Just a little Sheriarty apology fic (although, considering the way it turned out, I'll be needing an apology fic for my apology fic..)

It's a song!fic, written to the song Skinny Love by Birdy. It would add to the mood a lot if you could listen on repeat whilst you read this? Especially since I cannot include the song lyrics.

Also, a warning. Some of you may cry. I almost cried writing the damn thing.. (but that could be because I made a video in my head at the same time)

Anyway, please enjoy!

Disclaimer: All DeiDei owns is her imagination. Sherlock was not made there (even though he visits frequently!)

James Moriarty. He had always stood out to Sherlock, a man amongst idiots. It was obvious that their fates would intertwine in some way. However, it never should have been this painful. A few beautiful years together had been torn from them, like pages of a book, leaving behind splatters of ink and the paint of their memories, across crumpled and splitting paper.

Sherlock Holmes was never truly a trusting person. His parents taught him that. Their experience showed that people with gifts were often befriended, even loved, so they became an advantage, a tool of their so-called companion. He had thought, that someone with the same gifts as he, that they could be that bit more loyal. After all, James had never bullied him, nor had he been one of those despicable pitying classmates. The ones with such a pathetically sentimental look in their eyes.

He knew it wouldn't last, but this knowledge did nothing to help the crushing pain in his chest at those words.

"I'm leaving.."

The words that were accompanied by more emotion that Sherlock had ever seen in his life, all compressed into one tiny second. A million things could be happening in that second, all across the world. Someone could be taking their first breath. Someone could get that acceptance letter they had been praying for. Someone might be getting married.

But for Sherlock, that second was the moment he began crumbling.

It was one of the first times Sherlock had actually cried. He managed to get through several nights with no one noticing. Simply hours of watching in the fogged mirror as the tears rolled down his cheeks and fell to the sink, blending with the small pools of blood building up on the porcelain.

In their remaining days together, it was obvious to all that they were cracking, falling apart at the seams one stitch at a time. But the silent moments spent in each others company left a radiant aura in its wake. The thin boys got thinner, gaunt and hollow, their eyes only lighting when in the other's presence.

At times, Sherlock wasn't sure whether or not he should be glad that James was suffering with him. After all, it wasn't his fault. His mother had been forced to make the move, else she would lose her job and their only source of income. And yet, he still felt the burning in his chest, the pulsing pain in his wrists, the itchy gritty textures beneath his lids that came with too much crying.

The day he left, Sherlock felt empty. It was surprising how suddenly every trace of emotion left his body, flooding out almost as quickly as it had washed in and drowned him. It was one of those moments where Mycrofts attempts at comfort actually seemed to have meaning..

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock"

He could see that now, even if it was far too late. For the moment, he allowed himself to reminise upon the recent years. How he felt far much more than he ever had in those short years. Days made of hours made of minutes he would remember for his entire life.

When he first spoke to him as a quiet and nerdy 14 year old, he stuttered much more than he had thought possible. What if he couldn't understand him? What if he laughed? What if he wasn't interested in that sort of thing and took offence?!

Luckily, the 15 year old was quick to grip his hand with a smile and a softly muttered "yes."

They went slow, short trips out and the odd date far from where anyone could see them. It was something Sherlock had never experienced before. From then, an almost constant twitch of a smile graced his thin lips and his skin tickled from the inside as he wandered around the school halls that once brought so much dread.

The first time they kissed was as slow and as gentle as their entire relationship. Although in this case, Jim was the one to initiate. They had spent the day out on an empty field, wrapped up lightly in the autumn weather, a bag of ginger biscuits lying between them. It had surprised him, if he was honest. One second, he was chattering mindlessly about how whatever they had just learned in science would probably never be used in actual day to day life, the next, a sweet pair of sugar dusted lips were pressed cautiously against his own. It took a second for his mind to catch up with his transport, but soon enough, he was kissing back with the same smooth vigour.

It was almost three years since they had begun dating that they moved to the next step. Sherlock had recently turned 17 and had since felt more comfortable with allowing his transport to be seen in such detail. The night they had merged had been special, far better than what you have ever seen in films or read in novels. It was quiet, save for their own heavy and warm breathing, gasping and moaning as they writhed amongst each other. The semi darkness allowed the slightly stronger figure of James to glisten above him, and his satistfied smirk never once left his face.

When Sherlock first saw him again in St Barts lab, he was in shock. The crushing sensation he suddenly felt was only worsened when he realised that he and Molly were dating, just like they once had. Of course, he was not jealous, only angry. Furious infact. Problem was, there was nothing and no one to be angry at. James was allowed to move on with his life, to form romantic relationships with others, and of course, Molly wouldn't have known anything about his own past relationships. No one did.

However, the look Jim gave him showed one of recognition, equal in Sherlock's own surprise and perhaps even a little bit of the love that was once there when they were young and reckless.

Sherlock couldn't stop the smirk that appeared when he found the number beneath the petri dish.

It wasn't long before he found out what kind of man James had become. It was hardly difficult to lie to John, to Lestrade, to the entire of the British Government, that he had no idea who "Moriarty" was. Deep down, he knew that Mycroft knew. Of course Mycroft would remember that specific part of his little brother's history.

For the months that their escapade, their games, went on for, Sherlock liked to believe that the part of Jim that wanted him was still there, desiring the same physical connection they build so long ago. However, a larger part of him often crushed those dreams, with the thoughts of James being much happier now that he was past the embarrassing teenage years, that he wouldn't want the memory of history and regret in his new life.

Sherlock never regretted anything he went through for James. He still trusted him, even as time dragged on. He trusted that the bombs he had dressed John in would do nothing, that the snipers were only laser lights held by minions on the sidelines. He trusted that everything was just going to be puzzles for them. But when the drama of "Richard Brook" came about, trust became difficult.

Sherlock had never doubted his brain before. Never.

And yet, Sherlock wasn't even sure of who was real anymore. He though James had returned, but obviously this had become an imposter. Someone designed to mess with the emotions he had tried so often to keep under lock and key, the ones that only broke free in one person's presence. If James was not longer there, then who was the replacement? Was it Moriarty, Consulting Criminal? A man who flirted with Mr Holmes in the face of every danger, to whom Sherlock returned the flirtation in kind. Or was he Richard Brook, Tv presenter? A damn actor! One who shook at Sherlock's interrogation and begged! James never begged.

But then again, Sherlock had never once doubted himself. Look at how times change..

That fateful day upon the rooftop was never supposed to happen. Their time together had once been so serene.. How had they been so mutated by the society they were raised to trust, tortured so much by the people they were told to love, that the two of them had ended up so broken. Despite the connection they had felt - still felt - they had drifted apart. Actually, 'drifted' isn't quite the right word. No, they were torn apart. Ripped at the seams and at the shreds, until they barely knew what their love was. Shattered by their communities, their families, til they were shards upon the ground. Because shards can be molded into something new. It won't always be perfect, but it can take the form of whatever the breaker, the artist, wants.

Almost ten years apart. Sherlock could count the months, the days, the moments that they had been separated. He could, but he won't. James could as well, may have already, but Moriarty wouldn't do something so sentimental. It wouldn't benefit him in the same way it would to James..

James doesn't really exist anymore.

It was Moriarty now, using Jim - his Jim - as transport. Moriarty, the result of an overbearing system of social desires, the conclusion of feeling too much pressure and breaking but they continue to pile it on. Moriarty is a rebellion in a human form, and he certainly isn't James anymore.

It definitely isn't James who threatens Sherlock's only companionship.

It isn't him when Moriarty tells Sherlock to fly to a permanent destination.

And he refuses to believe it is Jim who places a gun in his own mouth and ends it.

But there is a glint in his eyes before he does it, one that lets Sherlock know everything he needs without words, that James was in there somewhere. I love you.

Because that body hasn't belonged to the only person Sherlock had ever fallen in love with for a very long time.

But that doesn't stop it from hurting..

Staring back at the still body on the floor, the one that had been twisted in his years alone, much worse that Sherlock himself had, the detective made his decision. The call was painful, but made little difference to what he already felt. The sentiment that he had tucked so far into the deepest and darkest corners of his mind palace, amongst the fictional shrine of James Moriarty that he never knew existed. His brother had warned him, all those years ago, to take heed of what those actions might lead to. Now he knew.

With his final tears and goodbyes, he held his breath and fell.

John was stood at his grave no more than a week later, all watery eyes and thick voice, gently running his hand across the smooth granite, before he turned to leave the man in peace.

In the silence of the cemetary, it is said that the voices of what once was could be heard, and were one to stop at the two stones - the ones that resided beside the tall tree and opposite the blessed angel - they would hear two soft whispering voices, deep and joyful, as they were entwined again at last.

So, are there any tears? Did I make a good apology fic for my time away?

Also, new readers! If you haven't read my [incomplete] Sheriarty fic "Got a Secret?", for which this is an apology for, feel free to do so! Lot less tragic than this! Honest!

Peace out, fickers!