"Falling is like flying only with a more permanent destination."
Sherlock stood there on the edge of the rooftop looking out at the city. The city that he had grew up to love despite all of its flaws, the city that was so full of life. Full of mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, doctors and nurses living and working among one another.
Oh, how he was going to miss this city after he was gone, miss the drunks stumbling around the streets, miss the Scotland yard police officers trying to solve what Sherlock saw as the most simplest of cases. But above all the things he was going to miss the people of the city - John, Lesterade, Molly Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock drew in a deep breath and exhaled it, his breath turning to smoke against the cold air. His eyes flooded with a sudden surge of tears as he thought of his only friends in the world, because of him. He thought about losing them, losing the only people in the world who kept him sane - kept him human. He would not let that happen, he would sacrifice himself before he saw any harm come to them…
Down below a black taxi pulled to a stop and out climbed John Watson. Sherlock paused for a moment and then pulled out his phone and dialled John's number.
"Sherlock, hey where are you?" John asked, on the other end of the phone.
"John, turned around and walk the way you came."
John tried to protest but Sherlock cut him off, and begged him to move.
"Stop there, now turn around, I'm on the roof," Sherlock replied as calmly as he could.
The next few moments became a blur as Sherlock searched for the right words. There was no way to do this without hurting John, he would hate him but it would cause him less pain in the end.
"It's all true, John," Sherlock sobbed regretting the words instantly. "I invented Moriarty for my own purposes," he continued his heart cracking.
"What?" John replied, confused.
The next few moments became a blur as his emotions took over.
"John I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, Lesterade, Molly. In fact tell anybody who will listen to you, that I was a fake."
John tried to come up but Sherlock screamed at him from to roof where he stood, to stop. Both men reached out for one another, to feel the other's touch, for the very last time but neither could reach. Sherlock then found himself saying the word he dreaded the most - he found himself saying goodbye to John Watson - his best friend. He threw his phone onto the floor behind him and the screen cracked like what was left of his heart. He knew now that this was real, he was going to die and nothing in the world could save him. And god did that scare him…
He glanced behind him one final time and saw Moriarty lying there - dead. All of this was his fault, and now, now he was dead. He turned his back on the sight and looked down. He could hear John screaming his name but he knew what he had to do. Sherlock held out both of his arms and with one final sigh, fell forward.
Moriarty had told Sherlock a few moments before he died that 'falling was like flying.' From what Sherlock thought flying would feeling like, falling felt nothing like it. It felt heavy and permanent. Flying should have felt free and light. Once again Moriarty had lied to him.
Everybody had said that in the last moments of your life, you see your life flash before your eyes. Sherlock didn't… He saw no childhood memories, no arguments with Mycroft, no Christmas dinners with Mummy. He saw only John. Saw him typing away on his blog, saw him running through the streets of London, saw him risk everything for Sherlock - even his own life. He felt the love he had for John Watson deep inside his heart, but refused to let it show, refused to admit it too himself that he loved John more than he had ever loved another man.
There was no point in denying it any longer - he was moments away from death. His thoughts rushed around incoherently in his mind, as he searched for the right words. "John Watson," he thought to himself, "I-." And then the worlds only consulting detective could think no longer…