None of his landlords would keep Sherlock for long. Whether because he insulted them or their other tenants, or because they had the misfortune of walking in on one of his more bizarre experiments, they all kicked him out sooner or later. He didn't even bother unpacking anymore, because it was utterly pointless. The longest he'd managed to not infuriate or creep out one of his landlords was three months, a record for him.
He was running out of flats to stay in, and one day, while reading the paper, he saw an ad for a flat on 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson's house. It had been years since he'd seen her, surely she would let him stay.
He gathered his things and went to her house. When she opened the door, she threw her arms around him and patted him on the back.
"Sherlock! What a nice surprise! Come in, come in!"
He couldn't help but smile a little at her excitement at seeing him. She poured them both a cup of tea and they sat down at the table.
She asked him about how he had been doing since they'd last seen each other. He skipped over the parts where he was on crack, and instead told her about his cases. She listened intently to every one of his stories, though he noticed how she would wince at the gorier parts, and so he tried to leave those out. But after a while, he tired of the small talk and got to the point.
"Mrs. Hudson, I understand you're interested in taking on tenants."
"Oh yes, I need the money. I haven't gotten any responses yet though, because of what happened here."
"I would like to rent a room here."
Mrs. Hudson took a sudden interest in her hands under the table.
"What's wrong? Won't you have me? Or have you heard all the nasty rumors about how awful a tenant I am?"
"It's not that. It's just that… A man claiming to be your brother called me when I put out the ad. He said he knew about how you got my husband the death penalty, and so he knew you would come here, eventually. He told me about your… problems in the past with drugs."
Sherlock slammed his fists on the table, and Mrs. Hudson flinched. "He's gone too far this time. It's not his place to go telling the whole world about my mistakes. I will get him back for this."
"He's just worried about you."
"That's his excuse to spy on me. It's only a matter of time before he starts paying someone to follow me around. Oh well, I'll just hack into the government database again and steal the launch codes for missiles. Give him a right good headache."
"He wanted me to keep an eye on you, but I don't think that's enough. Sherlock, I can't let you stay-"
"You owe me. I put your husband away, you let me sleep upstairs. Tit for tat, it's only fair. And I am willing to pay full price for the room."
"Let me finish, dear. I can't let you stay without someone up there with you. From what I've learned about you, you have no girlfriend or wife, and you don't have friends to spend time with. The only social interaction you get is when you're working cases, but that doesn't count. You spend all your time alone, and it isn't good for you. So, here's my proposition. Find a flat mate, and the room is yours, and you can do all your investigating and experiments without having to worry about being kicked out, although I might regret that. Friend, family member, girlfriend, chimpanzee, I don't care. Just so that you have someone. What do you say?"
Sherlock was tempted to turn her down and walk right out the door, but he really did need a place to stay. Maybe having a flat mate wouldn't be so bad.
"But who would want me for a flat mate?"
"I'm sure there's someone out there crazy enough to put up with you, Mr. Holmes," she said with a smile.
"Fine, I'll take the deal. We can split the rent."
"An added bonus."
"And if I can't find anyone?"
"I'll give you one month to find someone, and in that time you can stay. But if you don't find anyone by the end of the month, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."
"Deal."
When Sherlock had envisioned his future flat mate, the mental image had looked nothing like the man it turned out to be: John Watson.
John was a former Army doctor with a bad limp. Or at least, he thought he had a limp. Sherlock could tell it wasn't in his leg, but in his mind. He quickly came up with a solution to "fix" that leg.
He was intelligent, that he could easily see. But he was also very kind, and he needed the thrill of adventure to keep him going.
John hadn't been offended or scared away when he'd seen the way he lived his life. He was eager to accompany him on cases, and every now and again he offered insight that he himself hadn't thought of. In short, John hadn't told him to piss off when he'd told him about him and his sister. He thought he was brilliant and amazing; Sherlock wasn't used to people seeing him that way.
Mrs. Hudson was very happy to meet him, but she privately asked Sherlock to not tell him about her sons' murders. He had obliged, and so John didn't find out.
When Sherlock envisioned his future flat mate, he'd expected someone stupid and boring, someone who would think his hobbies too strange, someone who would make him want to hang himself. But John was none of these. Sure, he was completely ordinary by the world's standards, but he wasn't boring like other people were. There was nothing weird or odd about him, no mysteries to be solved. But it was nice, having someone normal by his side, unlike his old imaginary friend, who was so flamboyant and exotic. John kept him grounded; he kept him from going too far and he kept him company. He was proud to call John his first true friend.
And yet, at the same time, he remembered meeting him as a child, even though they had lived in different places most of their lives. He told himself it was a coincidence, but it was getting harder and harder to believe it. When they first met, he covered his shock by deducing him. John had no idea how much he had shaken him that day.
At first, John wasn't sure what to make of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He was the most eccentric man he'd ever met, and there had been a few times at first when he'd only stayed because he had no other options. But quicker than he would have ever thought possible, he came to consider Sherlock his best friend, and became very loyal to him.
They solved case after case, steadily popping up more and more in the papers. They saved lives and made enemies. They were an unstoppable team. That is, until Moriarty arrived.
It began with him simply toying with them and threatening their lives. But then, instead of targeting Sherlock's life, he targeted his public image and integrity, and his sanity, as well. John never doubted him, not when everyone else did, and not even when the temptation was at its strongest, but he could see how it affected Sherlock. Moriarty couldn't be touched, but Sherlock was being destroyed.
John had believed with everything in him that somehow, everything would work out in the end. Moriarty would slip up, and Sherlock would nail him. He'd end up dead or in prison, and Sherlock could restore his reputation.
If anyone could do it, Sherlock could.
"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay."
"Tell me what's wrong."
"Molly, I think I'm going to die."
"What do you need?"
"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"
"What do you need?"
"You."
The plan was simple. Sherlock had once researched how high a person could fall without dying for a case. He knew the way to fall properly, but he still needed someone to pronounce him dead, and that was where Molly came in.
He had two rubber balls to stick under his armpits to stop his pulse. Once inside the hospital, Molly would come and pronounce him dead. That night, she would release him from the morgue in secret.
The plan was flimsy at best, and really, he had no way of knowing if Moriarty would make him jump or just shoot him. He wore a bulletproof vest, but beyond that, he couldn't prepare anymore.
In his pocket was the old key he'd had since he was a child. Ever since he'd given up his childish fantasies he hadn't thought of them again, not once. But seeing Molly and John and the others, people he thought he'd made up in his mind to be his friends in real life, it was mind boggling.
If there was anyone who could get him out of this alive, it was the Doctor. But he wasn't real, he was just a product of his once wild and overactive imagination. And yet, he found himself wishing he would come back, just one more time.
After Moriarty shot himself, Sherlock was standing on the ledge of the building. The Doctor was nowhere to be found, not that he'd actually expected him to show. In one hand was his cellphone as he was calling John, and in the other was the useless key.
John picked up, he could see him on the ground. "Hello?"
"John."
"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"
"Turn around and walk back the way you came, now."
"No, I'm coming in."
"Just do as I ask. Please," said Sherlock urgently.
"Where?"
"Stop there."
"Sherlock?"
"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."
John looked up and his face filled with horror.
"Oh God."
"I... I... I can't come down, so we'll... we'll just have to do it like this."
"What's going on?" he asked anxiously.
"An apology. It's all true."
"Wh-what?"
"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."
"Why are you saying this?" he asked as he looked up at his friend in disbelief.
"I'm a fake," he said, and his voice broke.
"Sherlock…"
"The newspapers were right all along. 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." There were tears in his eyes, but none fell.
He had to lie to John, he couldn't let him live with the truth. He lied to his best friend to make him angry.
He'd devoted so much time in helping him solve crimes. It wasn't easy being his friend, he knew that. He'd sacrificed many girlfriends, his safety, and the promise of a normal life for him. He'd feel betrayed to know he had done it all for a fraud, that his sacrifices were for nothing.
If he were to just jump, letting him believe that he had been telling the truth, he would have mourned his tragedy for a while, but eventually he would move on. He'd find another friend, a more normal friend who could be relied on. He'd miss him for a time, but eventually he'd be all but forgotten.
But if he told him he was a fake, if he made him feel betrayed, he wouldn't just move on. Every time he thought of him he would be filled with anger. He wouldn't be able to forget him, because how could he ever forget a man so prideful, despicable, and deranged that he would create a man to play the villain so he could play the hero? It was unforgiveable, and he knew it. John would hate him, they all would, but at least it would mean they wouldn't forget him. It was a high price, but he was willing to pay it. It was all he had left.
John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, they'd all believe the lie and they'd feel anger. Anger, not sadness. Sadness would hurt, anger would give them something to hold on to. They wouldn't have to suffer so much if they looked back on their time with him in anger, not in grief and sorrow. They could live on, and they would be all right.
And he wouldn't be forgotten.
"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."
Sherlock laughed and gazed down at his friend, and a tear escaped and dripped down his chin.
That's why you're my best friend, he thought to himself.
"I researched you," he said, going on. "Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."
"No. All right, stop it now," said John as he closed his eyes and shook his head. He started to walk towards the hospital entrance.
"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move."
"All right."
"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" he asked as he reached out a hand towards his friend.
"Do what?"
"This phone call, it's, er... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?
John shook his head, momentarily taking his phone from his ear. He knew exactly what Sherlock was talking about, what he was about to do, but he didn't believe it.
"Leave a note when?" he asked, his voice shaky.
"Goodbye, John."
"No. Don't."
Sherlock gazed down at his friend for a few moments more, and then he lowered his arm and dropped the phone onto the roof. He held the key in his hand; this was the Doctor's moment of truth.
He had said if he called him, he would come. If the Doctor saved him from this fall, it would mean he was real, and that he hadn't made him up. If he didn't come… well, it wouldn't matter once he hit the pavement.
John lowered his phone and screamed at him.
"No! Sherlock!"
Sherlock spread his arms out and fell forward, plummeting towards the ground. John stared in utter horror; this couldn't be happening.
"Sher..."
It only took a few seconds for his body to hit the ground.
John's hearing seemed to white out as his entire mind and body focused on getting to Sherlock as soon as he could. John ran to the corner of the building, then slowed down and stopped in the middle of the road as he got his first glimpse of the still figure lying on the wet pavement, the lower part of his body obscured by a parked lorry.
Behind John, a young man on a fast bicycle slammed into him and sent him crashing to the ground, and his head hit the asphalt hard. Groaning, he struggled to stay conscious as, nearby, people began to run towards the body on the pavement. The lorry pulled away and a couple of medics from the hospital hurried out and started trying to prevent the onlookers from getting too close.
Grimacing with pain, John rolled onto his side and looked across to the pavement where Sherlock was lying on his side with a lot of blood under his head. Slowly, John hauled himself to his feet and stumbled towards him as more onlookers gathered, talking excitedly about what they had just seen. John forced himself onwards.
"Sherlock, Sherlock..."
He reached the crowd. Some of the people tried to hold him back, but he kept pushing forward.
"I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please. No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please."
He reached down to take hold of Sherlock's wrist, searching for a pulse. A woman peeled his fingers off as she and another medic pulled him away. As he reached towards his friend again, more medics arrived with a wheeled stretcher.
"Please, let me just..." he said frantically.
The impact of the shock and the bang on his head began to take effect and his knees gave out. As he slumped to the ground supported by a couple of onlookers, two people gently rolled Sherlock onto his back revealing his blood stained face and wide staring eyes. John groaned in utter despair.
As the onlookers supported him, four people lifted Sherlock's body onto the stretcher and then rapidly wheeled it away into the hospital. John stared after it, his face blank and uncomprehending. He finally managed to get to his feet and shake off his helpers, staring blindly in the direction that his friend's body was taken.
As if things couldn't be any worse, John was now in prison for punching the Chief Superintendent and for running from the police. He had been sitting in a jail cell surrounded by thugs when a police officer came to escort him to one of the interrogation rooms, though he had no idea why.
Waiting for him was Mycroft, looking as sharp and detached as ever. He seemed entirely unaffected by his brother's death.
"What's this about? I already know that you're having the funeral tomorrow, even though I can't be there."
"It's for Mummy's sake. We need to get the body in the ground as soon as possible so we can move on with our lives and have closure. You understand, right?"
John fought down his urge to punch Mycroft in the face and instead asked, "Have they found Moriarty yet? Has he confessed now that he's won?"
"That's what I came to talk to you about. You see, they found his body on the roof of the same building Sherlock jumped off of. He was shot in the mouth."
"He made Sherlock kill himself and had nothing left to live for, so he committed suicide."
"Not quite. An autopsy showed that he died minutes before Sherlock did. He was dead before Sherlock jumped."
"But that doesn't make any sense. Why would Sherlock jump if Moriarty was dead? If he won the game, why would he kill himself immediately after?"
"It is believed that Sherlock killed Richard Brook for destroying his reputation, and left the gun in his hand to frame him. Knowing he was ruined and had no way out of the mess he had made, he jumped, rather than face the shame of his actions."
John flipped over the table and punched Mycroft in the face, knocking him to the floor, not caring that he was an important government official that could make his life hell if he wanted. Mycroft got back on his feet but didn't strike back.
"How dare you accuse him of such a thing. Your own brother," he said in a seething whisper.
"I don't want to believe it, but I can't deny everything I've seen and heard. He admitted his guilt to you, John. What else am I to believe? Why would he confess to crimes he didn't commit?"
"You said you'd dealt with Moriarty in prison. You know he was real!"
"I know Richard Brook was a good actor, perhaps too good. The fact is that there is no evidence that Moriarty ever existed. It's time you gave up on him, John. Everyone else has."
"Go to Hell."
Mycroft left after that, and John buried his face in his hands.
"Everyone's given up on you Sherlock, but I haven't," he whispered. "I'll tell them, I'll make them see. Moriarty was real."
