Almost a year had passed but the memory of John was still strong in Sherlock's mind. Every day, the event replayed in his head, distracting him from whatever case he had going.
Since the death of his only best friend, Sherlock's life had gone downhill. He found it hard to concentrate on the find details, took up smoking again and parted further and further away from the very few friends he had remaining. He knew Molly often came over to talk about his progress with Mrs Hudson, but he never listened to what was being said when she was trying to talk to him. Even Anderson had come round once to pay his respects, but Sherlock quickly closed the door on him.
"Mrs Hudson, I do wish you'd stop inviting people over. Don't you get it? I just don't want to talk. I'm done talking!" He shouted, leaving Mrs Hudson feeling fragile and unhelpful.
"But they're your friends dear. Surel-"
"I don't have friends." Sherlock responded quickly before leaving for his room.
Mrs Hudson was sure she heard him add a comment as he left, "I only had one."
No one seemed to understand, but then again, no one ever did. Sherlock knew that people often felt sad after a love one died, but he had never felt it himself, until now. He often found himself thinking, would he feel the same if Mycroft or Mummy was to die? But he knew the answer almost straight away. Not even his own mother could show him the adoration that John showed him daily.
Another Sunday, just another day spent of Sherlock lead on the sofa. Sometimes he turned the television on, but soon turned it off and the house fell back into the deathly silence.
Sherlock didn't know what to feel. He wasn't used to feelings, before it had always been so simple, solve a crime, and get unneeded attention, read John's ridiculous blogs, then onto the new crime.
Sherlock complained about being bored almost all the time when John was around, but usually he never really was, sometimes he liked being alone with John with nothing else to do but listen to him talk. Sherlock often felt bad that he could never tell John how much he meant to him, how much Sherlock actually listened to him, just to hear his voice. But now it wasn't there. It was silent all the time, now it really was boring. And Sherlock only had himself to blame.
Sherlock had been planning how to get rid of Moriarty for months; he had the perfect plan in his head. Of course he could never tell John his plans, he wouldn't agree, he wouldn't have wanted Sherlock to risk his life, but he had to. Sherlock knew that if Moriarty was to die, he would have to, too. But obviously Sherlock had planned otherwise, a trick, magic people would call it, but it would end Moriarty's games forever. He would fade away after the great trick, make people believe he was dead, before coming back and spreading the truth. Sherlock knew John would be angry at him, very angry, probably for weeks and weeks, but it had to be done.
The great day was approaching. Everything was going to plan, Moriarty was falling for Sherlock's tricks, and Sherlock was acting accordingly.
Nobody but Sherlock knew was about to occur on the roof of St. Barts, but they soon would. He knew the media would thrive off a story like this, "Suicide of fake genius." the Sun would most definitely make it front page news.
The day was set and the text was sent.
"Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. –SH"
"ps. Got something of yours you might want back."
Sherlock went over his plan in his head. There was no way it could fail. Within half an hour the games would be over. He sent John away, he didn't want him getting hurt or seeing what was going to happen. Molly would call John telling him Mrs Hudson had been hurt, as a distraction so he and Moriarty could have some 'time alone'. Sherlock knew he would have to hurt John to get him to leave, but it hurt Sherlock to. Seeing John unhappy with him always made him a little sad, but this time, it was going to be worth it. Surely the country was more important than how John felt towards him.
His phone bleeped.
"I'm waiting... JM"
It was time.
Everything was going to plan. Perfect, Sherlock thought to himself. He just wanted to laugh, so he did. What did he care what Moriarty would think, he would be dead soon.
Of course Sherlock was a little disappointed he would have less work to do with Moriarty gone, in fact, he was guaranteed to get incredibly 'bored', but it was worth it. He had to prove he was better than Moriarty. And this was the final test, and he was bound to ace it.
Moriarty drabbled on, and on about how boring life is… the same old song, 'staying alive'. Sherlock looked at the clock on his phone, it was almost time.
Time went on, and on. Moriarty was still talking. Sherlock looked at the time again. Why was he talking so much? It needed to happen soon, or it wouldn't happen at all.
Finally Moriarty took the gun from his pocket and pointed it at his own head.
Perfect. Sherlock counted down in his head. Three… Two… One…
Nothing.
Moriarty moved his hand. And instead, pointed the gun at Sherlock.
"Thought you had it all planned did you? Thought I would fall for your little plan? What do you take me for Sherlock? Me, you, we're the same. Surely you knew it would come to this? Or have I beaten you, again?"
"Again? You never beat me in the first place."
"No? Then why am I still here? You could have had done with me in the pool, but you let me go.
I must say, I am disappointed in you Sherlock. I thought you were different, but you're just the same. The same as all the other little pathetic humans out there.
Well, I've had fun Sherlock, I really have. Thank you."
Moriarty pointed the gun at Sherlock.
Sherlock panicked, he didn't know what to do, and nothing had gone to plan. Everything was a waste. The pain he had caused his friend, just waste. He looked around, his hands held up, he didn't want to be defeated. He could jump, he thought. Follow through the second part of his plan, jump and pretend to be dead, like it was all set up to do. But Moriarty would know.
The door on the roof of St. Bart's swung open.
"SHERLOCK!"
John? What was he doing here. No. He can't be here.
Moriarty laughed. "I really should get a live in one. They're so loyal!"
He clicked the gun back, ready to fire and looked at John. "Ready to see your friend die?"
John ran towards Sherlock.
No! Sherlock though.
"John stop! No!"
But it was too late. The gun was fired towards Sherlock. It was never going to hit him. Moriarty would never have wanted to stop the games, just to spice it up a little, and that's what he had done.
The gun was aimed a little left of Sherlock, at the exact moment John ran towards him.
Sherlock stared at his friend. He was still alive, but weak. Too weak to survive much longer. But he knew he had to get rid of Moriarty. Sherlock couldn't have any of this going to waste.
Moriarty walked towards John.
"Oops. Sorry."
He leant over John.
"Don't you dare!" Sherlock growled.
Within milliseconds Moriarty had his own gun pointed at his head, but this time not held by himself.
Moriarty threw his hands into the air. "Now, now Sherlock." He laughed nervously. "Don't do anything stupid."
But Sherlock was filled with anger. He grabbed Moriarty by his collar and almost threw him off the roof. A tear ran down Sherlock's cheek. He pressed down on the trigger slightly.
"Oh no you don't. Tallyho!" And Moriarty threw himself off the roof.
Sherlock didn't care to watch his fall and crash against the hard ground below. He ran to John, holding him in his arms. Another tear ran down his cheek. "No." he whispered. "No."
John was still alive, just. He looked into Sherlock's eyes. "Thank you."
"Shh. Don't please, don't"
"I was so alone." John breathed. "I owe you so much."
"No, no" Sherlock chocked.
"Thank you"
John fell limb in Sherlock's arms.
Sherlock's phone bleeped. He reached into his pocked, still holding John. It was Lestrade.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, why the hell is Jim Moriarty dead outside St. Bart's? Please tell me this wasn't you. Sherlock, are you even listening to me? Where are you? You know you're going to be a prime suspect, just tell me where the hell you are."
There was a long pause before Sherlock replied.
"We're on the roof." He whispered
"Sherlock. What have you done?" Lestrade sighed.
It was a few minutes before Lestrade and a few other officers reached the roof. Sherlock was still cradling John in his arms, rocking.
"Oh my god" Lestrade said to himself. "Some get a medic! Now!" He shouted at the other officers.
He ran over to were Sherlock and John were sat on the ground. "Oh god, is h-?" Lestrade found his voice cut off, and Sherlock continued to look down at John. He was still crying. He had never cried like this before, not even when young Mycroft broke his microscope.
Lestrade put his arm on Sherlock's shoulder and a medic ran over, but Sherlock moved away.
"Sher-." He sighed. "You've got to let him go."
A year later, nothing had changed from that day.
Mrs Hudson was dressed in black. It was the anniversary of John's death, and she felt it right for the pair of them to visit his grave. She'd bought flowers, as she knew Sherlock wouldn't bother to do so himself. "Are you ready, dear?"
Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror. He hadn't worn a suit in so long, he had no need to.
"I'll be in the next cab."
"I understand dear, I do jibber on." And Mrs Hudson left.
When Sherlock arrived Mrs Hudson was talking to the grave. It seemed silly, but Sherlock had done it himself, although he was never going to admit it. Mrs Hudson finished talking and walked back to the church, she knew she'd have to leave Sherlock alone if he was to show any emotion.
He walked up to the grave, stood at John's feet and gave a military salute. He paused before walking up to the headstone.
"Sorry. I promise I'll be with you. Forever."
Sherlock peered over the edge. It was much higher than he though, but this didn't bother him. He didn't care. He had no reason to care. Soon he would be with his best friend again.
"Sorry I kept you so long John."
And with that he let himself fall.
"Oh Sherlock, I am disappointed. Surely you of all people would have known. After all, you planned it all." Moriarty tutted to himself, stood at the bottom of Sherlock's grave, before turning and walking away.
The games, had only just begun.