Preface:

This little monster has been gnawing away at my insides since I watched the Fall and in order to maintain whatever little sanity I have in my life, I had to…as they say…write it the eff out.

It is a bit of a fix-it and in order to do that, we have to go back, back, back in time to Series One and split ourselves off from this Canonverse into AU territory. I generally dislike non-canon characters in my fics, but as I seem to be having a problem with listening to my own preferences, here I am writing one surrounding the AU addition of a major one – Rebekah Gilbert. I just wasn't sure I could tell this particular story without her. Oh well.

Word of warning, I am still working on getting myself into the sights and sounds of Sherlock's world. Honestly, I thought Sherlock would give me the most trouble in terms of writing, but (as I mentioned earlier) of course, that means that he would end up being the easiest. Please be patient as this is my first Sherlock fic. Feedback is always read at least twice, especially brit-picking and what not. I have no beta readers, so if you're interested and qualified, msg me.

As for the story itself, this will be a behemoth multichapter bastard. So consider this your second warning: here there be a WIP.

We begin at the end and start again adding a few new faces and scenarios, but taking us through the events of a few months before TGG and through the end of Series Two and beyond. The events are not necessarily in chronological order and we do jump around a bit without warning. I'll try and be as explicit as possible. In the end it will cover a number of years.

BBC's Sherlock belongs to, first and foremost, John Watson, but also the evil criminal masterminds of Gatiss and Moffat.

The Sherlock Holmes universe belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and a host of other writers and directors who have made and remade this the greatest pairing of all time. I borrow dialogue mercilessly and without reward. Please don't sue me.

Rebekah Gilbert + future Non Canon Characters belong solely to me.

For you shippers: I will be dabbling. That's all I'm going to say for now.

Now read + review the damn thing, will you?

-SR

Part I: Before the Fall

Prologue: Such Great Heights

Word Count: 1,070

"What I'm trying to say is...I have pondered every permutation of this…this…arrangement. I have looked at it at every angle. Observed every dimension. I have never been an admirer of the romantic or even pondered the lunacy of fate. I have only known that it has been of the utmost importance not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities or favoritism. A person has always been a mere unit to me—a factor in a problem. There has never been a place for me in that world. "

Sherlock Holmes stands against the setting sun, a man of sharp angles and sharper thoughts. His hands are in the air, as if delicately conducting his last grand overture.

"How can you build anything of substance upon such quicksand?" Sherlock says each word as if he could taste them, passing them over his tongue to assess their foreign flavor.

John Watson struggles in staggered silence to right himself, one arm shaking and thick with blood, the other pressed against the warm blacktop of the roof beneath him.

"But each and every calculation has leads me to this. Can't you see, John? There can be no other way. It is the final solution. "

His deep voice hitches at the end, the final damning evidence in the case of Sherlock's Heart vs. the World. He resists for a moment, his mouth unable to form the right words or express their respective meanings. He swallows hard against the rising sentiment in his throat.

"John, I'm…I'm a fake. I invented Moriarty. The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Rebekah…In fact tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

John is stunned. "Sher-"

"It's all been a trick. Just a magic trick."

Allowing himself to be momentarily distracted by the warmth of the afternoon sun on his skin, he closes his eyes.

"This is …it's, er…It's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"

John tries to stand, but his legs give out and he lands on his knees with a grunt. White flares of light—the result of heavy blood loss—threaten to blind him.

"Sherlock, stop. St-Stop it right now," he whimpers, hating himself for being so weak. Terrible flashbacks of a similar scene, a short time ago in a differently shaded hell than this, dance nauseating rhythms in his brain.

"Don't do this," he pleads.

Sherlock reopens his eyes, his face a mask once again. He turns away from his friend, taking a step up onto the ledge of St. Bart's. Unsure of his footing, he teeters for a second. The sun is beginning to dip below the transverse lines of the London skyline, daylight quickly fading. He dips his hand into his coat. His long fingers feel along the worn ridges of the keys on his mobile, deftly locating the enter key. A single message sends across the ether: Be6. There is a soft beep before he drops the phone onto the gravel behind the parapet.

His head turns against the sun in such a way as to make him look like a trick of the light. He reaches out, arm outstretched to something just beyond the bleeding colors of the horizon.

And then he steps into the air.

And then he falls.

And somewhere John Watson is screaming.