Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant actor with an amazing memory. Not much else. Total ass might be included, if his peers are to be believed. Extremely introverted high-functioning sociopath is what he would say. In short, Sherlock did not enjoy human interactions. Unless the other human was dead, that is. He also did not enjoy the day-to-day experience of living. It was so boring, so predictable. He just wanted it to end.

The drugs helped enormously, at least to alleviate the monogamy. The acting helped him lie to Mycroft as well, not that brother dear had much time for him anymore, what with his promotion of becoming the British government. Sherlock was still in his early twenties, and already viewed the world through the eyes of a weary ninety-year-old. He saw no reason to keep on living except that dying required a level of commitment that he honestly did not feel like at the current time.

Absolutely nothing was interesting to the manically depressed man. That was, until a large blue police call box materialized in the living room of his shabby apartment. Sherlock was poised with the needle on his arm, but was honestly too stunned to continue. Frowning, he waited for his brain to come up with a logical explanation. There were no drugs in his system as of yet, he was fairly certain, which left only a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and malnutrition.

Sherlock decided to ignore the box – but perhaps not continue his injection – until someone burst out of the opposite side of it, looking around eagerly. He was dressed in a tweed suit and a bowtie. His view obstructed partially by the box, Sherlock watched as the man turned around in a full circle and, catching a glimpse of him, practically bounced over to him.

"Hello," he said in a very chirpy voice, "I'm the Doctor, and you are brilliant."

"Am I?" Sherlock asked in return, seriously considering calling Mycroft to take him to a hospital.

"Yes! You're Sherlock Holmes! The great detective…" The Doctor trailed off, "Who's doing drugs."

"Is there a problem with that?"

"Well, sort of," the man said, looking a little miffed "Mostly because if you keep on doing that you won't go off to become the brilliant detective that history says you should be."

"And you know what history dictates?"

"Well, yeah, I'm the Doctor."

"A doctor of what, exactly?"

"Look," the man said, plopping himself down on the sofa next to him, "I have a time machine, her name's the TARDIS, and we've been to a lot of different places together. In more than a few of those, you're a brilliant and famed detective. Now, in this timeline, you're supposed to move out of this flat in approximately three years, but that won't happen unless you get out and meet your Watson."

"I feel compelled to mention that approximately nothing you just said made sense."

"You're on the wrong path in time. If I don't intercede, a fixed point in history will be missed and bad things will happen. You need to stop the drugs and meet the doctor."

"I thought you were doctor."

The man chuckled to himself, "Well, not me, the other doctor. Doctor John Watson. Your Watson."

"How exactly is he 'my Watson'?"

The Doctor pushed himself up from the seat and started pacing, "The version of Doctor Watson that's supposed to solve cases with you, obviously."

Sherlock stared over steepled fingers.

"Look," the Doctor said quietly, "I know that you're in a bad place right now, but I need you to believe me. You need to go to St. Bart's Hospital and meet John Watson. It's a fixed point that has to happen."

When it was obvious that the younger man didn't believe him, the Doctor sighed and grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet.

"Come on," he said, "We're going on a trip to your future."

XXX

They materialized in a graveyard, of all places.

"Too small to physically contain the amount of mass inside of its dimensions," the Doctor was muttering, "That's a first."

"Why am I here?" Sherlock drawled, looking around.

"That," the Doctor said, pointing at a man and a woman who stood in front of a grave.

"Who are they?"

"Doctor Watson and Mrs. Hudson."

"Who are they to me?"

"Your best and only friend and your landlady."

"Whose grave?"

"Yours."

Sherlock turned to look at the Doctor, an eyebrow raised.

"I suggest that in future, when trying to convince someone to follow a timeline that they are not currently on, you avoid telling them that it will cause your death."

"No, no, no," the Doctor said, waving his hands around for emphasis, "This is another fixed point. You were going to die no matter what. But they, your friends, won't be there, grieving for you, if you don't meet John."

"And that's supposed to be a bad thing? Caring is not an advantage."

"There are two fixed points in this whole thing," the Doctor continued, ignoring him, "Your meeting John and your death. If you continued without my intrusion, you'd never meet the doctor and you'd die alone from a drug overdose. My interference was necessary for the fixed points to happen. I already explained to you about the nature of time, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, "You described it as 'wibbly'."

"And wobbly, but that's beside the point. That man there, John Watson, is your best friend, and trust me when I say that you will not want to miss out on this."

With that, the Doctor gently pushed Sherlock forward, just enough for him to be able to hear the short man's words without being seen.

"You told me once," John was saying, blinking rapidly, "That you weren't a hero. Um…"

Sherlock frowned. Why was this man so upset?

"There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human… human being, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so…"

The man stepped forward and placed his hand on the headstone, and Sherlock found a strange stinging sensation in his eyes as he caught the next words.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

Sherlock's stomach clenched as the man walked away, clearly trying not to cry. He'd never had a friend, not really, and so how close would he and this stranger have had to have gotten to cause such a reaction? Sherlock was about to turn away, when suddenly John turned, walking purposefully back to the grave.

"One more thing, one more miracle for me, Sherlock," he said, voice dangerously close to breaking, "Don't be… dead. Would you do- just for me… just stop it. Stop this."

With that, the stranger turned and left with quick and purposeful strides, leaving Sherlock behind in confusion. He was aware of the Doctor's presence behind him before he spoke.

"You need that to happen. You need the friendship that you two share."

"Why would I want this to happen?" Sherlock asked, turning around and forcing his voice to be steady, "Why would I purposefully want to befriend this man if I knew that it would only cause him pain?"

"Because," the Doctor said slowly, "Less than two years ago Dr. Watson returned from a tour in Afghanistan, in which he was shot in the left shoulder and given a large dose of PTSD. In the following weeks he stopped eating, stopped sleeping, lost all forms of contact with the outside world and, if he doesn't meet you, he will die."

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose and shifted from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable, "Go on, how do I change the future, then? How do I make my timeline fit with the fixed events?"

The Doctor smiled, "Come with me."

XXX

"Now," the Doctor said as he and Sherlock followed John Watson down the street, "What can you deduce from him?"

"He's limping."

"And?"

"You said he was shot in the shoulder, not the leg, so it's psychosomatic."

"Which means?"

"Which means he has a therapist, probably."

"Is that all?"

Sherlock glanced at him in exasperation, "What else do you want me to see?"

The Doctor frowned, obviously puzzled by this, "You're Sherlock Holmes, the man who sees everything. Observes everything. You're supposed to be able to unravel people's entire life stories in a matter of seconds. Make a deduction!"

"I don't know," Sherlock said angrily, "I act as if I know things when usually I just pay attention and remember."

The Doctor was silent for a long time, obviously thinking things through. His frown grew more pronounced, and he stopped the younger man with a hand on his arm.

"So what you're saying is that you don't actually deduce things?"

"I do a bit, my brother taught me, but mostly I just piece together bits of information that most people would have forgotten. I have a good memory."

"Ah," the Doctor said slowly, running a hand down his face, "That complicates things a bit."

"But surely you already knew that. You said you knew my future."

"History is based on people's perspectives, not always facts. Obviously, you make people believe that you can figure these things out."

"How?"

"I don't know, but I have an idea."

XXX

"You said you remember things," the Doctor said as he and Sherlock peered into the science lab of St. Bart's Hospital, "Would you remember the specifics of a conversation in a few years?"

"Probably."

"Then pay attention. You've got about eighteen months to memorise in less than a day, starting now."

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the Sherlock inside the room asked as he texted on John's phone.

"Now, this is what you're typing on the phone…"

XXX

Sherlock sat leaning against the TARDIS, the Doctor beside him. Neither of them spoke. The soon-to-be detective was trying to absorb all that he had seen and store it away in his mind palace. The Doctor was trying to come to terms with the fact that this version of reality's Sherlock Holmes wasn't quite as brilliant as the Doctor felt he should be. Eventually, Sherlock broke the silence.

"What do I have to do?"

"Start with Lestrade."

"How will I know if I'm on the right path?"

"I'll check in from time to time."

"Will John be okay after my death?"

"Not really."

"But it can't be helped?"

"No."

Silence again. Then, "In the other worlds, I can actually deduce like my brother does, can't I?"

"Yes."

"And that's not a possibility in this reality."

"No."

"Well, then I must be off, Doctor."

"I'll pop in after your first case solved. We'll have tea."

"Sounds mundane."

"You would say that."

"Good to know."

XXX

On the 29th of January, Sherlock met John as planned. He baffled the doctor with his "deductions" and convinced him to move in. After winking and walking out the door, Sherlock wondered how many deductions he'd have to make to sustain the falsehood. The Doctor had only shown him the cases and a few key situations, after all.

The next day, they moved into a flat owned by Mrs. Hudson, who Sherlock had worked for just two weeks after his first encounter with the Doctor. With John, Sherlock solved a case and held up the role he had set for himself. He loved the acting, for one thing – never boring – but also the fawning adoration that John presented. It made him feel proud, something that he hadn't had much experience with. However, it also made him feel guilty. He dreaded all the times between cases, when he had no idea how to deduce anything, and so made up for it by playing the violin obnoxiously loud, evicting John from the flat, and being as socially unethical as he could be.

After only two weeks, Sherlock thought that he should have asked the Doctor about the nature of his and John's relationship. It seemed to the detective that they were much too close to be "just friends" as he believed the saying went. But then, the Doctor would have told him if they became a couple, right?

To make matters worse, a so-called "fan" of his started sending him messages. It started simply, only the day after "A Study in Pink" as John had dubbed the case, when a blogger titled "Anonymous" sent him a code that read "SHERLOCK I AM WATCHING YOU." Disconcerting, to be sure, but Sherlock guessed immediately who it was. As such, there was no need to get upset. He still had a good eighteen months before Moriarty became a big problem.

When March rolled around and Sherlock took the case of an old school colleague, he thanked whatever Gods sat in the sky that he had been able to deduce a few things in his previous years. Sebastian Wilkes praised him just enough so that John believed he was a genius in university whilst still being an ass. Even after a month of living with John, Sherlock had become much more comfortable with not only remembering the deductions he had heard himself say, but also adding a little flourish here and there of his own.

Then, the old Carl Powers case came up again, thanks be to Moriarty, and Sherlock started to realize that he was too invested for his own good. The Doctor helped him figure out a few of the coded messages left to him from his "greatest fan", only a few of which were actually left on his blog. The rest were more sinister, less cryptic. "Sherlock, I know your secret." "Sherlock, you little liar." "Sherlock, your world will crumble around you."

In the pool, Sherlock could barely breathe. The Doctor had not shown him this. Possibly he hadn't known about it, possibly he had left it out on purpose. Even with his acting skills, Sherlock couldn't stop the gun from shaking in his hands. He was able to pull off the bluff, waving around the cabby's fake revolver as if it could actually do damage. Throughout the entire situation, playing it by ear, Sherlock kept himself sane with the knowledge that neither he nor John could die here, because he had seen their future.

That didn't stop the genuine fear that curled around his stomach as he slowly lowered the gun to point at the bomb, wondering how serious an injury would have to take place for the Doctor to count this as a "key situation".

Months drew on and Sherlock found that the Doctor had slipped up again. He had obviously forgotten to show him the case that took place in the beginning of August, and as such Sherlock was completely out of his depth. He stood in front of the body of a 45-year-old man who had been shoved in the boot of a car, and didn't have a clue about what to say. He spewed out a few figures and said he had theories, but later, reading John's blog, it was obvious that he wasn't good enough. The next time he saw the Doctor, he ranted for a full two hours.

It was less than a year in his association with John and Sherlock was getting scared. He went over all the future cases with the Doctor, but every time he asked about Moriarty, the strange man refused to say anything. Still, the threats continued, and still Sherlock pretended to be a genius. Nothing really fell apart until September, when Irene Adler entered the scene.

Sherlock had been able to fool everyone he had come across thus far, even Mycroft, but The Woman was different. He knew that she could see right through him. He played out the scenario exactly as he remembered, but the moment she disappeared and the Doctor showed up, he knew that his suspicions were correct.

They worked through the next few months piece by piece, and by the time he was in Pakistan, he knew exactly what to do. Things were under control again. At least, he thought so.

Only four days later and he was running through a dark forest, convinced that a hound from hell was in hot pursuit and hungry for his blood. The hallucinations had been fun – he even thought he'd seen the TARDIS – but it had all been okay. What worried him more than John's PTSD attack and the fact that he'd lost emotional control was that Moriarty was strangely silent. Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming. The fact that the Doctor hadn't turned up in over a month did nothing to calm his suspicions.

The seventeen-month mark hit. Moriarty pulled his triple-crime. Sherlock followed his speech in the trial to the world, but the scene with the reporter was completely foreign to him. Maybe, if he'd known what to say, things would have been different. He knew he shouldn't have. Hindsight and all that. Then the US Ambassador's children had to go and get themselves kidnapped, and inconvenience that shoved Sherlock's life that much closer to the breaking point. Lestrade came to arrest him and he ran away with John, all the while making sure to enforce the idea that he was real in John's head.

In the reporter's flat, when Moriarty walked in, Sherlock felt his world starting to collapse. Then, when they said that Richard Brook was the real version of the criminal mastermind, he was baffled. This was not what was supposed to happen. Moriarty was supposed to say that he knew about the Doctor, that he knew Sherlock was a fake because he was friends with a time-travelling alien. It was what he had figured out in recent months, and while Sherlock had no idea how the other man had figured out he was sure that he knew. So why this? Why take this path?

Obvious, you idiot. No one would believe a man babbling on about aliens, even though they both knew it was the truth. There John was, defending Sherlock and all the detective could do was stare. Even as the scene unfolded, the future events unravelled in Sherlock's eyes. He finally understood why the Doctor never let him see how he ended up in that grave. He finally understood why he had to die. Sherlock Holmes might not have been the genius that John thought he was, but he was still no fool. The final problem. How poetic.

He was pacing, "That's what you do when you sell a big lie. You wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable."

But he can't say it. He can't say that the lie is Richard Brook, not that he's a fake. How many times, as his friendship with John grew, had he wanted to tell him the truth? He had become the grand detective that he was in John's eyes, and now, how could he say any different? Richard Brook was a fake, but so was Sherlock Holmes.

Even on the rooftop, they never said what needed to be said. Moriarty never mentioned aliens or time travel or any of it. But they knew, they both knew what the truth was, and what had to happen.

"It turns out you're ordinary, just like all of them."

That's as close as they can get. It's the undeniable truth, that's just slightly false.

"Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get ya?"

Right, because he'd have more trouble believing in a mastermind than in an alien. Then there's the code, which he remembers but doesn't understand. Moriarty knows this. But it's still Sherlock's mistake.

"I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."

He seems genuinely crushed. So Moriarty isn't entirely stable either. Neither of them are all that they're cracked up to be. Not as brilliant as John makes them out to be.

"You always want everything to be clever."

True enough. He's been pretending to be clever for a few years, now. Sherlock's grasping at straws that he doesn't need. His time is up and they both know it. But Sherlock needs to make sure that John's standing at his grave, not lying in the ground beside him.

"Your friends will die if you don't."

That's it. This is all he can do. He's standing on the ledge, and his memory gives him nothing. Sherlock Holmes was never the brilliant deducing machine. He was an actor with powers of recollection that cannot serve him now. So he has to put his other skills to use. It may be the final problem, but his final act and his last bow will be what saves John's life. He takes a deep breath, and starts laughing.

He goads. He teases. He makes logic from nothing and, in the end, it works.

"You're me. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you."

It was what he was aiming for, but it still comes as a shock. The shot goes off quickly, and Sherlock closes his eyes even as he stumbles back. The stage is set. Now he can die. Suddenly, it's all too real. The Doctor isn't there. He doesn't know if this is the right path. What if he just condemned his friends to die?

He sees the cab and his heart slams around his knees.

"John."

"Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

"No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask."

He doesn't need to act here. He's genuinely terrified and for once he lets it show.

"Please."

"Where?"

"Stop there."

"Sherlock…"

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

"Oh, God."

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

"What's going on?"

"An apology."

He wants to say he's sorry for the pain he's going to cause, but suddenly it's all too much. He needs to tell John the truth. He owes him that much.

"It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me."

It's not enough to just be a fraud. He needs to sell this.

"I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this?"

Good old John, his truest friend to the last. Sherlock wishes that he was less gullible, or more so. Anything to make him listen.

"I'm a fake."

And with that, everything is broken. Because it's true. And John still won't believe him, he realises, because he said as much at his grave.

"Sherlock."

"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, Sherlock, shut up, 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."

And Sherlock laughed, because finally, now that he's telling the truth, John won't listen to him. Why did this have to be so hard? He wants to tell him everything, but he also needs John to believe him, so he comes up with a simpler story.

"I researched you," which is not entirely false, "Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. It's a magic trick."

And it is. But John didn't listen.

"No, alright stop it now."

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

"Alright."

Sherlock's falling apart.

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

"Do what?"

Oh, God, he's not ready for this.

"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-"

But it's too late. Sherlock doesn't have a choice. He looks up, and sees a blue box on a rooftop in the distance. He sees a strange man who has his hands in his pockets and eyes that are too old for his face. The Doctor inclines his head slightly, tears threatening to fall, and that's all that Sherlock needs.

He falls.

For a moment, he is weightless, as illogical as that sounds.

And then everything goes dark.

XXX

John Watson stood at his friend's grave, being watched by three pairs of eyes. Two belonged to an alien and a future detective, as one tried to tell the other that the world will be a better place this way. The third belonged to the same alien, who was older, and sadder, who had just watched Sherlock Holmes fall. He watched John break down, and Sherlock do the same. He turned and walked back into the TARDIS. He needed to think.

She knew where to take him, his wonderful time machine. She knew exactly where he needed to go. River was waiting for him as he walked into the hotel bar. He sat down across from her, and he knew that she can tell that something's wrong.

"How's Amy and Rory?" she asked.

"Good, good. Off doing the marriage thing."

"But that's not what's bothering you."

"No. There's a thing, with a famous detective, that I might just have messed up completely."

"The Sherlock Holmes business, is it?"

"What if it could've been different?"

"You said yourself that their meeting and his death were fixed points in time. Nothing could have changed there."

"But he always comes back! In all the other situations he comes back! So where did I go wrong?"

River leaned forward. "You think that the fixed point is John's belief that Sherlock is dead, not Sherlock's death in itself?"

The Doctor ran a hand over his face. "I don't know, I don't know. It didn't go the way I planned."

"Then I'll tell you what you have to do," River said, taking his hand and giving him a coy smile, "Go back, however far you have to, and fix it."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is."

"Well," the Doctor said, standing and straightening his bowtie, "Looks like I've got work to do."

"Have fun, Sweetie," she smiles as he walks out. "And don't forget the spoilers."