In honor the third season finally being filmed (*squeel*) and just because I can! This will just be a brief little story. One, maybe two, more chapters after this one.

I honestly need to stop torturing myself. Writing this, every word, was a spoon being stabbed into my heart. But, what can I say, so is the curse of being a fangirl.

Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock"

Leaving a Note

As the dark blood pooled around Moriarty's head staining the grey cement of the roof, Sherlock began to panic. His long fingers entwined in his hair as he tried to make sense of this new emotion that had seized his heart in such a fierce grip so quickly. As every possible scenario ran through his head, as every word that had ever been said ran on replay, only one thing stood out clear in his head: John.

Oh God, John.

He brought his hand to his mouth to hold back the emotion that wished passage through his thin lips. A cool wind whipped around him and pulled him towards the edge of the roof, and his mind calmed.

Here it was.

It was time now.

He had picked this building for this.

Taking a deep breath, the dark, curly haired man stepped onto the ledge of the building, the tips of his shoes hovering over empty air, and peered down. His bright eyes fell on a cab that stopped across the street. Sherlock's heart froze as the door opened and he saw a head of familiar sandy hair. Tentatively, long fingers snaked into his coat pocket and pulled his phone out. He scrolled through the seven numbers in it until he stopped on the one he wanted.

John.

Pressing the call button, he placed the phone next to his ear. It didn't take long for his friend to answer after he clambered out of the cab.

"Hello?" he heard John ask desperately as he began jogging around the cab.

"John," the lithe man forced out, unable to say what he needed to say to his friend.

Without a second thought, the doctor ran across the street towards the building Sherlock stood atop of and demanded urgently, "Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?"

No.

No, he couldn't come any closer.

He couldn't do this if he was any closer.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," he harshly pleaded his friend.

"No," John stubbornly refused. "I'm coming in—"

"Just do as I ask," Sherlock said with as much force his shaky voice could muster, interrupting his friend. Taking a shallow breath, he added in a harshly whispered afterthought, "Please."

He saw that word caught John. "Where?" the sandy haired man questioned as he paused and began to walk back across the street, his eyes roving the area.

The lone figure waited a brief moment before saying, "Stop there."

"Sherlock?" his friend questioned.

Forcing the lump in his throat down, Sherlock instructed his friend, "Look up. I'm on the rooftop."

His bright eyes absorbed every movement that the ex-soldier made as he turned and cocked his head upwards to look over his shoulder. His elbow pointed up to adapt to the angle of his head, he took a stumbling step back as he muttered, "Oh, God."

"I—I—I can't come down now so we'll just have to do it like this," he said calmly.

He had to do this.

"W-What's going on?" he heard John say through labored breaths.

"An apology," was his simply response.

Oh, God.

I can't do this.

But I have to.

For John.

For Lestrade.

For Mrs. Hudson.

Standing taller with his resolve he stated, "It's all true."

His eyes drunk in John's slight shuffle backwards in surprise. "What?" he asked incredulously.

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." Steeling himself, he turned and glanced behind him at his fallen enemy. His arms outstretched like a bird that had fallen, broken, from the sky onto the cold, hard ground. The gun was still trapped in his lifeless fingers as blood flowed freely away from its owner's body as if it no longer desired to be associated with the man it had given life to for so long.

"Why are you saying this?" came John's childlike question, bringing him from his thoughts.

His eyes burned as his chest constricted tightly, threatening his air supply. His throat seemed parched and barren and his lip began to tremble without his consent. Pulling his lips taunt to prevent the unknown reaction, he turned back to look down at his one friend. "I'm a fake," he managed to say before his throat squeezed shut.

"Sherlock," his friend breathed out in disbelief and earnest pleading, but Sherlock couldn't let him continue.

He couldn't let John talk him out of this.

"The newspapers were right all along," he continued through, doing his best to ignore the tumult of emotions inside of him. "I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly," he paused to pull himself together some. "In fact, tell any who will listen to you—" he cut himself off as he felt moisture dampening the corners of his eyes.

He had to press on.

He had to say it all.

He had to…

"That I created Moriarty," he finished with a struggle, "for my own purposes."

"Okay, Sherlock," John's voice jumped in, strong and firm and demanding, "Shut up, Sherlock. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

No, John. Don't believe it.

But he had to smile at John's belief.

But he couldn't believe.

"No one could be that clever," he replied simply, reciting on of the many insults he had heard throughout the years.

"You could."

Two words.

So simply said.

So much faith and force in two little words.

Sherlock forced out a laugh at John's simplicity as the tears streamed down his cheeks, caressing them on their way down to his jaw bone where they continued the caress until they pooled and dripped from his chin.

No, John.

He shook his head slightly before realizing that John couldn't see the motion. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you."

His brilliant eyes watched as the doctor stepped back and forth shaky his head in denial. He hurt. It hurt so much to watch him like this.

He couldn't.

He couldn't give him nothing.

With a slight sniff he begged John to see, "It's just a trick, just a magic trick."

His friend shook his head with more force and said, "No. Stop it now." His shoulders pulled back as he began to take purposeful steps towards the building.

"No," Sherlock begged him, reaching out his hand. "Stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

He had no idea where Moriarty's men were. When they would shoot.

Oh God, don't let them shoot.

The sandy haired man put his hand up toward Sherlock and stepped back to his previous position. "Alright," he assured.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," he demanded.

I knew you would come, John.

I'm sorry you had to be here.

That you have to see.

"Please," he begged, his voice breaking with emotion, "will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" he questioned without hesitation.

I need you, John.

Do this.

"This phone call is—um—," he searched for the word. As it struck him, he took a deep breath and stood up straighter, his mind eerily calm for once. "It's my note."

He waited for his words to sink in before continuing. "That's what people, do don't they?" he questioned as his mind flew to another note, another good-bye. "Leave a note," he whispered.

His focus was caught by John as he desperately shook his head and pulled the phone away from his ear. Sherlock smirked briefly at recognizing the gesture as one of impatience and stress. It gave him courage, the fact that he was able to deduce such a small thing, such a well-known thing.

"Leave a note when?" the doctor questioned, his steady voice barely betraying the emotion that his body did.

"Good-bye, John."

There.

It was done.

He had said it.

"Nope. Don't—" he pleaded in a strong voice as he once again shuffled backwards.

The curly haired man gave a slight nod. It was time.

He had always been told that he didn't have a heart, but there was something very real inside of him that broke inside his chest as he hung up on his one friend. Tossing the phone to the side, he held out his arms and prepared to jump.

Falling is just like flying, but with a more permanent destination.

He had always hated riddles. But now was not the time. He had a suicide to finish.

He took a moment to go over this decision once more for the umpteenth time. As he saw John across the street looking up at him and Moriarty's words swam in his mind, he reaffirmed his decision. As he leaned forward into the open space before him and felt the wind entangle its fingers in his hair, he hoped that Molly had succeeded in her task.

"SHERLOCK!" he heard John yell in anguish just before the wind filled his ears.