A/N: Hello my lovely readers! I hope you have all had a great Christmas! But now we have something even more exciting to look forward to! #SherlockSeason4
As always remember to read and review, and have a great 2017!

Jim Moriarty was dead. He was gone, he had shot himself in the head. No carefully crafted tricks, no clever lies, he was gone. Sherlock had checked the corpse, it was definitely Moriarty and he was definitely not breathing. Everyone was relieved, the most dangerous criminal on the planet was dead, they had won and the world was safe once again. So why was Sherlock feeling so empty and broken?

The detective should have been happy, grateful, his arch nemesis had lost, but all he felt was sorrow and pain. And every time someone mentioned the consulting criminal's name, Sherlock felt another piece of himself die. Nothing seemed right anymore, his cases had lost their flair and catching bad guys had lost its meaning, because he knew none of them were Jim. No one could be like Jim. Like him. They were two halves of a whole, except that now Jim was dead. And he wasn't coming back.

No! Stop thinking about that! Sherlock willed his brain to stop, he wished he could just delete everything from memory, to forget that James Moriarty had ever existed. But he couldn't, not only because it was impossible but because the detective would never be able to let go of the criminal. Sherlock would sit in his leather arm chair, staring into the distance and repeating "Moriarty is dead, I won, everything is fine" over and over in his head. He told himself that he was happy, that everything was ok and that he was glad of the fact that Jim was dead...

Sherlock had always been good at lying to himself.

'I'm bored. Want to play a game? - SH'

'There's been a new string of murders, I thought you might like them - SH'

'Please answer me - SH'

'I know you're alive, answer me goddamit! - SH'

'Jim… please - SH'

He knew the texts were all hopeless, he never got any replies. Dead men couldn't text you back after all, but Sherlock couldn't help himself. He couldn't help but have a tiny flicker of hope that Jim just might answer him this time. The result was always the same: he was met with a deafening silence as he stared at the phone, almost willing it to vibrate. Sometimes he would get angry, at himself for having all these useless emotions, at Jim for killing himself and leaving him all alone and at the word for being so cruel and unfair and taking Moriarty from him. When John was out Sherlock would lock himself in his bedroom and scream into his pillow, he would destroy his experiments on purpose and break dishes, cups, cutlery anything as long it stopped him from feeling so broken.

SMASH. Sherlock threw a plate at the wall. BANG. He overturned the table, spilling glass and chemicals everywhere. He paused for a moment, panting and stared at the floor; the plate had shattered into a million pieces and the chemicals had all fused together to form an ugly shade of crimson red that trickled across the floor like blood. It looked exactly like Sherlock's heart felt at the moment.

With trembling hands, the detective reached down and picked up one of the jagged pieces of glass that lay on the floor. Still shaking, he placed the glass onto his forearm and pressed down. Pain immediately shot up his arm and black dots appeared in his vision. Sherlock bit back a cry of pain and watched as blood slowly dripped down his fingers an made a scarlet puddle on the floor.

"You shouldn't do this to yourself..." whispered a soft Irish voice.

Sherlock spun around only to find himself alone… like always. He sighed and shook his head, now he was hallucinating, he really needed to get a grip.

Behind the detective's retreating form a shadow moved, and if you had looked then you would have seen its face melt into a worried frown.

After he had somewhat ceased the bleeding, Sherlock had no more energy left. The self-proclaimed sociopath laid on his bed and finally let his tears fall. He sobbed quietly into his pillow and just let himself go. After all there was nothing left to lose, the man he loved was dead. Wait, loved? That couldn't be right could it? He didn't love Jim… right? But this time Sherlock couldn't fool himself, he loved the criminal. Much good it did him now though, Jim was dead.

The consulting detective glanced at his phone, he inhaled. Come on now, you owe it to him, his head told him. Yeah but he never answers, he's dead remember? You're only going to hurt yourself more, the rational part of his brain reminded him. Oh to hell with it, Sherlock thought, he picked up his phone and started typing.

'Jim, I know that you're dead but I still hope you get to read these words. I miss you and I want you back. I love you – SH'

Sherlok sighed and put the phone back on the dresser. He closed his eyes and hoped that his nightmares wouldn't be filled with pictures of him lying dead on the ground.

BUZZ.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, he jumped out of bed but before he could grab his phone a smooth, Irish voice made him freeze.

"Hey Sherly, did ya miss me?"

After a few moments of shocked gaping Sherlock finally unfroze and… slapped Jim across the face.

"That was for making me think you were dead, you gorgeous bastard!"

Jim only smiled and stopped the detective's loud protesting by pulling him into a passionate kiss. It was awkward because of their height difference and the taller man's inexperience but to Sherlock it felt like heaven.

As the two consultants continued kissing, Sherlock's phone lay abandoned on the dresser. But later, when Jim was asleep in Sherlock's arms, the consulting detective would open up the phone and read Moriarty's message.

'I love you too, Sherlock – JM'