I stood on the rooftop of Barts, the concrete looking so far away, realizing what needed to be done.
"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note," my voice sounded strange and dry. The lie lay heavy on my lips, stenching like the corpse of Moriarty would be soon. John's face, I could see it even from up here, paled.
"Leave a note when?" his voice crackled over the phone. John knew what I meant. He just didn't want to believe it. Just like I knew he wouldn't believe anything I had just said. The corner of my mouth twitched. John...John would believe in me. He'd never stop.
"Goodbye, John."
"No. Don't-." I hung up, tossing the phone aside. It was just me now. Me and the gunmen with the bullet pointed at John's head. At Mrs. Hudson's head. At Lestrade's head. So I spread my arms, and I fell. As the world rushed closer, a memory flashed before my eyes. Her long hair shimmered in the sunlight and the blood that dripped from the slit in her throat had pooled beneath her. The case I couldn't solve. I remembered it so clearly. It had all started in my mother's kitchen, twenty some odd years ago...
"Sherlock, those were my best shoes!" Mycroft's voice was loud and angry in my right ear, and the arm he'd wrapped around my neck tightened.
"Staa-nnhnn-aghr," I tried to reply but my voice was thin and gurgly and my older brother definitely wasn't listening. The world had started spinning and blackness cloaked the edges. Then suddenly, in a burst of morning sunshine, an angel walked in, fresh from the garden, the dirt under her nails smelling of summertime.
"Mycroft! Let him go!" my mother shouted, dropping her basket and running over, pulling Mycroft off me. I dropped to the stone floor, panting and sputtering. My mother's screamed scolds were muffled by my haggard breaths and I slowly pushed myself up, trying to force more air into me. The kitchen door slamming brought me back to the real world. I looked up, realizing my brother had left, leaving just me and my mother. "Oh Sherlock, are you alright?" the blonde angel dropped down beside me, grabbing my face with her hands, twisting around to look at me.
"I'm alright, Mummy," I rasped, smiling weakly. Of course, she didn't believe me, but she smiled anyways.
"It's ok, Sherlock," she hugged me close, "Daddy will tell Mycroft not to do that again." I smiled, breathing deeply into her sweater. Chanel No. 5. Her favorite perfume. After a moment, she let me go and set about cheerily making me lunch. I climbed up onto the counter, watching the angel at her work. Her long blonde tresses swung behind her as she sashayed around the room, and she blinked her large blue eyes with thick blonde lashes. Her smile was bright white and sparkling as she flashed it at me over her shoulder. I rested my head on my arms, watching her sleepily.
I loved my mummy more than anyone in the world. More than my father, more than my dog Samson, especially more than Mycroft. The thought of Mycroft brought my mind back to the fight and why I'd borrowed his trainers in the first place. I'd needed them for an experiment. Mycroft had definitely been lying when he told our parents he'd been at a study session last night. The new scuff marks on his shoes contradicted that completely. On closer examination, I'd noticed tiny bits of gritty gravel in them, likely from stone. There was dark ash staining the white bottoms and some blue fibers had gotten caught in the ridges. By smelling the ashes, and testing flames on a few different things, I'd determined the fire was from lighting a fabric. The stone I'd matched to the wall at the end of our property. Mycroft had climbed over the wall to go to one of his teenager anti-government meetings. They'd probably burned a flag or something. I opened my mouth to tell my mother, but then I stopped. My stupid older brother was going to get in trouble anyways. It wouldn't be worth it. "There you go, love," my mother smiled, setting a plate down before me. All thoughts of revenge vanished from my mind and I picked at the food, more content to analyze it than eat it. My mother bent down, opening the fridge and sighed.
"Sherlock, dear, we're out of milk," she looked up at me, smiling with those blue eyes, "Can you run down to the shop and get some for me?" I slumped to the side, an annoyed look crossing my face. I hated shopping for milk. My mother tilted her head, the way I'd seen Mycroft do before, and I sighed in response. She handed me a five pound note, bending close. "It would be a secret mission," her whisper caressed my face. Mint toothpaste. Colgate, most likely. I smiled, clutching the note in my fist, turned and ran towards the door.