SELFLESS

BY: ALLY V.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any means without author consent.

Copyright © 2013 by Ally V. All rights reserved. Sherlock is BBC accredited. Characters are in the most valuable and precious works of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle from his famous books of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

CHAPTER ONE-

"It's my note. That's what they do, don't they?"

I didn't answer.

"Leave a note," He added.

"Leave a note when?" I stalled, struggling from breathing.

Please. Please answer. Please talk. Keep talking. Please.

Any minute now, people would've sensed a man on the rooftop. So please, please keep talking.

But Sherlock was smart. He knew that I was trying to stall him, to draw attention to him. He was about to end his life. I can't let that happen. Not now.

"Goodbye, John."

He threw his phone down. It staggered bellow the building right before he was at verge of falling himself. Eight stories at height, the phone burst in collateral damage no one could fix. Soon, Sherlock would be that phone. Broken, and never to be used again.

Ever.

I wasn't going to let that happen again. Not this time.

"No!"

"Sherlock!" I woke up, crying in my sleep again. Probably waking the neighbors up. The usual. There was nothing new about that.

"It's just a dream," I though, "just the same nightmare."

But even if it wasn't a dream, two years to forget about a specific tragic event and replaying it in your head was enough to drive someone insane. How the hell were you going to forget about something when it was so constant?

I calmed myself down, sitting down on my bed. I held my head, soothing my sweat covered head with my hands.

'Deep breaths,' I thought. I needed to relax.

That's how I live my life now. Half insane-driven madman who kept on clinging to the past for two whole years, hoping a dead man would live again.

I knew it was impossible, but there was no way I'm going to swallow the fact that Sherlock Holmes, my best friend, is dead.

But two years? That was enough.

Let's face it. My best friend is dead. I'm all alone with no money and no job.

But my best friend didn't lie. Sherlock was never guilty of something. Sherlock's got a plan, even if he's dead, he's got a plan. He wouldn't leave people out of nothing.

Or did Sherlock?

A battle between thoughts kept me dazed. Sherlock's unpredictable. The moment you knew what he was going to do, you end up getting it wrong. Sherlock's smart enough to think ahead, to always be one step forward from everyone else.

The whole of reality rewinds again and again in my head like a whirlpool of torture, there's nothing I can do to stop the memories but to wait for them to finish.

The tears never stopped.

I still remember the blood-spawned smell in the air, falling on the ground and checking his pulse, getting disappointed, trying not to cry. The crew shoved me away from the limp Sherlock, checking any signs of shock, making me follow the light, asking if I was dizzy, getting my blood pressure. I'm a doctor, I knew they suspected I was in shock. I tried to avoid showing them, but that never meant I wasn't in any.

I should have stayed with him. I shouldn't have fallen for the fake call. I knew that he plotted this, realizing the call. I should have known it was coming.

I didn't go back to the flat, not until I knew I couldn't afford a full price one. Mrs. Hudson gave me special treatment, to live there with half-price financial responsibility. Sherlock was able to give his share in the flat for about three years. He didn't want me to suffer.

Why didn't he warn me? I could've been prepared. I could've moved on now, knowing he has a plan even if he was dead. Probably he thought I would stop him from dying, which I would most probably do.

I checked the wall clock; it was seven in the morning. Beside it was the picture of Sherlock and me. I smiled. But memories flooded in my mind, the whole scene replaying in my head. I wanted to scream, 'get out of my head!' But I never wanted to forget. Not him. Not ever.

The smile faded.

I reached for my phone for text messages.

'3pm sharp. St. Barts. I need you here. It's dangerous. Will you come? –Molly H.'

'What danger? –JW,'I replied.

'Truth. –M,'

I Didn't understand, but coming from Molly, it wasn't exactly nothing that she contacted me. She never really did, after the fall. And even before, it would always be, 'Is Sherlock alright? x MH,' or 'Has Sherlock eaten? x MH'

I couldn't blame her. She fancied Sherlock. I can't imagine why. He was arrogant, boastful and too serious. Not only to Molly, but to everyone else.

But at the same time he was nice and funny, if you get to know him. He's always boastful, though.

I'm proud to get to know him, no matter how he treated me like his personal nanny, buying what he needed at the store, cleaning up the flat, organizing his room. He wouldn't even take the trash out. It was always I'm busy or some other reasons which seemed so much like him. He was an unbearable flat mate. I didn't even think I was going to take that long with him.

But when he died, it was like the world itself died with him. I didn't bother cleaning the flat. I wanted to pretend he was still here. That somewhere, Sherlock is alive.

I guess it was true that you only realize someone's worth when he's gone.

I went down the stairs dressed with my jumper. It was the same jumper I used the day we chased a serial killer cab driver. On the third stair before the ground, a round, slightly hard object hit the heel of my shoe. I skidded down the short flight of stairs and hit my bottom not hard enough for me to yell, fortunately. I checked the staircase for the object, and as it turned out, it was a ball. The same black ball Sherlock was playing with during the day he was going to die.

The ball rolled down the staircase. I picked it up and examined it carefully. It really is the ball. But how can it be here?

It can't be.

I frowned, walking towards the door. I turned to see if someone saw the trip. Gladly, no one did. I held on to the ball as I stopped for the coat rack. I took my coat and slid the ball inside the pockets.

I lifted my arms to twist the doorknob, only to stop an already swung door. I frowned. I couldn't remember opening the door.

Shock. It's the shock talking.

Stepping outside, Sherlock's hat was on the rug. I picked it up and placed it back, dazed at what was happening.

Text. Hat. Rug. Door.

Nothing was making sense today.

Dear Lord, have I finally gone mad?

The cab ride was silent. Sherlock wasn't there to deduce everything we saw that would seem so regular to me. Sherlock wasn't there to tell me how boring I am, and how noticeable the things he saw were. In the end, I would agree how noticeable they really were. I just wasn't paying attention. Just like how I didn't pay attention to the fake phone call and then falling for it.

I arrived at Saint Barts by a quarter to three. Helping myself with a cup of tea at the new café boutique at the front of the hospital.

The clerk handed me the paper cup. He wore a hat that covered half of his face.

I frowned. Most of the clerks would ask customers to come again, but this man was different. Not a word was out of his mouth. He's like a ghost.

I walked to the automatic doors of the hospital. My leg crumpled and the pain excruciated to my hand. The tea almost fell, together with me.

Almost.

The clerk saved my dignity before strangers, including himself. I still couldn't see his features behind the hat.

"How did you—" I asked, cutting myself off. Too much strangeness was happening around me today. That was enough to keep me up for an entire night. I wasn't going to add another mystery.

The clerk helped me up, and fled to the boutique. He didn't say a word until I turned before going inside the hospital.

An eye was looking at me. I couldn't work the features because of the blaring sun. My eyes hurt.

"Watch out, John," He warned. Okay, that was too much. He knows me? The clerk had a husky and deep voice. The voice was familiar, but my mind was too occupied to process too much information to search for in my head. All I knew was that this was too much.

My leg hurt as I limped up slowly to the staircase but I didn't mind the pain; I was too busy working out the strangeness around me. It was too much to comprehend to.

Before opening the rooftop door, I noticed a strange sticky-note on my tea.

'Watch out. -SH'

Sherlock Holmes.

I tried to deduce the hidden agenda of today. It was quite strange; the text, the ball, the door, the hat, the clerk, and now the note? Was I really going mad or…

'But it can't be. He's dead.'

'But the clerk's voice'.

'No, John, he's dead!'

Great. And now I'm having a mental discussion with myself. I really am going mad.

I swung the door open.

"Molly, I think I've gone m—" I spoke, looking up to see a Molly with a healthy, different Sherlock beside her.

My mouth flung open.

I walked to the Sherlock to confirm, circling him. His hair was trimmed, and he wasn't wearing a coat. He wore a polo tucked to his jeans and a smirk on his face. Molly was smirking herself, too.

I closed my mouth.

"Dear lord," I whispered.

"Funny, normal people would shake hands to acknowledge an existence after not seeing each other for an amount of time," The alien spoke. There was no way he was Sherlock. "But you're not a normal person, are you, John?"

"He's real. Go ahead and touch him," Molly joked.

I gulped and placed my hand to his shoulders and poked his cheek. Molly giggled.

"John…"

"I know, I'm sorry."

I placed my hand down.

He's alive. He's really alive. And I didn't know.

He didn't tell me.

This man is impossible.

My fist balled up and flew to his face. He howled, skidding down the cemented roof. Molly ran to him, comforting his every bit.

She knew too?

"You're dead," I gritted through my teeth.

He stood, "John, I will if you…"

My hand flew again. Molly flinched.

"And you knew all along?"

"Well of course she does! She fed me for the past two years. It's not her fault, John. I was selfish. I didn't want you to know. Now please, stop!"

"Oh, so you decided to leave me without a single sign then go searching for a home? Is that it, Sherlock?"

"John, I never intended to—"

"But you still did, Sherlock, and that's what matters. I can't believe how unbelievable you are!"

"That's the point of unbelievable!"

I sighed, calming myself.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay, Sherlock. Explain."

He wobbled himself up, rolling his sleeves up.

"I had to complete his story, John."

"And why, exactly?"

Sherlock looked directly at me, as if to see everything I knew by simply looking in my eye. He sighed, clearing his mind.

"Because it was your life at stake. It was either I die, or Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you will."

"So you decided to jump to…"

"Save your lives."

"But I still don't understand, then why two years? You could have showed yourself earlier."

"Do you really think Sherlock didn't think of that?" Molly asked. "Jimmy's a smart person, John. He died, but his people didn't," She added. "As soon as Jimmy's no longer someone to be remembered, only then Sherlock could see you. When Jimmy's men di—"

"Didn't see me a threat anymore," Sherlock finished her sentence. "Thank you, Molly."

"But you could've given a sign."

"That's what I told him," She whispered, enough for us to hear.

"And risk your life?" Sherlock added.

That was the day Sherlock Holmes, My best friend, was alive once again.