I would normally do Sherlolly fluff but I have an English assignment to do a story on lies and this kind of flowed out. Kinda Sherlolly.
Warning: Mentions of suicide
He'd done it. He killed himself, his best friend, his first friend, was in shatters, the woman he'd seen as a mother was broken and his close favourite colleague didn't know what to do with himself. They didn't know why he'd done it, why he'd jumped off that roof. They didn't realise a mad man had a gun to all three of their heads, ready to shot when given the order. He tried to be smart, to find away around it, and he did, but then Morairty, the man that had ruined his already imperfect live, killed himself taking the only solution to get around suicide with him. He had to do it.
He had called his best friend, his name John, and told him as he stood on top of the hospital building his suicide note. Not telling him why. Telling him that he was a fraud. A fake. That he couldn't tell someone's breakfast because of the colour of their shoes, or how their mother died just by their choice of top that morning, he told him that no one could do that.
Lies. They had all been lies.
Tears rolled down his cheeks as he quickly told him one simple word before hanging up the phone. The word "Goodbye". Then he threw the phone to his side, outstretched his arms, and fell, his coat flapping and limbs flailing as he did. He heard John scream his name but he ignored it. John ran to his limp bloody body as people crowded it, checking his pulse quickly before he was pulled away.
Dead. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead.
Now here he was, in the flat of the woman who'd helped him do it. Fake his own suicide. It had to be done. If he hadn't done it John would be dead, Mrs. Hudson would be dead and so would D.I Lestrade. He'd lied to three of the most important people of his world so they could live.
But one had been left, the one who's helped him, the one who Morairty hadn't thought had mattered, though, in actuality, she had mattered the most.
Molly Hooper. The woman who'd had a large hand in pulling off Sherlock's 'death', there was also his brother, the head of the government, but Sherlock didn't want to give him the pleasure of the credit. His pathologist.
She brought over a cup of tea for him, knowing he needed the comfort considering what he just went through. "It'll be okay," she tried to comfort him, he didn't reply.
He knew it was just another lie.
He'd only be in London for another week and then he'd have to leave. To dismantle whatever was remaining of Morairty's web. He needed get rid of them all before another took Morairty's place. To make his and friends live a living hell, as well as terrorising the whole of London, maybe the whole of England.
Lies, lies, lies!
That's what his mind screamed. Over and over. Not stopping. Getting louder and louder.
LIES, LIES, LIES!
He wanted to shout. To destroy something. To throw himself off a building for real. He couldn't take this. Molly tried to comfort him every time he appeared at her door, him always highly distraught and suicidal. He'd stay the night, but neither of them speaking. She'd just hold him until he fell asleep. No romantic intentions, just her trying to comfort the depressed man who definitely needed it. She was the only friend he'd had left.
Once his visits decreased so much until he was hardly ever in London he'd call her. He won't speak, just lie in whatever bed they'd supplied him with and listen to her comforting voice. "It'll be okay, Sherlock. You'll be home soon," she'd say.
He listened to her comforting lies.
They didn't speak of what happened when he came back. For real. And became, once more Sherlock Holmes. It took a while for John to accept him back because of what Sherlock had put him through, though soon everything was back to as normal as Sherlock Holmes' live got.
But him and Molly never spoke of it again. Of the nights where she'd hold hold him, of the times where she would talk to him over the phone.
Of the lies.