John woke up in a daze. Feeling for the clock on the bedside table he looked at the time. Had he really slept so late? And had Sherlock allowed him to? Swinging his legs over the side of the bed he slipped on his slippers and got up and walked towards the bathroom, stopping as he saw the state of the door. The lock had been completely busted and the door was hanging off its hinges. John looked through the bathroom into Sherlock's bedroom only to see an empty room. The bed had not been slept in. although John knew Sherlock and how he would often go off on his own; he still felt a sense of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. He washed and dressed and then went downstairs to see if anyone at reception had seen Sherlock leave, but they hadn't. John went back up to his room and dialled Sherlock's phone number from the hotel's phone. Voicemail. Searching through his jeans pocket, John found his mobile which had run out of battery. He plugged it into the charger and turned it on.

1 new voicemail from Sherlock

"Oh thank goodness," John sighed as he dialled the necessary number to hear the message.

"John, its Sherlock." The words came fast and in short bursts, like he was running. "Jim's dead, Moriarty is dead. I killed him. He found us and tried to kill me but he didn't and I killed him. But he didn't come here alone. There are others and they are after me. I don't know what's going to happen exactly so I just wanted to say… I love you John, I appreciate that the feelings are not reciprocated but I love you, I always have, I always will. And I'm sorry I didn't make the most of the time that we had together. You were the best thing that happened in my life and I thank you for making me a better person. Not even a better person, a person, a human being! For coming back after the accident, for not leaving me again. For saving me as a child and then saving me as a childish adult. I love you and I'm sorry. I just wanted to-"

And there the message cut off.

John was breathing hard, stunned, as he waited for his brain to digest the sounds that had just entered his ear. Moriarty was dead? Mycroft, I have to call Mycroft. John fumbled with his phone as he clumsily attempted to select the correct number. After the third attempt, John placed the phone to his ear and listened to the ringing. Mycroft answered after the first ring.
"John?" John couldn't bring himself to speak. The only noise he could make was a sort of 'ehhhh'. Mycroft could tell there was something wrong immediately. "I'll be there in two hours. Stay exactly where you are," he commanded. He had nothing to worry about. The heavy weight on John's shoulders prevented him from going anywhere, no matter how much he wanted to. He wanted to get out there and start searching for Sherlock, he was clearly in danger, he sounded terrified on the phone, but the way he had spoken in the message, it sounded so final! Like Sherlock knew he was never going to see John again, and John couldn't take that.

It seemed like time had passed both very quickly and very slowly when Mycroft, filled with is own importance, came bursting into John's hotel room.
"I heard the message; I have the best out looking for him." He looked pale; John had forgotten that Sherlock was Mycroft's brother until he had heard the tremor in the voice Mycroft had tried so hard to conceal. They sat in silence; both understanding each other's pain, but neither wanting to speak first.

After who knows how long Mycroft's phone rang. John could only hear one side of the conversation but the expression on Mycroft's face told him it was not the news he wanted.
"What have you found...That means nothing…right…I'm on my way." He got up from where he was sitting, John mirroring his actions. Mycroft was about to protest but he knew that John was as stubborn as his brother and would not stay behind if he were to leave. "They've found Jim Moriarty. Well, his body. And obvious signs of a struggle. There are a few shell casings but they've found no gun and there is no sign of Sherlock. I am going to look at the crime scene. I may not be as good as Sherlock, but I will do my best." He rose his eyebrows as if to say 'coming?' to which John replied with a nod. He would be of no help, he knew, but at least it was better than sitting doing nothing.

Seeing Jim's body was a surprise to John. He knew he was dead, Sherlock had said so and yet he was still expecting to see someone else lying sprawled out at the bottom of the cliff that he had obviously fallen down from. So when Sherlock had said he had killed him, he had meant they had struggled and Jim had fallen. That had put a small amount of his mind at ease, but not a lot. Mycroft appeared from further down the dirt track. His face was deathly white. He couldn't even bring himself to look at John as he told him.
"They found a collection of bullets on the top of the cliff, not far from where Moriarty must have fallen. They found a blue scarf caught on a ledge. There was blood on it. There is a river at the bottom of the cliff there," Mycroft stumbled over his words. "His body-"
"No."
"-Must have-"
"No."
"-been washed away."
"NO!" John screamed.
"There are people searching-" his leg, his leg hurt so much. "-but there is little hope." And his shoulder, why did it hurt so much? "Come John, lets go back to the hotel, we're no use here." Mycroft tried to comfort his brother's best friend, but comfort was not an easy thing for him to do.
"No! No I want to help. He can't be dead, he can't!" Mycroft grabbed the bumbling doctor's shoulder, the same way he had grabbed the teenage Sherlock when he was telling him John was dead. If only this was a lie too.

Mycroft lead John back to the hotel, he didn't have the strength to resist. Every step he took his legs gave way and there was a ringing in his head that was drowning out the noise around him. He felt like he was a million miles away from his body and that it was someone else telling his legs to put one in front of the other in these mechanical steps. He was heartbroken.