"We both us knew how the ending would be... So it's all come back round to breaking apart again, breaking apart like I'm made up of glass again, making it up behind my back again, holding my breath for the fear of sleep again, holding it up behind my head again, cut in deep to the heart of the bone again…"- Disintegration, The Cure
"Isn't this how it's supposed to go? I said I wanted to watch you burn. But remember, if you burn, I burn with you. And with that, my dear Moriarty, is the only way our story will ever end. I suppose there is no alternative." The detective glared angrily at the villain. "You made my world explode, now watch as yours does as well."
*2 Weeks Earlier*
John sat wistfully on the park bench. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. He didn't even want to visit Sarah. He just wanted to be alone. That's all he'd been for the past six months: alone. After Sherlock's suicide, he refused to speak to anyone. He moved out of 221B Baker St. and now spent his nights at the local police station, drunk in a cell. He used to laugh at the local drunkards who were kept there. Surely no one's life could be so bad that they drank themselves out of every other sleeping arrangements. Now, he thought they were pansies, who didn't understand suffering at all. That was the only way John felt secure, being drunk. He talked to Sherlock that way, or the illusions he imagined were Sherlock. He spent his days sitting on this same bench, watching nothing, staring into the air, talking to his dead best friend.
John couldn't get the images of Sherlock's demise out of his head. He watched him make his last phone call to him, heard his suicide note. Had watched him jump from the building to the cold unforgiving street below. He had even felt for his nonexistent pulse. He hated that he was the only one in pain, the only one grieving- Mycroft had gotten on with his life about 4 months after the accident. John was alone in many ways.
John told no one of the last phone call. He didn't tell the world that Sherlock was a fake, as he requested; but he didn't say that Sherlock was a martyr either. The press made him out to be a criminal, a murderer- Rich Brook/Moriarty had disappeared when Sherlock died- and everyone else had turned their backs on what used to be the greatest mastermind the world ever had. Only five people attended his funeral- Watson, Molly, Sarah, Mycroft, and Ms. Hudson. There were minimal cards, flowers- nobody cared enough or they despised him to the point of gaiety that he was dead. Six months and not a word from anyone at the force- Lestrade had been fired after the chief superintendent learned of his passiveness of letting an amateur detective use private files and such. He did however send a flower wreath, but no card. John wasn't concerned about any of that, though; all he was concerned with was how he lost his best friend so quickly.
Suddenly, he snapped out of his stupor. He had been replaying the phone conversation in his mind, listening to every word, every detail. Something wasn't quite right. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, but something Sherlock said didn't seem right. He got up, screaming for a taxi. "Police station," John murmured. He was going to get to the bottom of this if it killed him. He was lost in thought when the taxi driver replied "You don't want to go there. They're all a bunch of shallow-minded idiots." Watson froze. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. The sound of curiosity hidden under the matter-of-fact tone of his… "Sh… Sherlock?" he stammered. Sherlock stopped the cab and turned around. "Hello, John. Miss me much?" he said with a touch of sympathy in his eyes.
John just sat and stared for a moment. "Get out of the car," he said to the driver. They both exited the car. Sherlock grinned vicariously at him. John stared, then smiled, then made a move to hug the man. Sherlock, knowing full well what was about to happen, reached out to John as well, and winced as John's fist struck his face. As John shook out the pain in his knuckles, Sherlock grin grew bigger. "That's my John," he exclaimed whilst rubbing his jaw.
John had a million questions for him. Why? What happened to Moriarty? How did he fake his death? Who helped him? Where had he been? But all he could get out was "Sorry, Sherlock." Sherlock pushed John back into the cab and got in the driver's seat, saying that he would explain everything when they got back to the flat.
All of his stuff was still there; Ms. Hudson didn't have the heart to give it away. No one else had rented the flat. John sat down and refused to move until Sherlock told him the whole story. Sherlock sighed and started talking. "Molly helped me create a clone of myself- well, it wasn't really a clone, more like a humanlike stuffed doll… I know she's not the brightest star in the sky, but I trust her." Seeing the look on John's face, he continued "I could trust her not to say anything. I couldn't trust you not to. Besides, you can't act. It wouldn't have been convincing enough. Anyways, Moriarty is dead. I spent the last 6 months making sure of that. He shot himself when we were on the roof together. He shook my hand and put a gun to his mouth. But I had to make sure he didn't do something to make what I saw an illusion." John was quiet. Sherlock looked into his eyes. "I'm so sorry, John. I'm sorry for dying." John finally spoke. "How do I know that you're not an illusion? How do I know that this is real and I'm not just on a drinking binge again?" Sherlock smirked. "Because you know you're not smart enough to dream all of this up yourself." John managed a slight laugh. "That's true, I suppose. So if this is really… you… where have you been?" Sherlock mumbled, "oh you know, around… watching for Moriarty's men… watching people, studying. But I'm done with that now. We can get back to work." John didn't really know what to think. He was still mostly in shock. "Alright. Whatever you say, Sherlock." He remarked.
The first thing to do was tell Ms. Hudson. They walked downstairs. Sherlock said, quite loudly, "Woman, what have you done with Mr. Sedgewick? I was studying the weight patterns after death on that man!" Ms. Hudson shrieked as if she had just heard a ghost and turned around. "Oh, Sherlock!" She exclaimed and ran forth to give him a hug. She started asking him a million questions, as John wanted to when he first saw him, but Sherlock just said "Not now, woman. Make some tea for us." No one else really deserved a 'hello, I'm back from the dead' greeting such as he gave Ms. Hudson, so Sherlock just texted Mycroft and Lestrade. John told Sherlock that Lestrade was fired; all Sherlock said was "I know. I've been watching him as well." There was nothing for them to do, currently. No cases, no insane consulting criminal to track down. Sherlock had already seen Molly; he'd been actually staying in the laboratory at nights.
After a couple hours of incessant talk, John looked up at Sherlock. "Sherlock… I… um. I watched you die… It was the worst thing I have ever witnessed. I've watched children die, soldiers blown up in the war… but none of it even remotely compares to the pain I felt as you- or what I thought was you- hit that sidewalk, as I felt that… thing's… pulse… Sherlock, you're my best friend. Don't you ever, ever do that again, do you hear me? I don't think I could take it…" Sherlock's eyes filled with sympathy. "John, you're the closest thing I have to a best friend. Your wish is my command." John wiped away the moisture that had started to form at the base of his eyelids. "Right. Well. Now what?" As he was saying that, John's cell phone went off. "Come immediately. -MH" the text message read. "It's your brother. He wants to see me."
Sherlock smirked and said "Probably to congratulate you on not killing me when we got reacquainted." Watson chuckled, grabbed his coat, walked halfway out the door, and turned around. "Sherlock? Try not to jump off any buildings while I'm gone." Sherlock grinned and said "I'll do my best." John skipped down the stairs and hailed a cab. That was the last time Sherlock saw his best friend, in person, at least.
"To the Diogenes Club," he exclaimed to the taxi driver. He was so utterly glad that Sherlock was back, now that his shocked stage was over with. He expected Mycroft to ask him the same questions he had wanted to ask Sherlock. John was lost in thought when they pulled up to the club. He paid the driver and walked up the steps. He walked slowly to the back, where Mycroft's office was, slightly afraid of what Mycroft was going to say. He opened the door to the back of the desk chair facing him. "Mycroft…" he mumbled, giving himself an introduction of some sorts. The chair turned around, but it was not Mycroft who occupied it. It was a face he didn't think he'd ever see again, a woman who he thought had disappeared for good. It was Irene Adler, fully clothed, thank God. But why was she here? She smiled and held up a cell phone. "So sorry, were you expecting someone else? That's too bad," she said. "Irene. I didn't expect you to be here. Or anywhere else in England, I might add. What do you want with me?" John remarked. "It's not what I want with you. That's not what I'm here for. I'm working for someone. And he wants you to get back in that taxi and head for the train station. Do you understand?" John just stared at her. This had certainly been a most shocking day. "And why should I do that?" he finally managed to get out. She sighed. "I figured you wouldn't be submissive. That's why I hired some men." Two burly men appeared from the doorway and grabbed Watson's arms. "Goodbye, Mr. Watson." Irene said. The men dragged John out to the cab parked outside. One of them released his arm to open the door. John, trying to think fast, turned and gave a weak right hook to the other man holding him. Both men looked at each other for a moment, and then punched John right in the face, sending him backwards into the cab.
A few minutes later, John came to. The cab was on the move, about 10 minutes from the train station, in the middle of the country. He searched for his phone, but couldn't seem to find it. They must've taken it, he thought. He made a quick look-over of the interior of the cab. There was a camera embedded in the back of the passenger seat in front of him, documenting his every move. He wondered why in the world it would be there. Then, he put the pieces together. Irene. She must be working for someone, but whom? Moriarty must still be alive. And this cab… it wasn't taking him to the train station. It was taking him to die. The camera must be live streaming to somewhere… probably Moriarty's computer for his own personal enjoyment. John wasn't going to beg and plead for his life. There was no need. He looked straight into the camera and said, as calmly as he could, "tell Sherlock that he was the best thing that ever happened to me. I will always love him. He was my best friend. Just tell him that for me, please."
John looked straight into the camera. "And Moriarty. …You will never win this war you have started." And with that, the cab exploded.
Sherlock was playing his violin enthusiastically when he heard the sirens. He jumped up and looked out the window. They were headed in the direction of the Diogenes Club. Maybe I ought to text John to see if everything's okay… he thought. As soon as he grabbed his phone from the other side of the room, it rang. Sherlock answered. "There's been an accident, and your little friend is dead," a cheerful voice on the other end said. Three things ran through Sherlock's mind at that moment: The first was John. It's got to be John. Sherlock had no other friends. John can't be dead, not so soon after he had returned. The second was the voice. There was only one person whom that voice could belong to. No one else had that high-pitched, dark voice. It couldn't be true. Dead men can't talk. Moriarty was supposed to be dead. This couldn't be. The third was anger. How had Sherlock let this happen? He should've known… he's the smartest man on Earth. He was angry at himself for being the one that caused the death of his best friend- if he had never met Sherlock, this would never have happened. As he thought about the resentment he felt for himself, Sherlock's anger grew and grew, like a wildfire, and suddenly he wasn't as angry at himself as he was at Moriarty. Sherlock was still holding the phone; the bastard hadn't hung up on the other end yet. "When I find you. I will kill you. Do not doubt me." Sherlock said. "Oh, feeling a little vengeance now, are we? That's good. Step one of bringing you up to my level. Everyone needs to feel vengeance now and again." And then, without another word, Moriarty hung up.
Sherlock was paying attention to the noise in the background of Moriarty's phone call. Did he think he was stupid? Or maybe he thought he was too smart to notice. There were people talking in the background; Sherlock picked up their accents as southern Bristol. He called his network of friends- the homeless that worked underground for him- and they found out where Moriarty's hotel was in less than 30 seconds. Sherlock hopped into a taxi, his sadness vanishing as waves of anger continued to flow through him. He bought some needed supplies for his meeting with Moriarty and rode forth to Bristol. There were 6 abandoned warehouses in the city; he chose the one farthest away from civilian life, just in case. The next order of business was to text Moriarty and wait. Whilst doing the latter, Sherlock thought about Mycroft, and Ms. Hudson, and Molly. What about them? He hadn't even told them that John was dead. They would read about it in the morning papers. Such an awful way to find out. But Sherlock was busy. Busy plotting the demise of the smartest detective and criminal in the world. Yes, if John was dead, the only way to kill Moriarty was to kill himself as well. There was nothing else he could do, or wanted to do. Sherlock just wanted to be dead.
After about 8 minutes, Sally Donovan and Anderson walked into the building. "I always knew you two had something evil up your sleeves." Sherlock said to them. Donovan just smiled. "Sure you did." Anderson smirked. "We came to show you something." Donovan took out her cell phone and handed it to Sherlock. On it was a video of John, sitting in the backseat of a taxi. As Sherlock listened and watched his best friend die, his eyes brimmed with tears. "Look. The greatest detective in the world is crying. Sally, maybe you should give him one of your tissues." Anderson said sarcastically. Sherlock paid no attention to them; he was memorizing John's face and voice so it would be the last good thing he remembered as he died. As John said Moriarty's name, the man himself walked in. Sherlock threw the phone on the ground as the cab exploded, unable to watch as his best friend was engulfed by flames. "Oh Sherlock. So nice to see you again. Six months, was it? Long time. How did you like the video I prepared for you? Nice, isn't it?" Sherlock glared at Moriarty. "Ever figure out how I survived that bullet? No? I'll tell you. Blanks and blood capsules. Oldest trick in the book. I watched as you through that dummy over the side of the roof. Plus I'm not stupid. I just didn't feel like calling off my snipers… I knew something better was in store for us in the end. I wanted this to happen, the great showdown between Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty!" he yelled into the darkness. Donovan and Anderson were standing against the back wall, saying nothing, smiling as if it were Christmas. "The world isn't big enough for the both of us." Moriarty said with a grin. "Who's going to be the one left alive?" Sherlock gave a smile so full of pain and anger that Moriarty slightly winced. "Neither of us." Holmes said as he unbuttoned his coat. Underneath was a vest rigged with explosives that could blow up the entire block of Baker Street. He saw Moriarty's grin fade. He hadn't really expected this. Not a suicide bombing. A shooting or something of the sorts, yes, but he didn't think it out this much. Sherlock took out a little remote with a button on it, like you see in cartoons. "Isn't this how it's supposed to go? I said I wanted to watch you burn. But remember, if you burn, I burn with you. And with that, my dear Moriarty, is the only way our story will ever end. I suppose there is no alternative." The detective glared angrily at the villain. "You made my world explode, now watch as yours does as well." Sherlock smiled, watched Anderson, Donovan, and Moriarty's smiles fade to anguish, and said the words "I love you, John," as he hit the button.