A/N: Because I really, really needed to find out about this and couldn't find any story that tackled that problem. So for the first time ever, after about 6 years (and at least 8 different fandoms) of loving other people's stories, but being too much of a chicken to write one myself, I finally picked up the pen. Hope it's alright. Reviews would make my day :)

Disclaimer: If I had any rights, I'd probably be sitting somewhere next to Moffat and Gatiss on a cloud, laughing at the mere mortals beneath. As it is: No, nothing mine, except for the love, gratfulness and admiration for ACD and his two Trolls

John Watson's Final Problem

"It's all true." "The newspapers were right all along" "I'm a fake." "I researched you." "It's a trick. Just a magic trick." The fall. The blood. "I'm a fake, John." "I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you." "A fake!" "Good Bye, John." Fall. Blood.

The thoughts were violently spinning around in his head, chasing each other.

John had tried so hard to think of something else. Anything else, but he couldn't. Of course he couldn't. He knew it was futile, trying to ban the pictures from his head, those words. They would come back for him. Return to torture.

So he might as well give in, let them circle until they would drop from the sky like wounded birds, drop like...

Oh God, how would he ever get out of this? Why was this so damn hard? He had seen men die before, good men. People he had cared about, had considered his friends. It was never easy, he knew, but this... it shouldn't be like this. Not so damn hard. This was just...

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you."

Maybe it was that. That he couldn't even be sure that he had lost a friend at all. That maybe he had never had one. Was it possible? Was it possible that Sherlock had used him from the start? That all the adventures, all the laughs, all the good times they had shared, had been staged? Had never been real.

His heart ached at the thought and all his instincts cried 'NO' at him, but then again, Sherlock Holmes had always laughed about emotions and instincts. Cool logic was all that mattered, all that counted.

"Then I'll chose not to make that mistake"

Had he really never cared about anyone but himself? Had he ever actually considered himself John's friend? He had said so. But then, how much was his word worth now?

John continued to stare into the nothingness within the walls of 221B.

Did it even matter? Well, of course it did, but if he had no way to figure it out? No way to know whether his guts were right or Sherlock's last words true.

Would it matter then?

In the end he only had two options, didn't he?

Go by Sherlock's word and tell everybody that he had been a fraud or don't, stick up for his friend and defy a dying man's last wish. The first option felt like the worst kind of deceit and the second would surely be deceit in Sherlock's eyes.

It was feelings against words, wasn't it? Emotions versus thoughts.

How could he possibly figure it out? Sherlock would make a deduction, lay the facts out in front of him like a road map and find the right way easily. Why doubt if you've got evidence.

But John wasn't Sherlock.

"Go on then. You know my methods. Apply them!"

You know I can't. I never could.

"A second opinion. It's very useful to me."

Alright. You did lie, didn't you? Either from the moment we met or on top of that bloody roof.

"Good. Go on."

You jumped. Why did you jump? Why did you leave me?

"Not the right questions, John."

What did Moriarty do to you? Did he manage to break you? But how?

"Deduction, John, go back to the deduction."

How could you do this to me? To us? Everybody?

"John, focus! Now!"

Why did you leave me, Sherlock? Why did you leave me behind? All alone?

"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored!"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

John's eyes snapped open.

No! No, no,no, No!

Maybe he didn't know the whole truth yet, maybe he never would. But this... this wasn't it.

Sherlock Holmes was not Moriarty!

This was a truth John was more certain of than of anything else in the world.

Moriarty had been evil. Someone who let people suffer just for the sake of it. Who had deceived, played people, pulled strings to kill, to let bleed, to let burn.

Yes, Sherlock would deceive people, had done so many times. Deceived even John. Told half-truths, hadn't trusted John where he should have.

And he had played people. In fact was a master at it. He could get anybody to tell him everything. Only did it when he was interested in his opposite, which wasn't often, but oh, he could. And oh, he did.

And Sherlock had hurt people, countless ones, again, John included. And Molly, poor, poor Molly. He had loved to piss off people. Make them feel inferior.

Hell, he had stepped on pretty much every toe in the entire force.

So why, John Watson, are you so convinced that they aren't one and the same, when they are so alike? What's your theory?

Because they are not! They are just not!

Because a man is not only his actions, but his motives also.

Moriarty was evil because every fibre in him wanted to hurt, to destroy, to cause despair, to burn.

And Sherlock... Yes, sometimes people got hurt, but he never had wanted them to. Sherlock wanted to protect, to save, to solve the riddle, yes, but not only for his own sake. He wanted to because it was the right thing to do.

He might not have been a hero, maybe. But a great man he was and a good one, too.

For a while John just sat there, in his chair, in a flat that seemed wrong now, going through and through this over and over again looking for the catch, the detail he had missed. He couldn't find it.

Nothing was right yet.

His throat burnt and his heart still ached, but just a tiny something in him was a tiny bit brighter, felt a little bit more right.

Sitting, thinking, waiting, sitting, thinking,...sitting, think...

"John?"

"Sherlock?"

"I'm here John."

"But I saw you. You, you were..."

"I know. I'm sorry, John, I really am. I never wanted to leave you. Do you believe me?"

"I... I do."

"Good."

"Sherlock? Am I right? That you... that you are not Moriarty?"

"Well, it was certainly a good deduction."

"But how do I know, that it's right?"

"Check. If you are fear that the logic might be faulty, get some proof. That's what I would do"

"You asked me to tell them... But I won't. I can't. Is that okay?"

"You know I've always trusted you. You'll need to trust yourself again now. Get your proof if you need it."

"I miss you Sherlock. Please come back."

"I miss you, too, John. I really do."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Mike! Mike, wait!"

"John, what are you doing here? I've heard what happened. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. No. never mind that. Mike, I need to ask you something. Have you got a minute?"

"Sure, mate. What is it? If I can help with anything... Are you sure, you're alright?"

"I'm fine. I just... Listen, do you remember the first day we met, after I returned to London, I mean. The day you introduced me to... you know..."

"Sure I remember. John, are you sure you want... I mean, it must..."

"Yes! I'm sure! Sorry, I... I didn't mean to... please... When we met, when you introduced me to... Sherlock, had you told him about me? Mention me? My name? Anything? Please, try to remember. It's important."

"Why, I didn't. I think I told you that day, didn't I? And anyway, I couldn't have, could I? We went to St. Bart's straight after lunch break, remember? And before that I didn't even know you were in town. Why do you ask?"

"Doesn't matter. Well, it does... Never mind. Thank you"

"You sure I can't... Shall I take you home?"

"No Mike, I'll be fine. Really. Sorry, need to go. I see you later!"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Of course he wasn't fine. Far from it. Still, the tiny, bright something inside John grew a just tiny bit bigger and a little bit brighter.