Sherlock has always been an actor. I've never been able to tell, not really, when he's acting and when he's being genuine. Well, maybe that's not true. Perhaps there really is a fine line, and my subconscious knows where it is even if the reasoning part of my mind—the part so inferior to his—is entirely blind to it.

And so now it's time to play my part. Mycroft told me one last thing but didn't tell me whether it was a message from Sherlock or something that Mycroft himself did out of the kindness of his heart, because he knew that even though I'm a terrible actor the pain would be too much to bear if I thought it was real. He can't empathize, but he can internalize it, intellectualize it, and know how I feel in that way.

"John," he said. "John, he's going to kill himself."

I didn't fully understand, not at the time, so I asked what he meant, and he explained. He explained the plan, knew that Sherlock would be furious, maybe, if it were truly against his wishes. I couldn't know. I didn't ask.

And so the stage is set and the actors take their places. I am the understudy to the me that thought this was truly going on. I took his place and my job will be shoddy at best compared to his. I just hope that he's not too mad.

The spotlight flickers on and I leave the cab. Showtime.

I'm surprised to see him up there. That really is a surprise, so the question comes easily. The rest, not so much. It feels forced. I feel betrayed, but not in the way that he thinks I feel betrayed. He lies through his teeth. I contradict him. He jumps. I run, like any friend would, and I'm hit. Intentional or not? I can't move. I can't think, I just know that a fall like that could kill anyone whether they meant to survive or not.

Stop, John.

Breathe.

What do I do next? I go to the body, I cry No, no, he's my friend, let me through! And I think through the haze of what may well be a concussion that this would be beyond excruciating if I didn't have the slight glimmer of hope that perhaps this is all wrong, all a farce. What should I do next? He has no pulse, that's wrong, but the logical part of my brain takes over and says that if he meant to survive, he survived, period.

Did I play my part well enough?

I sit on the pavement and cry, cry for myself, for Sherlock, for whatever drove him to think he needed to die—fake or not—and for everything we've been through together. It's been ten minutes, fifteen, an hour. I call Mycroft.

"Did he mean for me to know?"

There is a long pause. I think maybe the line has dropped the call. "No. Where are you?"

"Outside the hospital."

"John, hang up the phone." He sounds panicked. Mycroft, panicked?

"Why did you tell me?"

This time, his answer is immediate. "I knew that when he came back, you would never forgive me or him." He sighs. "As much as I hate to admit it, John, you are valuable. You are good for my brother. I'm hanging up now." He hangs up. I go inside.

"Molly?"

She sniffles. She's an even worse actor than I am. "Sorry, I can't talk right now." Through the taut sleeve of her cardigan I can see that her eyes aren't the least bit red. "It's just so terrible, isn't it?" She's babbling now. "Why do you think he did it, I was so shocked when they brought his body in, I couldn't believe—"

"SHUT UP!" I scream, and she lets the sleeve drop. "Why? Why do you have to lie?" I throw my arms up and stalk off, upset with her, upset with this whole shoddy house of cards that has collapsed because Mycroft was weak. Well, was he weak? Mycroft doesn't show weakness, neither of them does, so why did he tell me? This is the flaw in the plan, this knowing. It would have gone off perfectly without a hitch if I hadn't been told.

But then I would be in ruins. Where would I be now, an hour after watching him fall, if I hadn't known? Would I be at the flat, too numb to speak or cry? Would I be sitting on the pavement doing the same? Would someone have had me pulled into the hospital and had me go through a psychiatric evaluation—which I would undoubtedly have failed?

It's very cold. It's June, and I'm freezing. The lights are too bright, my body aches too much, and Molly's voice is too shrill. I shut my eyes. What is the use of sensory input when you're dead? What use is a brilliant mind when you're dead? You're still mouldering under the ground, nothing more than a packet of carbon atoms bound together by oxygen, nitrogen, and hydrogen. What use is a brain when all it's up to is rotting?

If I was really and truly dead, I think I'd be bored.

There are bruises blossoming on every part of my body, but that's the consequence of surviving the impact. I am still clothed, lying on the slab. My extremities are growing cold. Molly speaks. "Could you go get some lunch? You're looking a bit peaky…how' long's it been since you came in? Trust me, I can handle this one." Footsteps leading out.

They all pulled it off perfectly. I'm in the morgue; she's drawing up the death certificate.

"You can get up now," she says. I swing my legs over the table. I'm nauseous.

"You need to tell me a few things," she says.

Full name of deceased…Sherlock Holmes.
Sex…Male.

Age…31.

Place of Birth…York, England.

Date of Birth…6 January 1981.

Place of Death…London, England.
Date of Death…15 June 2012.

Primary cause of death…Accidental Fall.

Secondary cause of death…Internal Trauma.

I am officially a dead man.

"You can't tell him I know," I say. I can't feel my fingers; it's all prickling and numb. Medically, I know what's going on. My electrolytes are low, I'm in shock, the adrenaline is leaving my system and I'm exhausted because of it. Really, all I know is that I could punch Molly in the face right now, for the lies, and my hand wouldn't feel a thing.

She stares ahead, into space, and I don't know how I can persuade her that it's best for him. "Whatever he needs to do, he doesn't need to be hindered by the idea that I'm here." This is a complete, utter lie. I have never stopped Sherlock from doing anything. He doesn't care. Of course he doesn't care if I'm left behind, he was going to let me think that I'd been permanently abandoned. What, if anything, does that say about his conscience, his empathy? It certainly says something about our relationship.

Molly knows that it's lies, too. She'll tell him and who knows what will happen then?

"You can't. Listen, you owe it to me. You were going to lie to me, now go lie to him. Tell him I don't know anything."

"You suspect nothing," she says in a monotone, and shamefully turns away, probably wrestling with her conscience, and I wonder what this has done to her as a person, all these lies, lying to me, lying to him, lying on official documents. This is just one more in Molly Hooper's serial lying spree. So now I have to sit and wonder whose trust she will betray: his, or mine. The odds are not stacked in my favor. I think she knows that I know this. She says nothing more.

Once I've left, my phone buzzes in my pocket and I know before I pull it out that it must be from Mycroft.

Go visit his grave. Noon on Saturday. –M

Will he be there?

That's up to him. -M

Here's what will happen: Mycroft will tell him that I made plans of my own volition to go and visit his grave. I think he'll come and watch me weep over a buried body that's really just some Joe Soap who was never claimed, and I think that he'll think that I believe it's real. For me, that will be hell. Giving that soliloquy is nothing that I want to do, not to enhance the grandiose self-worth of a man who is already convinced he is the master of the universe. Perhaps, though, this will have humbled him. That depends on why he did it, which I still don't know.

What chain of events led to him mounting that hospital and taking a leap that he knew would blow my heart into a million pieces? What went wrong that had me wailing in rage instead of weeping in despair? There are never flaws in Sherlock's plans—he's Sherlock, and flaws would make him human. I still wonder, though, why?

I can't think.

He got sick of me and my stupidity.
He was being irrational. (Sherlock, irrational? Never!)
He was bored.
He risked his life to prove he's clever.
He wanted to see if he could pull it off, just as another challenge.
He was threatened.

Will I ever know?

Saturday dawns dark and cold, and I think, almost poetically, that if Sherlock was really dead and I was really left behind, I would think that this is exactly how a world without his brilliant mind should be. But he's not, and I'm not, and it's really just weather patterns moving across London.

On the spur of the moment, I invite Mrs. Hudson along so that she can say her goodbyes as well. The clouds swirl and I think that it will probably rain.

The plot for Sherlock's grave is gorgeous, and it would make a wonderful resting place for anybody, especially someone whose family likes to visit. It's shady and filled with statues and green trees. It's almost as good as a park, just a nice place to sit and talk with someone you miss. This is the part I'm playing now—not that of a disturbed, crushed friend like I was before, but the part of a mourning family member. He was as good as any family I have.

But I'm not a real mourner; I'm just playing the part again. This is the first time I've seen the gravestone; it's a simple piece of black stone with his name and date of birth, and I realize with a start that I never knew his birthday: January 6th, 1981. He was younger than me, by almost three years. He had a birthday in our flat and he never told me what day it was. It's this, more than any part of the charade, that makes me feel like crying. He must have just spent it working like any other day.

The tears are already starting to form as I approach the headstone. What would I think if he was actually dead, or if I believed he was actually dead? What would I do with my life? What am I going to do now? Would I wait? How long would I be willing to wait before acceptance finally kicked in, and how would I react when he finally did come back?

I swallow. What should I say? You dirty, awful, inconsiderate bastard, how could you—no.

Just come back. Better.

I should give the elegy that I would have at his funeral, if he had had one.

"You told me once that you weren't a hero." Insult him, I think. "There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this."

Now I should really pile it on. Maybe he'll even feel guilty. It's uncharacteristic for me to feel spite, but I want him to regret this. "But let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever be able to convince me that you told me a lie. So…there." I know how he does it now. After a while, the words just come. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much." I pause, knowing that this is the moment to impart a message that he can read however he likes. "There's just one more thing; one more miracle, for me, Sherlock. Don't be dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

I want to vomit, thinking that he's close by, listening to this pile of lies. I want to jump up on his headstone and scream. "You idiotic bastard, why, why, WHY? Why are you keeping me in the dark? Why did you do this in the first place? Come out and tell me, you piece of shit!" I want to use every profanity known to man in every language that I know, but I don't.

The game would be up, but then again the game doesn't really exist. The game is no longer on. The game is over, for good.