Author's Note: Hi guys, thank you so much for adding this story to your favorites and story alert. I wasn't on planning on continuing this to be honest, which is why I said it was completed. But this happened, so I hope you still like it. I honestly don't like making stuff up because I never know for sure if it's possible. So bear with me on how the whole helicopter scene played out. It made sense in my head. Leave me reviews, I love getting them. :)

Sherlock remained still with his eyes closed. He winced as the flood of information from his other four senses attacked his tired and quite possibly drugged mind. His ears could make out a soft, dripping sound, IV fluids?, a whirring noise coming from somewhere above him towards the left, air-conditioner, and a steady, rhythmic beeping, normal heart rate. He was on a bed, wrapped in cotton sheets. The fabric felt cool and smooth on his skin. He moved his hands slowly and took hold of it, feeling it beneath the pads of his fingers. A moment's pause and then Sherlock wiggled his toes. Satisfied with the mental inventory of his limbs, he took a deep breath. The air that entered his lungs smelled so strongly of antiseptic and disinfectant that he could practically taste it, leaving a burning and stinging sensation in his nasal passage. He sneezed and winced again. There was a sharp pain in his left side. His hands felt around the area gently. Bandages. Wet. Needs changing.

Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled the sheets off of him. He tried to sit up and gingerly accomplished it. He could now see the red stain spreading its way through the cloth and was still as calm as ever, more amused and not at all horrified that he was wounded.

Sebastian Moran. Until next time then.

"Nice to see you're finally awake, Sherlock." Mycroft flashed a quick smile and walked towards him. He hung his umbrella on the railings and took the empty seat beside his bed.

"Did the plan work perfectly?" Sherlock thought to ask. But knowing Mycroft, the answer was already expected.

"No. Not as perfectly as I had hoped." Mycroft looked at him pointedly. Sherlock frowned for a second and then realized the meaning behind his words.

I got shot.

"I can't say I did not anticipate the risk. But I had supposed that you would be able to work your way out of any of a number of nasty situations."

"I did. I timed it perfectly."

"Next time, choose the alternative where you won't get shot. If I find out you only did this for the morphine-"

"Don't be preposterous, Mycroft. It was all I could do to not die! Losing a bit of flesh is much better than losing my life, wouldn't you agree?"

Sherlock could hear the beeping noise accelerate and he tried to calm himself. For a few moments, as if to allow him to, Mycroft didn't speak either. Only until after the heart monitor returned to its usual rhythm did they continue the conversation.

"Sebastian Moran, was it?" Mycroft inquired.

Sherlock nodded.

He was remembering what had happened, out there on the roof, then in that helicopter. He had texted Lestrade before he went to meet Moriarty, setting the stage for what was coming. The whole plan wouldn't have succeeded if there were no witnesses. And who better to testify to the series of events than Scotland Yard?

Jim Moriarty had met him in his usual Westwood suit, standing alone on the platform in front of a grey helicopter. What was supposedly going to be just a simple discussion about the current score between them turned into some kind of hostage situation. Just as Mycroft had anticipated, knowing that there was an on-going deal between them that Moriarty would want to leverage. Moran was waiting in the helicopter. Sherlock had thought that the helicopter would have been too conspicuous for a quick get-away but when he pointed this out to Moriarty, he just laughed in his usual, insane way. For a second, Sherlock believed that Moriarty had devised some sort of trick to fool his brother but he quickly shrugged the thought away. It didn't matter. It wouldn't matter. He just needed to time it perfectly and it would all be over.

With the element of surprise, and a well-placed hit with his elbow, Sherlock managed to push Moran away from the door but right into the pilot which caused a sudden lurch. Sherlock opened the door and looked out. He could see the stretch of water below and knew that there was no allowance for getting it wrong. He had to be accurate down to the last second and inch. Sherlock felt a hand grabbing his shoulder and heard Moriarty say, "Don't be obvious. I'm going to kill you anyway." Sherlock turned to look at him and from the corner of his eye, he saw Moran reach for his gun. Knowing he was seconds from certain death by bullet, Sherlock grabbed Moriarty's hand on his shoulder, smiled and said, "Wouldn't dream of it." There was a loud crack and Sherlock allowed himself to fall out of the opening using every bit of his force as well as gravity to drag Moriarty along with him. He saw Moran's jaw dropping in shock, heard Moriarty's scream as the bullet went through him and grazed Sherlock. They were falling, a tangled mess of limbs. Their coats billowed in the wind, serving as some form of air resistance, but they were still falling fast. He knew that at this velocity and at that height, they would be knocked unconscious as soon as impact. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited. All he knew was that before he blacked out, before the water swallowed him whole, he was thinking of John.

An audible cough brought Sherlock back to the hospital room. He looked at Mycroft and suddenly realized he didn't ask the most important question.

"Jim Moriarty?"

"Dead, as planned. My men disposed of the body."

"Was it the bullet, the impact or the water?" Sherlock asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"He drowned. But I doubt he would have survived for long with that bullet wound either."

Sherlock nodded as if he was agreeing with the assessment. Jim Moriarty is dead, he thought to himself. He's dead, Sherlock. For some reason, all he wanted to do now was call John and tell him the good news. But he knew he couldn't.

"How's John?" He asked, finally.

"He's… to be expected." Mycroft composure faltered a bit, and Sherlock scowled.

"He's writing your eulogy," Mycroft added. "For your memorial service this Sunday."

"I didn't ask what he was doing. I asked you how he was, Mycroft." Sherlock said, visibly on edge.

Mycroft sighed and gestured something with his hand. Anthea walked in with a set of clothes and dropped it on Sherlock's bed.

"Anthea, tell them I'll be taking my brother home, as soon as they change his bandages."

"Yes, sir." And she was gone.

"You still haven't answered my question."

"I thought you would rather see for yourself at your service. Use one of your disguises. I trust you won't ruin the plan now that you've set it in motion."

Sherlock eyed Mycroft suspiciously. "What if I do?"

His older brother gave him a warning look and stood up from his chair. He walked calculatingly towards Sherlock and reached for his umbrella.

"By all means, tell him, Sherlock. Tell John you're alive. We both know how well he kept Ms. Adler's secret."

"It's an insult to compare my relationship with John to his relationship with the woman. I'd trust John with my life."

"But you're supposed to be dead." Mycroft said, in a dangerously low tone. "Whether or not our plan works may rely on how convincing John's performance is."

"Except it won't just be a performance, Mycroft." Sherlock said, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Exactly, my dear brother. It will be real and that will be to our advantage." Mycroft saw the outrage etched on Sherlock's face, but before he could express them in words, Mycroft spoke again. "May I remind you that this was your decision and I'm doing everything I can to support it. Please do not argue with me as it's getting terribly tiresome. I would suggest you think about why you chose to do this in the first place."

Mycroft strutted out of the room, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

In the silence, a memory resurfaced in his mind.

"Tell him you're alive."

"He'll come after me."

Sherlock sighed and was thankful that he was alone in the room. It proved to be too difficult to stop his tears from falling. You can't come along this time, John. I'm sorry.

John was swimming. The water was cold and dark, but he could still see him. Sherlock. He swam towards him, reaching out as far as he could and trying desperately to grab hold of him, any part of him. But the current was taking him farther and farther away. "No! Give him back," he screamed, but all that came out of his mouth were bubbles. He screamed some more, but the water pushed its way into his mouth, into his lungs. He was drowning. He was dying. Sherlock's dea-

John woke up with a start, panting. His sheets had been haphazardly thrown on the floor and his clothes stuck to his skin. He sat up and hug his knees to his chest, wiping away some of the sweat on his brow on his pajama bottoms. He tried to steady himself, taking deep breaths. It's been a week, he thought. It's today. I'm supposed to give his fucking eulogy today.

John couldn't differentiate between the tears and the sweat anymore, all he knew was that his clothes were soaked. He stood up and walked towards the shower. The spray of water on his skin was strangely therapeutic. He stood there even after he was all clean, just stewing. A part of him still couldn't believe that this was truly happening. He needed closure. He needed to see Sherlock not breathing, to feel his cold skin. Over the last few days, he had flip-flopped between varying emotions. Denial, anger, bitterness and grief. Heart-wrenching, soul-crushing sadness. He had almost convinced himself that it was all just a conspiracy. Greg, Mycroft and everyone at Scotland Yard were just hiding the body from him, because dear, fragile John couldn't possibly handle seeing his best friend on a slab in the morgue. Because he suffered from PTSD. Because he saw a therapist. Fuck them all, I'm a soldier. I've been to Afghanistan. I've killed people.

John left the shower and dried himself off roughly as if he was rubbing his skin raw. This was the kind of pain he could manage, not the one inside him. Not the one that's been eating away at him. Not the one that was hell-bent on drowning him, suffocating him, crippling him. John took a step towards the door and fell.

"Damn it," he winced and cursed. His leg had been acting up at odd intervals. John knew it wouldn't be long before he'd have to use the cane again full-time. Using his arms and the door frame, John pulled himself up and limped towards his room to get dressed. He hated everything.

John didn't know how he managed to deliver the eulogy without breaking down. Maybe it was because everyone was expecting him to. Sherlock probably enjoyed proving everyone wrong more than anybody, and John finally understood why.

He had stood there on the podium, in front of so many eyes just waiting for him to burst into tears, and delivered the eulogy he had prepared. About how Sherlock Holmes was a great man. How he was good. How he had lived and died for the game. How he had rid the world of someone evil. How he was his best friend. He didn't say what an incredible arse he was for leaving him behind and going after Moriarty alone. He didn't mention how horribly insensitive and cruel he was for leaving him a fucking voicemail that he still hadn't deleted. They didn't need to know that he played it all the time just to hear him say his name. They didn't need to tell him how pathetic that sounded because John already knew. But that doesn't stop him from doing it.

After the service, a bunch of people queued up to give John their condolences. People Sherlock had helped. A married couple whom he had helped by finding their child when she had been taken. A divorced woman whom he had helped by finding her husband who had run off with the maid along with all their savings. An old man whom he had helped by finding who had murdered his son. As well as the people Jim Moriarty had strapped bombs to. Some of them hugged him, others shook his hand. He accepted their gratitude on Sherlock's behalf. But pretty soon, it was all just too much for John to bear and so he excused himself from the room, saying that he needed some air. Everyone gave him an understanding look and said no more.

John found himself near the edge of the water. He wasn't sure it was a conscious decision. Must have been, he thought. His feet had taken him where he had wanted to go. All the feelings that he had been holding in was bubbling dangerously close to the surface. He knew he couldn't hold them in any longer. And although he would rather have done this in the privacy of his room, John didn't quite care if anyone could hear him.

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, bending forwards from the sheer effort of it. The cry carried with it the depths of his pain and anguish. It was a desperate plea and a vehement denial all in one. It was a fading hope and a growing despair. The sound was bitter, loving and, most of all, lonely.

With hot, angry tears streaking his face, John shouted again. "SHERLOCK!"

The immensity of emotions brought him to his knees.

"Sherlock," he whispered, the fight finally leaving him. The pain had numbed him and broken him to the point of acceptance. You left me.

Sherlock Holmes was a master of disguise. His fingers traced and touched his fake white beard and with a quick force he had ripped them off his face. He looked at his old, wrinkly hands and pulled them off as well revealing the pale skin underneath. John hadn't recognized him. Disguised as an old man, he had walked up to his friend and shook his hand. He seemed thinner and there were shadows under his eyes that weren't there before. Sherlock wondered what John sees when he sleeps. Does he see me falling? Does he see me dead?

He had followed John to where he had supposedly died, hiding in the shadows and making sure to keep his distance. That became nearly impossible to do when he had heard John's scream.

"SHERLOCK!"

The cry sent chills down his spine and he almost felt as if he was jumping out of his own skin. His throat clenched in response and he slumped to the ground trying to breathe in the trickling air.

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock clapped his hand to his mouth to keep himself from crying out. Wracking sobs were tearing at his chest cavity, trying to find an escape, to find release. He tilted his head back against the wall and the tears fell from his eyes without warning. He didn't remove his hand until the sobs had receded. Forgive me, John. I need you to forgive me.

With his back leaning against the wall, Sherlock pushed himself up. He cast one longing look at the man kneeling at the edge of the water and turned away. One tentative step after another and Sherlock was walking. A few strides later, he was running. For the rest of his life, he knew he could never forget that unearthly sound, torn and stricken with sorrow and suffering.

Sherlock had been reliably informed that he didn't have a heart. But he couldn't deny what he had heard back there. The sound of two hearts breaking.