Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

Those four words have haunted my life for the past two years. Every time I close my eyes I can see him standing on the ledge of the roof at Bart's, jumping from the building to greet his death.

I'm writing this account now because I feel partially responsible in my best friend's death. I never would have done any of this if it had meant that he would have died. I take that back, I would have never gotten involved in this in the first place if I had known who Sherlock Holmes really was.

It is my fault that he jumped from the building that day and committed suicide.

It is my fault that the world's greatest consulting detective is now dead.

It is my fault so therefore I must pay the consequences for my actions.

This is my note. If you read this, you know what that means.

I said once that nothing interesting ever happens to me. I lied.

Sherlock Holmes was the most interesting thing that ever happened to me and he's dead.

It's time I was too.

Sincerely,

John Hamish Watson

John didn't know why he insisted on signing his full name to the note; he just felt if he was going to leave one, he should do it right.

He pushed himself away from the desk, sighing and rubbing his hands over his face. He had fought this battle of guilt for so long, it'd be nice to finally be at peace. He knew it was cowardly what he was about to do. If he was brave, he'd live with the consequences of his actions, but he just couldn't. It was all too much.

John stood up and walked over to the window, looking down at the street below.

His life had fallen to ruin since Sherlock left.

He had tried to move on, to forget the pain of the past, but it followed him like a dark storm cloud. Every where he turned, he thought he saw Sherlock standing amongst the crowd. Every voice that drifted through the air, he thought he could hear Sherlock's mingled among them. He knew that it was unwise that he involved himself too much with Sherlock. He knew it was a mistake to get his heart involved. That was not his assignment.

John clenched his hands into fists.

The assignment. Why the hell did he have to get that bloody assignment?

Sure he was just discharged from the war and was in desperate need of money.

Sure he was willing to do whatever it took to live a comfortable, civilian life again.

But why did he agree to gain the trust of a complete stranger in order to teach the enemy, to teach Jim Moriarty, how to make him fall?

And why did the fall have to be a literal one?

If only John could have convinced him not to jump.

If only John had been brave enough to tell Sherlock the truth.

John closed his eyes, feeling his body tremble as the emotions hit him full force.

It was time to end this.

John left the note out somewhere where someone would easily happen upon it. Taking a deep breath, John left the room and walked up to the roof.

Here he was. On the roof of Bart's.

He walked over to the ledge where he had seen Sherlock standing and looked down at the sidewalk below where people milled about. They were completely oblivious to what was about to happen right above them.

"Goodbye John..."

The memory of Sherlock's voice whipped through his memory, causing him to close his eyes again.

"You can do this John...you can do this...just count to three and fall...it'll be over with soon..."

He tried to coach himself out loud, hoping that it would help him fall already.

He was ready to die.

He was ready to be judged for what he did.

He was ready to take the fall.


He was a consulting detective. A famous one at that. So why was it so bloody hard to find one person? Sherlock sighed in frustration after checking out the address Mycroft had given him. When Mycroft had told Sherlock that it was time for him to go back to London, the first thought on his mind concerned John. He had missed him these last two years. He felt terrible for making John think that he was dead, but he didn't want Moriarty's men to hurt him. He cared too much about him to let that happen.

Care. There was that word again. Sherlock found himself caring more and more for John each and every time he thought about him. He was a sociopath. Sociopaths shouldn't feel care toward another human being. But here Sherlock was, caring for John. It was an odd sensation for Sherlock, but one that he found himself growing used to with every passing hour.

But where was John?

Sherlock dug out his phone as he walked, dialing Mycroft's number.

"Mycroft Holmes speaking."

"Mycroft, where is John? I went to his flat and he's not there."

"Maybe he's out socializing. He's had two years away from you. He's probably moved on with his life and is happy now."

Sherlock scowled as he walked through the crowd with the phone to his ear. Sure it had been two years, but John couldn't forget him that easily, could he?

"I still want to see him again."

"Patience baby brother. Wait for him to turn back up at the flat."

"I don't have time for patience."

Sherlock hadn't watched where he was wandering and soon found himself walking in the direction of Bart's.

Mycroft sighs on the other end of the line.

"Remember Sherlock, caring is not an advantage. You'll only end up getting hurt."

"Too late," he thought to himself as he paused in his walk.

By this point he was standing right outside Bart's, in the exact spot where he had pretended to be dead. Sherlock sighed at the memories that flooded back through him. He had felt John touch his wrist to check for a pulse. It took all he had in him to not open his eyes and tell him that he was alive; that he was just going away for a little bit.

"Look Mycroft, I appreciate your concern..." Sherlock looked upward toward the roof as he talked, "...but I really think I'm..."

As Sherlock looked up, he sees that there is a faint shadow of a person standing on the ledge. Even though Sherlock can't get a good view of the person's face from where he stood, he recognized the familiar silhouette of the body against the blue sky. It was John.

"I'm going to have to call you back Mycroft."

He immediately hung up his phone and pushed his way into Bart's, running up the stairs.

"No John. Don't jump. I'm alive. I'm here."

Sherlock allowed these thoughts to consume his mind as he ran up the stairs as fast as he could. He just hoped that he wouldn't be too late.