John and Sherlock were struggling to find a way to break the news to, well, everyone. They had finally decided on simply being openly affectionate and letting everyone make their assumptions. It was an overcast Wednesday and the couple were at Bart's, Sherlock peering into a microscope, John dissecting a dinner jacket, which was found on a crime scene.
"Right so what good'll this do?" The doctor asked, snipping at a sleeve.
"I have a suspicion the man to whom that jacket belonged hid something inside it. Not anywhere obvious like an inside pocket, but something more secretive. It was custom made, so he could have easily asked the fitter to make a secret compartment."
"Ok but what do you think he hid inside it?"
"Well, the police would probably think it a suicide note, but I'm almost positive this was murder. Since this happened at the party to which he wore that jacket, he obviously wanted someone to find it. Now, the only question is how did he know he was going to be mur- AH! He was threatened!" Sherlock's eyes lit up with understanding and he urged John to keep cutting, but more carefully.
"So you're saying the note, supposing there is one, may give us some indication as to who the killer was?"
John asked, still focusing on his work.
"That's exactly what I'm saying." The minutes passed with the men working, until finally, "Got it! John smiled ad held up a folded piece of paper. "Yes John! Thank you!" Sherlock leave John a peck in the cheek and unfolded the letter. He read, John peering over his shoulder.
This one's for you, Johnny boy. Oh, surprised are we? Well, I just wanted to make a few things clear. First of all, no one died and this case is a waste of your time. Tee hee, sorry boys! I set the whole thing up to make it harder for you to get this little, warning. Second of all, Johnny, keep your infected hands OFF my consulting detective. He's mine. Remember, I can burn the heart out of you both whenever I find it necessary. And the last bit I think you little bastards ought to know. I. Am. Dead.
The two looked at each other, confused and, frankly, a bit frightened. Finally, John broke the intense silence. "But what does he mean, I am dead?" "He commit suicide. Right before I feigned my own death, he shot himself. I had of course assumed it was a stunt, but this proves he actually did it." Sherlock was now running his hands through his curls and pacing the room. "Well how can we be sure he's actually dead? He could've just written this to make us think he's dead. It's just, why does he want us to think he's dead? It wouldn't matter either way. You said yourself he's got men who'll see to it that his business is carried out. Really what difference does it make?" John was utterly perplexed. How could Sherlock be so sure Moriarty was actually dead? But he was given an answer almost immediately. "It is that fact exactly. We both know how he is. He enjoys making things difficult and confusing. If he wanted to do so here he would have left us in the dark about wether he was alive or dead. It is the fraction that he told us, straightforward that he is dead that confirms it is the truth." They looked at each other intently, both knowing what had to happen but neither of them wishing to say it. Knowing Moriarty, this was not just a warming, it was a direct threat. They weren't about to give Sherlock straight to Moriarty, but they would both be in danger if they continued like this. They had to separate. "Sherlock, I. I don't know if I can. Now that I know what it's like to have you, I can't lose you. Not again." John's voice was weak and his eyes were glassy, but he spoke in a tone that tone that indicated he would do whatever he had to to stay with the man he loved.
"John, I'm sorry. I don't want to either, you know that. But we have to. Just until this is over." he really did sound sorry. "How can you be so bloody calm, Sherlock? I would go mad without you! I already spent three years, madly in love with you, believing you were dead!" He pounded his fists against the taller man's chest. "I fucking LOVE you Sherlock Holmes! I can't." and he was sobbing into Sherlock's chest as the detective pressed his lips against his sandy head. "John. We can do this. We can stay in touch through Mycroft and devise a plan. If we do this properly, it could take a few months sat the most. Please John. I'd rather have it this way, terrible as it is, than to lose you to that insane murderer." he lifted John's chin with his fingers and planted a kiss on his nose. We can do this, babe. Why don't we go home and have some wine and mind-blowing sex, hm?" He kissed John on the lips this time, looped his arm through his lover's, and steered them out of the room. Although they were content for now, this was not a good ending to the day and, despite the fact that they both pushed it to urge backs of their minds, they would soon have to leave one another.