More restless nights and a constantly empty stomach was all Sherlock had now, his brain hitting a brick wall in his case against Moriarty. I often caught him pulling at his curls and groaning in irritation. It wasn't the usual Sherlock. He spent weeks like that, refused to sleep, rarely ate or drank... Even my desperate attempts didn't help much, he was gradually deteriorating. I starting eating less as well, more because I didn't have an appetite anymore. I was slowly loosing Sherlock, and it made me uncomfortable as well as depressed.

"Sherlock, come on." John begged, setting a tray of biscuits on the table over a massive pile of papers, "You need to eat something."

"I ate yesterday." Sherlock replied, not bothering to look up from his file.

"No!" John barked, "You didn't!"

Sherlock paused momentarily to look up at him, "Not hungry."

"I don't care! You're going to kill yourself!" he was yelling now.

The detective stood abruptly, "Look, Moriarty has a string of connections throughout the city, as he said, he's a spider." he stalked slowly around the table until John could feel the man's angry breath, "I need to take him down."

"Sherlock-"

"It's nearly dinner, you should get yourself something to eat before nightfall." he groaned, looking over to window, and more importantly, away from John.

"Not hungry either."

"Fine." Sherlock rustled through a few more papers before settling on the couch once more, a fresh file in hand, "Go to bed or something, leave me alone."

John glared viciously before turning on his heel and heading for his room. "Goodnight!" he exclaimed in a rather angered tone, slamming his bedroom door behind him as he shouted.

Sherlock turned his head to face the door before muttering to himself, "Goodnight John..."

It hurt a lot to be neglected. The case ran for nearly a year before Sherlock started distracting himself with other odds and ends. A dead woman who apparently chopped her own head off; murder. A man who committed suicide in a restraint; murder. Various cases to keep his attention away. I begged Lestrade to give Sherlock any cases he could possibly find. We went on like that for months on end, until finally... Sherlock cracked the Moriarty case.

"Found him!" Sherlock screeched, leaping off the couch and over to John, who sat at the now empty kitchen counter. After nearly two years of distraction, Sherlock hadn't even noticed when John cleared the counter of his test tubes and coils. The flat almost looked normal, in exception to the stacks of files on the table in the front room. "Y-You-" John blubbered, "You found him? You found Moriarty?"

Sherlock grinned before grabbing John's face and forcing an excited kiss on him. "I am on fire!" he praised himself gleefully.

He shrugged into his coat and skillfully knotted his scarf, files in hand. John struggled to keep up with the man's excitement, flinging on his own jacket and struggling to button it as he followed Sherlock down the stairs and onto the street.

We took the files to Lestrade, who followed Sherlock just as quickly as I always do. Sherlock had been right, Moriarty was easier to catch then we'd expected it to be. The officers shoved him into the back of a barred car and drove off. It was finally over. Things would return to normal after the trial. The jury would convict Moriarty and the crook would be locked away. I wanted to celebrate by making Sherlock come out to eat with me, start his eating again.

I didn't expect the jury to let him go, and Moriarty's visit even less. That disgusting man was sitting in our flat, drinking tea from our cups as if it were a casual get together. When he smiled, I knew it was all wrong. See, he threatened all of the jury. He controlled the system. A spider with it's massive web, tugging the strings to control his various puppets. I wanted normal back, and this man was threatening that.

Scandals rose up as Moriarty claimed it was all an act, that Sherlock had paid him, an actor, to pretend to be Moriarty. It wasn't true! I knew that, and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, surely the others- The papers covered it. It was on the news, people whispered over it in the streets. I wanted to kill Moriarty. Donavan and Anderson accused Sherlock of tampering with all the cases. Every case?! As if Sherlock had invented everything that he ever- I know it was all real, and I know he wasn't faking it, but everyone was against him. No one really knows what happened on that roof, but they found Jim sprawled out on the ground, a bullet in his head.

St. Bartholemew's Hospital. The place that I stood, crying as Sherlock spoke. The phone pressed against my ear was uncomfortable, and my tears were getting caught between it and my skin. I couldn't help but cry. I cried harder then I ever had in my life. Sherlock was standing there, right in front of my eyes. I could see him! If- if I had just been a little bit faster maybe I could've- I know I could've saved him! I know it! but-

"SHERLOCK!" John screamed, half sobbing.

Sherlock's figure slipped from the ledge, falling and falling, then suddenly stopping. John could hardly see past his tears.

The crunch was loud enough for me to hear, and quickly, a crowd grew, pushing me away and grabbing at my arms as I tried desperately to reach Sherlock. I managed to wrap my hand around his wrist, praying, begging for a pulse. A doctor knows when there is a pulse, no mistake. But, when I searched for it, I started crying loudly and blubbering as a stranger held me. Some random person in the street.

I dropped Sherlock's wrist. There had been no pulse. Sherlock Holmes was dead.