While I'm calling this a sequel, it takes place parallel to The Fall and Rise of Sherlock Holmes. If you haven't read The Fall and Rise of Sherlock Holmes yet, I ask that you go back and read it first, as this contains a lot of spoilers. Thank you all so much for reading, I hope you enjoy it. Whether you enjoy this story or not, please review, I would love to hear what you think.

"You told me once that you weren't a hero… um… there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and human… human being I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that's… uh. There.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

"Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!"

I wanted to go to him. I was supposed to go to him; that was the plan. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to hold him until his tears abated. I wanted to see John get angry and probably punch me. It's not as though I didn't deserve to be hit, I had hurt him in an unforgiveable way. There was no way I could hurt John like this twice, though. Not when the second time, if there were a second time, would be real.

As I watched John walk to Mrs. Hudson I felt tears well up in my eyes. I didn't know how long I would be away from him, but I would miss him dearly in that time. Before Moriarty came along, I never thought that I would have to spend time away from him. In the back of my mind, I had thought that if either of us was to be the one leaving the other alone and in pain, it would have been him leaving me because I had irritated him for the last time. I would have never left my only friend. Moriarty ruined everything good in my life when he killed himself and forced my hand.

John turned toward me and I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes. A sigh of relief passed through my lips when he shook his head and turned back around.

I walked slowly to the apartment that Mycroft had rented me for the time being. I couldn't take a cab; I wasn't wearing a disguise and couldn't risk being recognized. I would have to cut through back gardens and climb over roofs to get there as it was. It was close to the flat at Baker Street, so it was going to be a long walk. That was okay; I needed the time to clear my mind.

When I opened the front door and removed my coat, I saw a familiar umbrella on the coat rack.

"Hello Mycroft, I suppose you realize that I changed my mind." I said.

"Yes, brother." He responded.

"You had me followed?"

"For security reasons, of course."

"Of course." I hung my coat on the rack, flicked my hand over a faint blood stain on the shoulder as though I could wipe it away, and turned around. Mycroft was sitting with his right ankle on his left knee in the one comfortable chair in the apartment. He was wearing his pale blue shirt; he was trying to put me at ease. I sat on the couch and prepared myself to be berated. "I suppose that you have thoughts on this."

"I have questions, more than anything."

"Oh?"

"Why didn't you tell John that you're not dead? I believe that the plan was for you to talk to him today."

"I couldn't do it."

"Why on earth not?"

"You didn't see him. He's hurting far more than I had anticipated." I didn't tell Mycroft what John had said at my grave. He would already know, anyway.

"What does that matter to you?"

"He's my friend, Mycroft. You know the mission I'm undertaking. What if I were to die, for real this time? I can't make him go through this pain twice."

"You know that the longer you wait the more it will hurt him when you come back, don't you?"

"Yes. My concern is that if I were to tell him I am alive and then die, he will have been put through great pain three times. I cannot… I will not do that to John. I would rather have him think me dead."

"I never thought I would see the day that you, of all people, succumbed to sentiment," Mycroft sneered. He had abandoned putting me at ease.

"He is my friend, the first I've had since I was a child. Of course I'm sentimental."

Mycroft shifted in his seat, placing his right foot squarely on the ground and his elbows on his knees. "I suppose that you have realized that without John beside you, the odds of your dying go up tenfold."

"Of course. John has always protected me. The day after we met he killed to save my life. However, my death would be inconsequential."

"'Inconsequential'? Your death would be far from that."

"Who's being sentimental, now?"

Mycroft and I stared daggers at each other for a long moment. There were a lot of hurtful things that could have been said by either of us. I was relieved when he changed the subject. This was no time for a row, especially since I was injured.

"Have you thought about how you're going to go about your little mission?"

"It seems simple enough. We'll arrest every member of Moriarty's network that we know about. We'll track down the rest. When his network is torn apart John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade will be safe. I'll be able to go home without risking hurting John again. If I die in the interim he isn't to know that I survived my fall."

"It all comes back to John. Brother, I do believe you are obsessed."

"Just go home, Mycroft." I sighed, rubbing my temples. "You know my plans; I don't need you here to insulting me," I said. I can do that well enough myself, I thought.

Mycroft sneered at me again, retrieved his umbrella from the coat rack and left. He really could be irritating. I was not obsessed with John. I just missed my friend.

That evening a headache hit me. I mentally blamed Mycroft for forcing me into an argument. These headaches seemed to hit when I was feeling overly emotional. I had intended to work into the night, but there was no cure for these headaches but sleep. None that are wise to prescribe to an addict, anyway.

The next afternoon, Molly arrived at my apartment to check up on me. She wasn't a real doctor, but I couldn't risk going to one and having the truth about my highly publicized death come out.

"How are you feeling today, Sherlock?" she asked as she slipped her hands into a pair of rubber gloves.

"Better, for the most part. I'm still getting the headaches, though."

"That's to be expected, concussions and cracked skulls take time to heal, after all. They should fade in frequency and intensity over the next several weeks." She motioned toward my head questioningly. I nodded and she approached me. "Have you remembered anything about when you jumped off of Bart's?" Molly slid her fingers gently through my hair, checking on my healing cuts and bruises.

"I believe that I have. It was in a dream, but it felt real. I've filed it away as truth, anyway."

"Why don't you tell me what you've remembered?" Molly nodded to herself and pulled a flashlight out of her pocket.

"I was standing at the edge of the roof. John had called me. I told him that the lies were true. That I'm a fraud." Molly flashed her light in my eyes, checking my pupil reaction. I flinched away from the light for a moment before opening my eyes and going on. "I made him stand where he wouldn't be able to see the laundry truck. I told him that the call was my suicide note. I needed for him to believe, in that moment, that I was dead, otherwise he would have been killed." I felt my voice crack.

"Do you need a minute, Sherlock?" Molly asked. I took a deep breath and shook my head.

"No, I'm okay. The memories are a little jumbled, but I think they're all there. I threw my phone onto the roof and jumped. I had to, Moriarty had shot himself in the head, and there was no other way to call off the snipers." I felt my eyes well up but went on. "I landed in the laundry truck, hitting my head. There was supposed to be more laundry in the truck to soften my fall, but I suppose in a three story fall you're bound to get hurt in some way. I quickly climbed out of the truck and jumped to the ground, shoving a rubber ball into my armpit to make it seem as though I had no pulse. I felt hands grab my left arm so that John would have to check for a pulse on my right. I saw John running toward me, but I lost consciousness before he reached me."

The apartment blurred around me. In my minds' eye, I saw Johns face at that moment, so filled with pain. I choked back a sob as my shoulders began to shake. Molly pulled me into her arms, rested her cheek against the top of my head and patted me awkwardly on the back. I let her hold me until my tears abated before pulling away. She took an awkward step backwards. There were tears in her eyes, too.

"Well," she began shakily, "that matches with what I was told. Your concussion is healed and your stitches will be ready to remove in a few days." I couldn't help but be grateful that she was acting as though I hadn't just broken down. "Your skull will probably take another month or two to heal, but it feels as though it's healing correctly. Don't go banging your head again, okay?"

I nodded and looked at her for a long minute. "Could you do me a favor, Molly?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"I'm worried about John. I can't go check up on him for obvious reasons. Would you try to check in on him now and then? I'm worried that this shock might hurt him in unexpected ways."

"Of course, Sherlock."

After Molly left I longed to play my violin. The Stradivarius was still at Baker Street. John had refused to let Mycroft take any of my things from the flat. It was extremely inconvenient, there were a lot of things I would have liked to have. My other coat would have been nice, rather than walking around in a coat stained with my own blood. Mycroft thought it best that I not have the violin; it would only make the neighbors pay attention to me. We couldn't have that.

Instead, I went into my mind palace.