Revealed – Part II

"Hey." Jane said as soon as she got into Sherlock's room. She closed the door behind her back and smiled at him sweetly. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock sighed. "Tired."

"It's normal. You need to sleep." Jane pressed a kiss to his forehead and sat next to him on a chair. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Good. I know you don't like it and that the food here is crap, but if you wanna go home soon we need you to collaborate with us, okay?"

"Okay."

Jane looked at the new flowers on Sherlock's bedside and smiled. "Sophie brought them for you."

"When did she come?"

"A couple of hours ago. She didn't want to wake you." Jane handed Sherlock a white envelope with Sherlock's name written on it. The detective examined it and smiled a bit at the sight of his daughter's handwriting. "I... I think it'll better if Sophie stays with your parents for a couple of days. I've talked to Mycroft and he agreed on taking her. She's travelling tomorrow." Jane commented while she looked at the medical charts, especially, at the notes every nurse seeing Sherlock had written, where they marked the sedatives, the morphine and the medicines given to him during the day. "Okay?"

Sherlock merely nodded and placed the letter on his bedside. He was reading it later. He had always loved Sophia's letters. She wrote him letters for his birthdays, for Christmas, and every time he was on a case that took him far from Baker Street. Once Sherlock went to Scotland and he received a new letter every day. At the end, and once he had the case all wrapped up, he got twelve letters and he loved every single one of them. Sophia always wrote him about Jane, about Mrs Hudson and her flowers, about her classmates, about the teacher who was insufferable and she always mentioned how much she missed him.

"Shift just finished. I'll go now and help her packing. Need anything else?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

She checked on the bags on the pole connected to his IV lines. "I'll give you some more sedatives."

"I need morphine." Sherlock said, his voice sore. He turned his head and saw Jane injecting more sedatives to him. "I've been sedated ever since I got out of surgery."

Jane gave him a weak smile. "Sorry love, can't give you any."

"Why?"

"You know why, Sherlock."

Ah. Sherlock often wondered why was it that every single member of his family, minus Sophia obviously, had to mention, and, bring back his past habits, such as his drug abuse. He was well aware of what he had consumed, injected and smoked. He didn't need to be told about his past. He didn't spend his life telling his mother about her dropping everything for him and Mycroft. He didn't spend his days telling his father he could have been something more than a mere boring historian. He didn't remind Mycroft about his weight problems and he didn't remind Jane about the time she had a limp and suffered from PTSD.

"Dr Michaels will come and see you in a couple of hours and the nurse who'll check on you knows me, so if you need me tell her and she'll call me." She noticed Sherlock was too quiet. "Hey, you okay?

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"I love you." Jane pressed a kiss to his lips. "Get some sleep, okay? I'll come tomorrow first thing in the morning."

Soon after she left his room and closed the door, Sherlock pulled at the cannula and the machines connected to him that measured his heartbeats and his breathing pattern and found a shot with some morphine that Mycroft had left for him under his pillow.

There was a killer he ought to catch.

Jane did her rounds, a typical procedure she was meant to do every time before finishing her shifts. She checked every single one of her patients were okay. She talked to nurses and doctors and discussed what was the best for the patients. She also talked to their families and gave them good and, sometimes, bad news. It was always difficult to go back home after telling a son or a daughter their father or mother was dying. But it was good to go back home after telling someone the one they hold dear is safe, healthy.

Sherlock had at least one more week in hospital before he could be discharged and sent home. Now that there was nothing else to be worried about, or that's what Mycroft said, Jane was one hundred percent sure they could resume their lives. Sherlock could take more cases, she could go on working at the hospital and Sophie could go back to school.

Maybe they could go out and have dinner as Sherlock had originally planned for their anniversary. Maybe they could go and get Sophie a dog. She had been insisting ever since Mrs Hudson said they could get any pet they wanted. Firstly, Sophia had wanted a cat, but Sherlock was allergic. Then, she said she wanted a horse, but Sophie knew she could never have one simply because no one in London keeps a horse in their flat. Finally, she said she wanted a bulldog and that she wanted to name it Gladstone, like the dog in those stories Sherlock used to read to her when she was little.

The doctor hailed a cab and got inside, not knowing what was to happen. That night in which Jane was meant to help her daughter packing, she would end up seeing the one she loved and held most dear taking her life.

"221 Baker Street –"

Jane got inside the cab, not knowing that the one inside was the one she had tried to protect for almost fifteen years. And she was to face her death sentence. Had she known Sherlock was in there, she wouldn't have got into that cab. Instead, she would have never faced the truth. Maybe she would have escaped. Or maybe not. She loved Sherlock Holmes far too much to conceive a life without him.

She loved Sherlock far too much to watch him suffer.

Because when Jane got into the cab, she found Sherlock Holmes was inside. Billy, Sherlock's protégé, was driving the cab and he secured all the doors. There was no way Jane could escape. There was no way Jane could escape Sherlock and the gun he was holding and aiming at her.

Had they known it was the last time they were seeing each other, they would have started it all differently. For Sherlock, he was holding a gun and it was loaded. He was aiming at Jane. His index finger was on the trigger. And Jane didn't move. She didn't hesitate. She didn't try to escape. She sat across Sherlock and decided it was time to face all her faults, all her lies, all her truths and her final trial.

Because if looking after Sherlock Holmes and protecting him from his own demons was wrong – then she was guilty.

The car was taking Sherlock Holmes and Jane Watson to their last destination and to the last place they would be together.

Jane took a deep breath and stared into Sherlock's piercing grey eyes all the way to Baker Street.

Walking up the stairs, both Jane and Sherlock heard those familiar voices; their daughter and Mrs Hudson. Sophia was complaining and saying she didn't like packing. Mrs Hudson was telling her to pack more socks because you never know when you'll need them.

Jane didn't smile as she always did when coming back home and hearing her daughter's voice. Jane was in love with that sweet voice. She loved hearing that sweet, childish voice and compare it with Sherlock's, her great love. But tonight was the last night Jane was to hear certain voices and, had she known this, she would have acted differently. She would have asked her daughter to sing to her all those lullabies she remembered Sherlock had sung to her.

But instead, Jane walked the seventeen steps that took her to the place she called 'home' without looking back at the man who was closely behind her, pressing a gun to her back, and telling her any false move she did, he was killing her.

Silent. Sherlock was silent. He had pronounced no word ever since Jane got into that cab and where both met again. The detective knew that he didn't need to say a word. Words seemed superfluous now.

Now.

Things were to change later.

He was not firing. The gun wasn't for show either. But it was loaded, Sherlock had pulled at the safe and his index finger was on the trigger. Sherlock didn't know exactly why he needed the gun, but he was sure he needed it. He knew Jane wouldn't attempt escaping. Still, he pressed the gun against her back and guided her to the place they had called 'home' for almost ten years.

That same place where they had lived as friends, then as parents of Jane's daughter and then as husband and wife was the same place where the final trial was to take place. That place where Jane gave him her daughter, where Jane accepted his proposal, where Jane said she loved him and where they loved each other so passionately was the very same place where they were to see each other for the last time.

The place where he had been lied to for so long was also the place where Sherlock was finally going to be told the truth.

Or that's what he thought.

"Sherlock! Oh, good gracious," Mrs Hudson hurried to him. "You escaped from hospital again, didn't you. God!"

The landlady met Sherlock and Jane's faces. Jane was not crying and she kept staring at the floor. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to break in tears at any moment. The detective was dressed, but there were bloodstains on his white and expensive shirt. Sherlock was pale, and he had bag under his eyes. His full lips were white. He looked ill, as if he had lost a lot of weight.

"What is going on? Jane?"

"Mum?" Sophie looked at her mother and then at her father. "Dad? Dad, what are you doing here?" She quickly ran to him and tried to hug him placing her short arms around his middle, but Sherlock stepped back and rejected her touch.

"Sophia, go downstairs with Mrs Hudson."

"But dad –"

"Downstairs!" Sherlock bellowed angrily. "Go downstairs and stay there. Can't you do as you're told?"

Sophie broke in tears and ran downstairs, hurt. Sherlock had never talked to her like that. She had never been yelled at because her parents never had reasons to do it. But Sherlock's deep voice scared her and Jane felt the need to go and hold her daughter in her arms and tell her everything was going to be all right. But she couldn't. What looked like Sherlock pressing a hand to the small of her back, like a husband would do, was actually Sherlock pointing a gun at her.

"Are you having a domestic?"

"Mrs Hudson, please. Please, please leave us alone." Jane almost begged, her eyes not meeting hers, not even Sherlock's.

"Jane –"

"Shut up and leave!" The detective bellowed.

The landlady wasn't even out of earshot when Sherlock kicked the door of their flat shut. "Who are you?"

Jane raised her gaze and met Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's angry, furious eyes. The doctor had never seen Sherlock so angry. She had never been looked at as he was looking at her now. She could almost affirm, and she wouldn't be wrong, that Sherlock was looking at her with hatred.

He was hating her now.

"Tell me who you are." Sherlock said quietly, yet firmly. "Don't lie to me any more."

"I'm Jane Watson."

Sherlock dragged a chair and placed it across his. He yanked Jane's comfy armchair and, as he was not measuring his own movements and his own force, the armchair fell to the floor but little he cared. The pulled the other chair there and gestured Jane to sit there.

"Sit."

"Sherlock –"

"Here is where they sit," Sherlock said, clenching his teeth between the physical, the emotional pain, and the anger he was experiencing. "and where they tell us their stories and we chose if we want them or not. You know the drill. You will tell me the truth and I'll choose if I want you or not."

Jane lowered her gaze. She didn't sit immediately, but Sherlock was the one who pulled at her arm and almost threw her to the chair.

The chair, which was usually used by their clients, by those people who came with their stories of missing cats, sometimes their cheating husbands and wives, their stolen things… now that chair was hers. She was a client and she was bound to tell Sherlock her story – the only story she knew and the detective himself had to decide whether he wanted her or not.

Almost ten years had happened since that night when Jane and Sherlock together confronted Matthew Morstan together. That night Jane felt herself falling to pieces. When remembering that awful day, Jane felt as if it had been a bad dream – a nightmare. After that night, and for ten years, she had built her life again on what she believed were safe and strong foundations. Now, ten years later, Jane was falling to pieces again.

Ten years later Sherlock was occupying Jane's place. Now he was experiencing what she felt. Now he was feeling what is to be lied to for so long. For ten years he had shared a bed, raised a daughter, loved and practically became one with that woman, with Jane Watson.

With a liar.

Now, ten years later, Sherlock was finally discovering who the woman he was married to was. For ten years, the same woman he had known for more than a decade, for almost fifteen years, the woman he considered was his best friend and the only person he could ever love had been nothing else but a liar.

Jane Watson had lied to him for more than ten years.

Or that's what he thought.

And the worst thing here wasn't his hurt pride or his ego and his cleverness being insulted. The worst thing here was that he hated her like he had never hated anyone before. The worst thing here wasn't being lied to the face, but the fact Sherlock had been deceived by the woman he thought would never hurt him. Jane had hurt him in one of the most unforgivable ways she could have ever hurt him. The shot – Sherlock didn't care. It was only physical pain what he was enduring. But this... she had been lying to him for so long he felt everything they had, what they still have and everything they could have in their future just vanished. Just like that.

Not looking away from her, not even for a second, Sherlock sat on his armchair, grimacing with pain. It was unbearable. But he couldn't tell what was worst: the physical or the emotional pain. The detective couldn't tell whether his shoulder or his broken heart were causing him this pain.

Tears clouded his eyes. And the detective didn't care the moment he closed his eyes and the tears rolled down his pale cheeks. He didn't care. He looked into Jane's eyes and silently cried. But she didn't. Jane held his gaze, but she didn't cry.

Jane knew time was vital. They had less than fifteen minutes before Sherlock collapsed. They had little time for all the things they had to say. Jane herself had little time to keep Sherlock from himself. Had she known this was coming, she would have taken precautions. Both would have taken precautions. But Sherlock looked so well, his old self.

Now dark Sherlock was back and there was little Jane could do to stop another attack.

"Start from the beginning and –" the detective pressed his hand to his wounded shoulder, somehow trying to make the pain lessen. "Don't' –"

"Sherlock—"

Sherlock rejected her touch. "Don't you dare to lie to me any more because I'll..." He held the gun tightly. "I swear on my daughter I'll kill you."

Jane lowered her gaze and remembered. She remember that lonely woman she used to be after coming back from the war. A broken doctor with no family, no friends, no future. Jane remember who she was when she met the great detective Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock. Ha. She would have never suspected his name was William. William Sherlock Scott, ha. Such mundane names, yet they suited her husband so well. Jane remembered Sherlock confessing her his first and third name were his heavy cross to bear.

Jane remembered and could perfectly recall the woman she was when she met Sherlock Holmes. She was alone, she had no friends and no hope. A bullet in her head seemed the option, she once thought. She had no reason to live, no one to fight for. And then, Sherlock Holmes came.

Sherlock gave her her life back. She smiled with him. She loved preparing tea for him. Jane enjoyed watching him sulking and she loved fighting against him every time she insisted he ought to eat and sleep more. Sherlock was a child trapped in a big body. Sherlock was, to Jane, a small child she ought to take care of and protect from the evil in the world.

After all, that's all she had done, right?

"You know who I am, Sherlock." Jane said softly, his eyes on him all the while. "I'm your wife."

Sherlock frowned. "You're my lying wife."

"Please Sherlock, come back."

Come back. Such words Jane remembered saying so many times. Come back had always helped. Sherlock always came back. Every time this happened, Jane remembered cuddling Sherlock as if he were a small child and pressing him against her chest. This had a soothing effect and it always helped. But this time she could not cuddle him, nor whisper soothing words and ask him, again, and again, and again, to please come back.

Maybe this time Sherlock wasn't coming back.

The detective hear those words. They were familiar. Strangely, he tasted the words himself and felt the need of curling himself against Jane and press his head against her chest, there, between her breasts, as if he were a small child and cry. Why he felt this? He was holding a gun, he was aiming at Jane and he was crying. He was asking for a truth he had always known but chose to forget.

"Come back," Sherlock repeated.

And then, he was there.

Moriarty.

He, the biggest criminal mastermind the world has ever seen was there, behind Jane, in their kitchen. James Moriarty was alive. Safe and sound and alive and there he was, in their kitchen, smiling. He was wearing a blue suit, dark blue. He had his hands inside his pockets and he was smiling at him.

Only at him.

Macabre.

"Sherlock, please –"

"What is he doing here?"

Jane frowned. "Who?"

She wished this was a dream, but she knew it wasn't. Jane was well aware there was no one else beside them in their flat. Sophia was downstairs with Mrs Hudson. There were only four souls within the building and there was no on else beside them.

But then, Sherlock saw him again.

Jane knew Sherlock was not meant to see him, of course not. But Jane didn't need to be told who was there, behind her. Of course it was him. James Moriarty never died. She knew it. How could she not know it?

But for almost fourteen years she believed him dead.

Of course James Moriarty was dead.

Because he had never been alive.

"He's dead!" Sherlock pointed at the kitchen. "He's dead! You're dead!"

Jane turned and looked behind her, to the kitchen, but there was no one. On the table there were two empty mugs, two tea bags, a sponge cake she knew Mrs Hudson had baked for Sophia, a pile of clothes that belonged to her daughter and her textbooks and pencils.

There was no one in their kitchen because the only ones there were them.

And then, Jane understood. Of course. There is a saying – nothing lasts forever – which Jane always believed to be false. She believed love lasts forever. She believed families last forever. Lots of things last forever. The love she felt for Sherlock, Jane knew, would last forever because she loved him no matter what. It never mattered whether Sherlock liked to eat or sleep, or if he kept toes in the fridge and eyeballs in the microwave. She knew she would always love him no matter what.

No matter what medicines they gave him, he was lost again. No matter how many times she had to remind Sherlock of his condition, she still loved him. Jane had seen the worst of Sherlock and she had helped him to go through that hell. When Sherlock was his old self, she was still there.

Because she loved him.

The doctor thought that ten years together, without attacks, would last forever. Almost. She got used to this Sherlock loving her, loving her daughter, having a life together, being that man she loved. Jane had always been alert for she knew this could happen one day. Ten years of marriage and more than ten years without Sherlock suffering was a record and she was determined to do anything within her power to maintain that.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Sherlock wasn't supposed to see Moriarty again.

Dark Sherlock was back again and Jane feared, and knew, he would have to leave her again for only God knows how long. Last time, it took Sherlock almost three years to be his old self again. This time, when Jane needed him more than ever, Sherlock was ill again.

"Sherlock, he's not here."

"He's there!" Sherlock bellowed angrily and aimed his gun to Moriarty's figure. "You're his ally. You've always been." Jane took a step near, but Sherlock now aimed his gun at her. "You lied to me." He said quietly, yet very dangerously. "You were his ally."

"Sherlock –"

"One more step and I kill you."

Jane raised both hands to the air and walked two steps backwards. "It's okay, Sherlock."

"You knew who he was from the beginning," Sherlock almost barked. "You gave me to him – you were Moriarty's right hand man."

"Sherlock, please!" Jane begged him helplessly. "Come back."

"Who are you?" He asked quietly, but when he got no reply, he pulled at the hammer of the gun and his index finger was on the trigger. "ANSWER ME!"

Jane was against the wall, literally. "I'm your wife! Sherlock please -"

"My lying wife." Sherlock corrected her. "You've lied to me... always. Why?"

"Sherlock, love, please remember..." She begged him with tears in her eyes. "Sherlock... Moriarty is not here!"

Sherlock glared at her. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"What?" Jane gasped, feeling herself dying.

Moriarty walked into the living room and smiled at Jane. "Oh, kill her will you. It'll make it all better. Funnier, I daresay."

"You step back!" Sherlock bellowed to him.

"Oh, touchy," Moriarty sang as he made his way next to Sherlock. "That's how the great Sherlock Holmes receives his favourite guest?"

"How can you be alive?" The detective aimed his gun at Jim. "You shot your brains out. I saw it."

"I'm so disappointed in you, Sherlock," The criminal mastermind shook his head, disapprovingly. "You're so disappointing. Always have been, you."

"ANSWER ME!"

"I never died," Moriarty finally answered as he walked past Jane and headed to the window behind Sherlock. "I've always been..." Moriarty stood in front of Sherlock and pressed the pad of his index finger on the detective's forehead. "Here." Sherlock stepped back and looked at Jim surprised. "And one thing I tell you: I'll always, always live here with you."

"What?"

Jane watched her husband talking to no one, aiming a gun at no one and stepping back from no one. Sherlock was staring into the space and aiming his gun at no one.

Jane understood. "Sherlock, love, please. Moriarty is not real!"

"That night at the pool… that wasn't semtex what you had tied to your chest. Those red dots weren't snipers…" Sherlock looked back at Jane. "You weren't his hostage."

"No." Jane looked into his piercing eyes the moment Sherlock aimed his gun at her again. "No Sherlock, you know Moriarty's not real!"

"Do you really think I'm going to keep on believing your lies?"

"Moriarty is not real!"

"I don't know who you are." Sherlock repeated again.

"I'm your wife."

"My lying wife." The detective repeated once again.

"Sherlock… please calm down. Everything I did was to protect you."

"You killed three men."

"What?" Jane asked, surprised. "What are you talking about?"

"You killed the cabbie," Sherlock said, remembering the cabbie who killed his victims and made all those murders look like suicides. "Among Ryan Norton, Jason Simmons and Alistair Johnson. You killed them because they knew who you are."

Jane started crying.

Moriarty shook his head. "She's lying. Why don't you kill her just now?"

"Matthew Morstan didn't kill Magnussen for what he had on him only," Sherlock deduced. "He also died for what Magnussed had on you. You couldn't forgive him for all the lies he said," Sherlock said as more tears clouded his eyes. "But you are a liar just like he was."

"What are you talking about? No –"

"She's lying to you." Moriarty commented.

"He's right," Sherlock said and aimed his gun to Jane. "You're a liar."

"Love, please, remember. Moriarty is not real. Don't you remember what the doctors said?"

"No! No... you're trying to make me think I'm crazy but I'm not –"

"Sherlock, you've got to believe me!" Jane said, finally falling to the floor when she felt she had no more strength.

Moriarty smiled again. "She's lying, Sherlock... your wife is a liar..."

Sherlock shook his head. "You're a liar."

"Sherlock... you've got schizophrenia." Jane gasped and sighed relieved when she heard the ambulance near and their lights on the windows. "Moriarty is not real. He's the product of your imagination. He never kidnapped me. There was no pool. You never faked your own death."

"What?"

"You were found alone at Bart's rooftop – you tried to kill yourself." Jane explained.

Suddenly, everything fell into its place.

"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. My mind invented him. I'm a stupid schizophrenic."

"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."

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

"Sherlock please, get down!"

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

"Leave a note when?"

"I can't stand it any more, Jane. The hallucinations... I hear voices all the time. I can't do it any more."

Sherlock remembered Jane pulling him from the edge of Bart's rooftop. He almost jumped, of course. He could recall her crying, hugging him tightly, asking him not to ever do it again because she couldn't live without him.

"We had to hospitalise you, remember?"

Of course he could remember the nurses, Mycroft, Mummy and Father visiting him. He remembered Jane going to see him, giving him flowers, telling him how lovely Mrs Hudson's knittings were and about her new boyfriend Matthew Morstan, a doctor she had met recently. The detective remembered holding Jane's hand all the time when she visited him. They walked for long periods around that green park. There was a young nurse who helped him combing his hair. She also gave him some perfume, which she said was her husband's, so he would smell nice for the lovely woman who always visited him. That was Jane. The one who once kissed him before leaving was Jane. She apologised. She said she wanted him to meet her boyfriend.

Sherlock also remembered the doctors asking him who James Moriarty was and what he had done. Sherlock recalled those talks with his psychiatrist. And he also recalled being told there was no Moriarty. Never had been. Moriarty had never existed. James Moriarty had always been a mere product of his own imagination. And Sherlock had given him his own physical appearance, his own voice, his own criminal features.

Sherlock Holmes created James Moriarty for his own purposes.

Of course.

"He doesn't exist," Sherlock whispered. He dropped the gun and fell to the floor next to Jane. "He's the product of my own imagination. He doesn't exist." He let himself being cuddled. Jane curled her fragile arms around him and he pressed his head against her chest.

"When you accepted it you came back." Jane said between tears. "D'you remember?"

"Yes."

"Can you remember my wedding to Matthew?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded and pressed a small kiss to the Jane's chest, to her skin, in the middle of her breasts as he raised his head to look into her eyes. "I gave a speech."

Jane looked into his eyes and smiled sweetly at him. "The best speech I've heard. You also played the violin."

"I told you you were pregnant." Jane nodded. "You were expecting Sophie."

"Hmm." She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Do you remember when Sophie was born?" Sherlock nodded against her chest. "You forgot the bag."

"I was there."

"Yes."

"When she was born... I was there."

"Yes."

"You bled."

"Yes, Sherlock. All women bleed when they have babies."

Sherlock pressed another kiss to her chest. "Then we got married."

"Yes." Jane started crying when she felt the pain inside her. "And your mummy was very angry when we told her."

"She wanted to come to our wedding."

The detective tried to focus on her, but, instead, his eyes were on the shadowy figure standing behind Jane. It was James Moriarty. And he was smiling at him, laughing.

But only Sherlock could hear him.

Only Sherlock could see him.

"I can see him," Sherlock said hoarsely. "I can hear him too."

Jane started rubbing his back softly and pressing kisses to his forehead. "Remember he's not real. Okay, love? He's not real."

"How can he not be real? I can see him."

"I know you can see him," Jane whispered to him. "You trust me, right?" Sherlock nodded. "You'll always see him, Sherlock. That's because you're ill. You've got schizophrenia. You understand?"

"Yes."

"He'll always hunt you. But I'll always, always be here with you, okay? I'll protect you. He can't harm you."

Sherlock nodded and kissed her. Jane cupped his face and kissed him as deep as she could in their position. Sherlock was back, but still, she couldn't tell for how long he would stay with her.

She wished she could cure him. Jane wished to have the powers to scare those monsters away, to take that man Sherlock created and that she knew would always hunt him. She knew Sherlock could hear voices, see people she couldn't because they were in his mind. But one thing she knew and it was that she was never going to leave him alone.

Jane would always protect him. Always.

Because she loved him.

When they broke apart, Jane looked into his eyes and smiled a bit. "I'm pregnant."

A child. He was having a child. The detective pressed his hand softly against Jane's still flat belly and pictured a baby. His baby. Their baby. Sherlock was going to be a father and he wasn't sure of what he felt. He wasn't even sure of how he should feel.

"Are you going to keep it?"

For a moment, Jane looked into his eyes and smiled. Because that was all she could do. Smile. "Of course. It's our baby. What d'you think it's gonna be?"

Sherlock rested his head against her chest and silently cried. He could feel her crying too. But her heartbeats made him feel calm, in peace. Moriarty's shadow vanished. Sherlock could no longer hear his laughter.

"It'll be a boy."

"A boy, huh?" Jane pressed a last kiss to his forehead and pressed him closer against her. "I love you, Sherlock."

"My shoulder hurts."

"I know. You're gonna be okay, love. Hold on."

There was Moriarty and Alistair Johnson smiling at him. They were standing together. Moriarty smiled and laughed. He mocked him. Jim pointed at him and laughed. Alistair laughed too and Sherlock felt the need of firing his gun and kill them but he knew they were not real. They were not there. The only ones there were Jane and himself.

James Moriarty and Alistair Johnson were just two people he created. He had never met that old man in the deep of the London underground. He knew he had been shot because someone tried to take his wallet and he fought the thief, but Sherlock didn't know the thief had a gun.

And then, when Sherlock thought he was dying, they heard people on the stairs and then two paramedics got into the flat.

"They said here's been a shooting?" One of them asked.

"Yes," Jane got to her feet and took her stethoscope from inside her jacket. She pressed it against Sherlock's chest. "It was three days ago, but he needs morphine. Yes, I'm a doctor." She took hold of the detective's wrist and checked his pulse while the paramedics got ready to carry Sherlock downstairs to the ambulance. "Good pulse. Suspected internal bleeding. He's schizophrenic."

One of the paramedics started instructing Sherlock to lie on the stretcher and stay still. During the whole process, the detective didn't meet Jane's eyes.

"They said there was a woman too?"

Jane finally gave and collapsed on Sherlock's chair. She gasped and closed her eyes tightly when she felt a sharp pain across her lower abdomen. "That's me." Jane opened her eyes and realised her jeans were bloodstained. "Suspected miscarriage. It's done I think." She finally broke in tears the moment she realised it she was losing hers and Sherlock's baby. "High blood pressure also. I'll need an IV with glucose solution."

Sherlock almost jumped off the stretcher. He tried to pull at the oxygen mask he had, but the paramedic kept pressing it against his face. The detective knew he needed that oxygen and he also knew he was going to have another cardiac arrest soon if he didn't cooperate and let the paramedics do their job but he just needed to be there. He tried to make some eye contact with Jane since he had no voice. Sherlock tried to speak, but he couldn't. Jane had her eyes close and one of the paramedics was taking her blood pressure.

Soon everything was blurry.

The paramedic was pressing his own stethoscope against her chest and tried to take her pulse. "Low. We'll have to call another ambulance. How far along you are?"

"Five weeks I think. Take him first," Jane instructed the paramedics. "He has ten minutes or you'll have to defibrillate."

The two paramedics took him downstairs. Sherlock could hear Mrs Hudson frenetically asking what was happening, Sophia pulling at his clothes and calling his name and the paramedics saying another ambulance was on its way.

The last thing he saw was Jane, her bloodstained jeans and her crying face when everything went dark.