FINALE

Moriarty was cruel. He was so, so cruel. He ripped Sherlock apart. He tore his hope and his future. He killed everyone's belief in him; everyone's but John.

John was in the cab. It felt like his stomach was tied in a knot. He had a very bad feeling; a very bad feeling indeed.

"Can you please go faster?" he said anxiously to the cabbie.

"I'm going as fast as is legal sir, I can't do any more than that." The cabbie replied.

John sighed nervously. Damn Moriarty! Damn him to the deepest pits of hell, where the most painful fires would engulf his body and burn him slowly until he finally died. What that man had done to his best friend…

"Stop here." John said to the cabbie, and jumped out of the car. As his feet hit the bitumen, his phone rang. He looked at the screen; it was Sherlock.

"Hello?"

"John," Sherlock started.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back where you came." Sherlock instructed.

"No, I'm coming in!." John said, eying St Bart's.

"Just do as I ask; please." Sherlock pleaded desperately.

What was wrong? What was wrong with him? John had never heard him sound this way before.

"Where?" John turned and paced the other way.

"Stop there."

"Sherlock?"

"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

John shifted his gaze to the top of St Bart's, and sure enough, his friend was standing on the edge, phone up to his ear and his coat blowing in the wind.

"Oh god." John exhaled heavily.

"I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock spoke softly; sadly.

"What's going on?" John's heart was racing with worry.

"An apology." Sherlock started. "It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me; I invented Moriarty."

John paused. He wouldn't believe that. He wouldn't believe that for one second. "Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock,"

"They newspapers were right all along." Sherlock's voice wobbled. "I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly; in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met; the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could." John laughed sadly.

The two men stared at each other from the ground to the rooftop, from the rooftop to the ground.

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you." Sherlock sniffed. "It's a trick; just a magic trick."

"No." John said firmly. "Alright, stop it now."

John started forward.

No, stay exactly where you are!" Sherlock demanded. "Don't move."

"Alright." John raised his hand and stayed where he stood.

Sherlock was reaching out. He was reaching for John. Although John couldn't see it, tears were streaming down the detective's face.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" Sherlock begged.

"Do what?" John wasn't sure what was going on.

"This phone call, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they… leave a note?"

"Leave a note when?" John was fearing the worst. A lump was growing in his throat, and he was silently begging for his fear not to happen.

"Goodbye John."

"No." John shook his head desperately. "Don't."

He kept looking at Sherlock, and the detective slowly lowered the phone from his ear, and threw it aside. john lowered his quickly.

"SHERLOCK!" he cried.

Sherlock raised his arms and dropped himself forward. He was falling. He was falling so fast.

"Sherlock," John couldn't believe what he was seeing.

His best friend's body hit the pavement hard, his body crumpled. John jogged forward. He saw Sherlock's head and shoulders from behind a truck which was parked alongside the pavement. He continued forward when he was knocked over from behind. Suddenly he was flat on the road. He picked himself up painfully. There was now a crowd around his friend.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," he muttered, barely more than a whisper.

He broke into a run. I'm a doctor, let my come through." He pushed through the crowd. "Let me come through please! He's my friend. He's my friend, please."

There he was. Sherlock. His hair was drenched in blood, and the dark red trickled down his pure, pale face. He felt for a pulse hopelessly. Of course, there wasn't one.

People were pulling him away from the body. "Please let me just…" he pleaded as he was pulled away.

He saw the medics come and they put Sherlock and a stretcher, and before he knew it, his friend was gone.

His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Yes, I did that! I totally did that to you!
I will let you know that I am planning a sequel, but I'm afraid I can't tell you it's title yet because... well, because I don't know yet!
I hope you enjoyed this story