Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.

Authors Note: I really do feel bad for not updating for ages, so I spent most of the day working on this (Study leave really is good!). Sorry if there seems random pairings everywhere, there are hints to Mystrade (Mycroft/Lestrade), and there was past Mycroft/Moriarty in this fic. I also upped the rating because of the themes of suicide in this chapter. Next chapter will be up soon-ish, some of my favourite works are due to be updated, so I'll spend a long time reading the new chapter, reading the whole fic again, angsting out about needing a new chapter, rereading again... You get the picture. Enjoy!

Crescendo

"This is my note."

"No, Sherlock, no..."

"Don't move..."

"Sherlock, please, don't..."

"Goodbye, John."

"NO!"

John started awake, panicked. His face was wet, his t-shirt sticking to him. The darkness glared at him. He put his hands to his face, his body shaking as he sobbed. There was no-one here to hear John's sorrow, to hear his grief. Lestrade had temporarily moved in for the first few hard weeks after Sherlock's death, but he had quickly moved into Mycroft's house. He probably couldn't handle the guilt he felt for his part in Sherlock's death. If he hadn't listened to Donovan, to Anderson, Lestrade still believed that Sherlock would still be standing, still be living. John gave a humourless chuckle.

Nothing stood in Moriarty's way when he wanted you dead.

John knew that Lestrade was suffering in his own way too. Apparently Mycroft was coping, but barely, Lestrade said.

Serve him right, the bastard.

Mycroft had turned up at 221b mere days after Sherlock jumped. It was the first time John moved from Sherlock's bedroom. Mycroft left fairly quickly, with the added bonus of a broken nose. He hadn't seen him again. He knew Mrs Hudson had called Mycroft when he had found the... Sherlock's note. He'd sent Lestrade.

Coward.

The shaking sobs slowed, he could breathe a bit more. He moved towards the kitchen, his plan to get a glass of water. He would normally have tea, but there was no milk. There was no-one to tell him to go to Tesco anymore. And however much he moved the skull, it didn't quite work the same.

He leaned against the cool worktop, swirling the water around in the glass aimlessly. It was easy, not having to think, to remember what to do every waking minute. Walking, working, breathing. It all suffocated him, pulling him back, stopping him.

Why should you have the right to do the things he's not? The things he can't? The things he'll never do again?

Why that right indeed?

Sherlock had left him with nothing. Yes, he had material objects. The skull, his clothes, his scientific equipment. John held on to them because Sherlock had left him with nothing. No explanation. No reason. Just a jump and other people's pity. 5 months, and all he saw in people's eyes was the pity. At the surgery, Scotland Yard, even his own sister. He was the one with the best friend who had gone roof jumping.

Look at what you've left me with Sherlock. A shell of a life. It's vast, empty, without you.

He moved slowly back into the living room, staring at the skull. All those conversations that John had never heard. How lonely he must have been. John peered closely at the skull (Oliver, as he had started to fondly call it). The moonlight shone on a small, white scrap of paper, trapped in Oliver's jaws. John prised it away, dread bubbling in his stomach.

"Don't throw your life away."

Shock stunned him, his breath sharp and heavy. Silence engulfed him, screaming at him, those five words being flung in his face.

This is how it's going to be Sherlock? Every time I get a bit more healed, a bit more certain with life, you throw these... these... notes back into my face?

Screw you.

John crumpled the small sheet in his palm, and let it fall. He stood motionless, a few seconds, it seemed like hours. Slow, cautious, certain movements lead him back to his room. His fingers shaking as they undid a lock. If Sherlock was going to play this sick joke on him, a game, like Moriarty, then it was the least John could do to end it on his own terms. He couldn't live in this constant fear of not knowing what was around the corner. Sherlock? Risen from the dead, haunting him, shadowing him, conducting this dance, this play, John could make sure he played no part in it. The last time he had engaged in this, Sherlock had ended up falling – jumping – from a rooftop. These games killed you. They turned you into broken men. They played with your mind. Manipulated you. Maybe it wasn't Sherlock. Maybe Moriarty himself, the composer, the arranger. He lurked in the shadows, waiting to pounce. He was one to toy, to lead on and on, waiting for the perfect moment to bring the crescendo down on you.

Whichever way, he was a dead man walking.

He'd soon solve that.

Make it less entertaining. Make them bored. Make them wonder.

What must it be like in your tiny little brains?

John was finally answering that question. He put his hand in the box, shakily pulling out his pistol. He sucked in a breath of air, sweet, too heavy. He raised his hand, felt the cool metal against his lips.

Tastes like blood.

Tastes like death.

He raised his hand higher, opening his mouth, the metal against the roof of his tongue.

Goodbye Sherlock.

His hand tightened on the trigger, smooth metal against calloused skin. His heart grew louder, his breathing hitched.

One. Two. Goodbye...

"JOHN?" A voice screamed, panicked, hoarse. John closed his eyes, his smile biting on the pistol.

The conductor came.

"JOHN?" The words seemed closer now, urgency slicing through the rooms, muffled, fevered movements.

John laughed, quiet and echoing. The movements stilled, sensing. They started again in fresh pursuit, every footfall growing ever louder. A crescendo.

A tall, dark figure paused at the doorway, out of breath, perfectly rumpled. John continued to laugh, insanity starting to creep into the edges. The figure took a step forwards, out of the shadows. A pause, a heartbeat.

"John?" The voice that could be smoother than velvet, broken and brittle. Another cautious step. John slowly opened his eyes, laughter glinting at the figure.

"John. Please, put down the gun." Another step, hand outstretched. John slowly lowered his hand, and placed the pistol in the porcelain palm. The figure turned, placing the gun down on the dresser.

"You destroyed me. Do you know that. Does that comprehend?" The figure turned his head, sorrow etched across his face.

"I know." John blanched. He hadn't expected to hear that answer.

"I'll stop the notes." Another surprise. The figure turned away, and headed for the door.

No. It can't be happening again. It can't. I won't let it.

"Sherlock?" The question came out hoarse and pleading. Sherlock stopped, perfectly still. He turned back to John, mild curiosity written upon his face. John pulled in a breath, his voice hitching on the next word, his voice hoarse and pleading.

"Stay?"