"And I'll feel my world crumbling
I'll feel my life crumbling
I'll feel my soul crumbling away
And falling away
Falling away with you"
-Muse
John Watson and I quickly get out of the cab, heading towards St. Bart's Hospital as John's phone rang.
"Hello?" He paused, then put the phone on speaker. "It's Sherlock," he told me. I nodded.
"You okay, Sherlock?" I asked him over the phone.
"Turn around and walk back the way you came. Now," Sherlock instructed.
"No, we're coming in." John protested.
"Just do as I ask. Please," Sherlock pleaded. We both walked back a few yards, "Stop there."
No, something's wrong. Oh dear God, something is wrong.
John felt it too. "Sherlock?" He asked, panicking a little.
"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop," Sherlock said. The words echoed in my head as I gazed up.
"Sherlock!" I grabbed the phone from John, "Get down right now. Whatever's wrong–"
"I can't come down, so we'll… we'll just have to do it like this." He looked down at John and I as I clutched the phone in my shaking hand.
"What? What's going on?" John asked.
"An apology. It's all true," Sherlock told us.
"What?" We both asked.
"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." No. No, that wasn't true. Why would he put himself through so much turmoil? No, it wasn't possible.
"Sherlock, stop this right now." I growled into the phone, feeling a hot tear stream down my cheek.
"I can't, Ellie. I'm sorry, but I'm a fake. Tell everyone and anyone that will listen to you two. I invented Moriarty."
"No. No you're not and you didn't." John said, "The first time we met, you knew all about my sister."
"Nobody could be that clever," Sherlock told John solemnly. This wasn't Sherlock. This was a side I rarely saw of him. This was fear, I could tell from his voice. This was fear and sadness and regret all mixed together in his voice.
"You could," John stated matter of factly. Sherlock laughed a little.
"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."
"No. Stop this, Sherlock. Stop it now!" John pleaded angrily. He started to walk to the entrance of Bart's, and I followed. We had to get Sherlock off the roof to safety.
"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" He asked frantically.
We stood still, another tear rolling down my cheek. "Sherlock, what's this about?" I asked, my voice quavering.
"This phone call, it's… it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"
"Leave a note when?" John asked.
"Goodbye, John." Sherlock said. "Goodbye, Ellie." He told me, his own voice trembling.
Suicide. This was his suicide. A sob racked my body and my knees felt weak. He spread his arms out and plummeted to the ground.
My heart stopped beating and everything seemed to slow down, as if wanting me to remember that moment for the rest of my life. It felt like death, grabbing me with hollowness and tears. I watched him as John shouted out his name and another sob took over my body. A secret lingered on my lips, not leaving them.
I love you, Sherlock.
I never had told him that, and now I never could.
John stared forth with disbelief, then looked back at me, holding me as I felt my knees collapse underneath me.
"John," I sobbed. "John, that didn't–," my breaths were quick, "that didn't happen."
"Come on," he says, helping me up. We started to run around a building that was hiding our view, and then a biker slammed into both of us. I fell down. I stayed put, feeling numb, and closed my eyes, only wanting to wake up from this terrible nightmare I was living.
John got up a few moments later and dragged me along. We came over to Sherlock's body and more tears came down my cheeks. I couldn't look at it, so I turned away.
I stared at Sherlock. His eyes seemed only inches away, but he was far up on a building and I was on the ground. "Sherlock, please." I whimpered.
"I'm so sorry," he told me, his voice a whisper in my ear.
And then he jumped.
"Sherlock!" I screamed.
I opened my eyes, now wide awake, and sat up in bed, scared and panting. "Sherlock…" I whimpered, clenching my teeth. I wanted someone here with me now. John had fallen asleep a while ago, and I had stomped up to my apartment, every step heavy with grief.
But I was alone, and no amount of begging could bring him back.
It has been almost two years since the untimely death of Sherlock Holmes. The magazine and news articles have been showing up less frequently than ever. The double suicide of Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. The world has moved on.
John has a girlfriend now, a pretty serious one. I think he's planning to propose to her soon. Mary, her name is. She's nice.
How am I, you may ask? Well, I took up a job with Scotland Yard, helping to solve the odd little cases, here and there. I'm not as good as Sherlock, though. No one could ever be as brilliant as he was. Never.
Speaking of Sherlock, there's been news cases popping up recently. The most recent was a Serbian site – the Baron Maupertuis, I believe it was called. It sounds like something he would do. Mycroft Holmes believes it could be a sign. I'm not sure what to think, but I know all hope I once had for Sherlock perhaps being alive is now gone.
I'm currently sitting in 221B Baker Street, looking over the files for a new case. It's completely silent and peaceful. And then my phone rings. I jump, startled by the sudden noise.
I pick up the phone, the caller ID reading 'John'. "Hello, John."
For a moment there's only breathing coming from the other end, then a broken voice, "Ellie?"
Suddenly I'm on alert. "John, what's wrong?"
"I'm sorry, I–I just… Be prepared…," came his vague response.
There came the sound of shuffling over the phone, and then another voice. "Eleanor…"
My blood runs cold. That voice. A voice I hadn't heard in two years. A voice I never thought I'd hear ever again. The voice of the man I had come and known to love.
"Sherlock…" I speak barely above a whisper. I suddenly feel weak, my knees sinking me to the floor. He continues speaking, but I can't hear him. I seem to have lost all competence.
And then I hear the creak of the stairway.
I freeze, listening for whom it may be. How did I not hear the front door?
"Lovely evening we're having. Don't you think, Eleanor Archer?" Says a smooth, Irish voice.
I stand up slowly, my back to the person. Then I abruptly spin on the spot.
There's a figure hiding in the shadows. Slowly the person steps out.
No. No, he can't be alive.
He is back.
Moriarty.
Sherlock's voice speaks into the phone again, "Ellie…? Are you alright?"
I still don't reply.
They're both alive.
James Moriarty smirks upon seeing my reaction, "Did you miss me?"
I let the phone slip through my hand and it goes crashing down, shattering along the wood floor.
