falling, falling. Until...Smack! He collapsed with the concrete ground, his bones crunching upon collision.

"SHERLOCK!" John bellowed.


The memory began to fade slowly, as John began to come back to reality.

"Sherlock", John whispered.

What this man didn't know, was that the Consulting Detective was watching him, from behind a strong tree, its deep brown, strong branches billowing out from the solid trunk of the magnificent tree. The Detective wanted so badly to go up to John, apologise repeatedly for his faked suicide. But, for so long, he had been forbidden to visit John, in order to protect him from Moriarty's web.

However, this time, he might go. He didn't care about what Mycroft thought either.

Suddenly, he saw John quickly turn around. He began to walk away, his feet crunching on the gravelly path.

Before Sherlock knew it, he was running after him, his feet crashing along the ground, but not loud enough for John to hear. His heart was pounding, adrenaline taking over as he urged himself forward.

The Detective was nearly there. So close.

Then, he came to a slower pace. He reached out his hand, his breath slowing, evening out. He touched John's shoulder, and stopped in his tracks.