Sherlock - The broken violin

by SherlockContinues

After Sherlock Holmes and John Watson solved the biggest case in their career, they found themselves in a new adventure. Chief Inspector Lestrade had shown up at 221B Bakerstreet with a broken violin. Even though, the detective was still recovering from the attack of Culverton Smith, it didn't stop him from solving crimes.

41. Chapter 40

Chapter 40: I'm Coming To Get You!

The cab driver was driving like a maniac and Sherlock was thankful for it. John Watson was held captive by Moriarty and he didn't know what the doctor had to endure so far.

When once more the ruins of Musgrave Hall appeared, the detective felt goosebumps rising on his skin, when he climbed out of the cab. He stepped to the big door and opened it.

"I'm here. If you want to play show yourself," Sherlock screamed, his deep voice echoing from the walls.

"Well, well. Look who's finally here," Jim greeted him from upstairs, his bright smile never fading.

"I'm not here for you," the detective shouted back.

"Come on Sherlock. We haven't seen each other for two months. We should celebrate our reunion with a cup of tea."

"Where is John?"

"Come on Sherlock! You already know where he is," Jim grinned.

Sherlock didn't wait for anything to happen, instead he started to run for the basement. When he finally stood in front of the room where John earlier had been left to die, he gulped. What would he find this time? Slowly he opened the door and when he saw his best friend lying on his side, he stepped in and rolled his friend over. The moment he did, he regretted it. In front of him wasn't John. It was a puppet and when Sherlock recognized his mistake, the door behind him had already closed.

With a triumphant smile Moriarty stood in front of the closed door, "Mouse is caught. I like how you always fail because of your pressure point."

"The difference is, I have a pressure point who is alive," Sherlock replied.

"Well, well. We will see how much longer this will be the case. I have a lot of time, but I think your doctor hasn't."

Now Sherlock kicked at the door in anger, "Don't you dare touch my friend!"

"Already did," Moriarty replied satisfied and walked away.

When Sherlock realised he was alone, he sank to the ground and tried to figure out the next steps. He needed to get out of here, needed to find John. His best friend was in danger and he sure as hell didn't like it. From the last experience they had both had with this man, he knew that there was nothing evil Moriarty wasn't capable of.

The detective looked around and started to grin. "The only thing you did miss is the fact that I once lived here." And he started to crawl to the wall next to him. A smile appeared on his face, as one of the rare positive memories returned…

"Mommy and Daddy will never know, what we are doing here," twelve-year old Mycroft giggled.

"They will wonder how we were able to escape the basement," Sherlock replied with a big smile on his face.

"It's funny, isn't it? This is the fourth time we have been locked in the basement to think about our bad behaviour. But still, they can't figure out how we escaped."

Both boys were kneeling in front of the wall, pulling out stone after stone until the hole in the wall was big enough to climb through. After they had reached the other room where no door was in place, they just put back the stones and escaped into their garden…

Sherlock smiled. One of the rare good moments he remembered. He looked at the wall with the old stones and started to losen the first one. Although over twenty years had passed, the stones were still as easy to get out as before time passed. "You might be the smarter one, Moriarty. But never underestimate Sherlock Holmes," he whispered to himself while he tried to get the hole in the wall big enough to slip through.

When he was finally free to go, the detective decided first to check the house from outside. It wasn't unusual that Moriarty had helpers, so he needed to check that first. Quietly he walked into the garden, carefully avoiding every rock on the ground. The first window came in sight and when he looked through it, there was no one to be seen. He was able to check another five windows, when he found some kind of bodyguard walking around the front of the house. Now the detective was getting excited. This was exactly what he needed. A bodyguard. Sherlock was hiding behind the corner of the house, watching the man's route. It was always the same movement: Left, right, first tree, door. The detective decided to overwhelm the man from the other side of the house and turned around to hide behind the old big tree when the bodyguard wasn't looking. While he was sneaking around the house again, a heart tearing scream filled the air and the detective forced himself to stay focused. Carefully, he looked around the corner, his eyes never leaving the bodyguard. There was not much time to make it to the tree unseen, but Sherlock was lucky. Now he was hiding behind the big tree trunk, slowly loosening his scarf. The bodyguard was still making his rounds confidently when all of a sudden, a scarf was around his neck, strangling him. The fight seemed endless and Sherlock wasn't sure how long he would be able to keep up the pressure when finally, the man sank to the ground, unfortunately dead.

Time was running out. Soon or later his archenemy would find out about the bodyguard. Sherlock took all the clothes from the dead man and changed from detective style to bodyguard. If he wanted to get to his friend as near as possible without being caught, he needed to pretend he was someone else. With the gun at his side, he returned to the basement and slowly began his way back to search for his blogger. The stairs came in sight and as silently as possible he took one step after another. John's terrifying screams were definitely coming from upstairs.

When the detective was on the upper floor, he could hear the muffled voice of his archenemy.

"Oh, did it hurt? Poor Johnny boy, I'm afraid this time your Sherlock isn't coming. So sorry about that."

Another scream reverberated through the halls and Sherlock flinched. It was devastating. His friend was being tortured in one of the rooms and he had to stand outside, waiting for the right moment. He sneaked from door to door, trying to figure out, which one would lead him to John. In front of the former guestroom, the voices were getting clearer and Sherlock knew he was standing at the right door. There was a little hole in the door and the detective tried to discover what was happening behind.

His best friend was still tied to a chair, blood still oozing from a cut on his forehead. John's upper body was naked and there were electrodes attached to his chest. What was Moriarty doing to him?

"I know how much you liked being shocked on that mountain. Time for another round!" Sherlock could see Moriarty pushing a button and the doctor's body began to convulse uncontrollably. When the shock stopped, John was screaming in pain.

"Not enough? You still want more? Well, no problem. I can give you even more." And another round followed. Sherlock wanted to puke. The sight of his best friend being tortured was something he could not tolerate. The detective was checking John's status. There was a lot of sweat forming on the blogger's forehead now and he knew that the doctor was starting to drift into shock. It was just a matter of time or maybe just seconds.

"You're not talking to me anymore? That's too bad. Maybe I should end it right here and now," Moriarty replied and pushed the button again. John's body convulsed again, but this time when the shock stopped, his head fell to one side. He was out and Sherlock knew he couldn't wait any longer. Without further thinking he entered the room, gun aimed at Moriarty.

"Game over!" he whispered while trying to shield the blogger from his archenemy.

Jim Moriarty stood there, his face full of surprise and all of a sudden, he started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked.

"Never thought you would escape that fast. And this costume… Really suits you."

"Be careful. I should put a hole in you right here and right now. But I think before that happens, my brother will be highly interested in interrogating you."

Moriarty stood there, leaning relaxed on the wall. "Well, let's see how long you can withstand the urge to shoot me." And he once more pushed the button. When John didn't respond, his body just trembling and convulsing, Sherlock recognized it was more than just bad.

Time was ticking in slow motion, as the detective needed to make a decision. Kill Moriarty and risk his brother's anger or let his best friend die and save Moriarty for Mycroft?

It was a decision made only by his heart and when the shot rang, Moriarty started sinking to the ground, a smile forming on his face. "The game is not over yet, Sherlock." He stood up and disappeared faster than Sherlock was able to react. There was blood on the ground, so he hadn't missed his target.

Not having the time to think about Moriarty anymore, the detective turned to John and freed him from the chair. The lifeless form of his friend falling right into his arms and Sherlock, as gently as possible, guided the body to the ground.

"Please, please be alright," he whispered while his slender fingers touched the doctor's neck. The moment Sherlock Holmes feared the most was now reality. John was clinically dead, there was no heartbeat nor any sign of breathing. Shaking fingers grabbed for his mobile, as he typed a desperate message to his older brother "Musgrave Hall, John's dead. Need help."

There was no reply from Mycroft and Sherlock was getting nervous. He stroked away his friend's sweaty hair and began CPR. Normally, he wasn't able to do mouth-to-mouth because he was disgusted by the fact of tasting saliva or a running nose in his mouth, but this was John. John was different. John was all he had and John was who he cared about the most.

The electrodes were still attached to the lifeless body and Sherlock ripped them away. Moriarty had thought of everything. He had used gel to make sure the maximum amount of voltage would hit the body. There were no burn wounds visible. Sherlock didn't know how high the voltage was his archenemy used to torture his friend, but it was enough to send the blogger into cardiac arrest. Now the only thing that mattered to him was keeping his friend alive, hoping someone would come in time for the rescue.

"Come on John. Please don't die." He begged while pushing down on the chest. The first rib responded with an ugly, cracking sound while breaking. Sherlock flinched at the sound, but tried to stay professional. He checked his watch. Three minutes had passed and still no response.

"Goddammit John! You always tell me you are a soldier. Now where's your fighting will?"

It was a strange scene. Normally it was the doctor to his rescue, now he was the one to make sure John would survive.

"Please John. Don't do this to me," he begged, while a big lump was starting to form in his throat.

"Look at the poor boy. He's so desperate right now. Don't you think it's time to return?"

John was standing next to Mary, both watching Sherlock from the open door.

"I'm not interested in going back right now. He lied to me and I can't forgive him. Not again," the blogger whispered while staring at the scene in front of him.

"But he's your best friend. He's Rosie's godfather and if you die, he'll be alone again," Mary replied with a sad look on her face.

Now John looked at his dead wife, "You're really on his side, aren't you? Why is everyone always on his side?"

"Because I feel sorry for him. Don't you see how much he cares about you? You asked for space and he never showed up in front of your girlfriend's house. That should ring a bell."

"He was the one lying to me not the other way around."

"And now look at this liar, how he tries to save your life," Mary whispered, still watching the scene in front of her. "Go back to him John. He needs you. He really does."

The blogger shook his head. "No. I'm not going back. Not this time."

Mary sighed, her eyes full of sadness, "Well then, John Hamish Watson. Let it be."

Sherlock was exhausted, but still couldn't let go. There was no response from his best friend, the body slowly starting to get cold. The detective took of his coat and tried to cover some of John's body, so he wouldn't feel the cold of death. One push after another, breath after breath and still nothing changed. The body remained still.

"Why are you doing this to me? What have I done to deserve all of this?"

Always your fault, Sherlock. Always you fault… The words reverberating through his head.

From downstairs he could hear footsteps approaching. Help was coming. Finally. A minute later the door burst open and a team of paramedics appeared on the scene. They didn't say a word, but instantly took over the situation. The detective was pushed aside and while they were trying to save this important man on the floor, Sherlock was watching from the distance. The medic team tried everything possible, but the blogger wasn't responding. After a few more minutes they loaded the cold body on the gurney and walked out of the door, leaving Sherlock in a world full of misery. He could hear the helicopter fly away and it was that moment he fully realized what had just happened.

He was pushing himself away from the wall when the psychological shock set in, trying to prevent him from collapsing. Everything was in a blur and he couldn't remember what happened a few minutes before. The only thing he remembered was stepping in, having a conversation with Moriarty and that was it. Next thing he remembered was leaning against a wall. How much time had passed?

Slowly, very slowly, the pieces were coming back and step by step, bit by bit the memories of the tragedy returned. He curled himself into a ball and started to cry. Something he was holding back since childhood was now fighting to reach the surface. And all of a sudden, he was screaming like he never did before. Tears were streaming, unstoppable, and he couldn't stop screaming.

"Why is it always my fault? Why me? What have I done to deserve all of this? First Victor, then Uncle Rudy and now John! Oh John. Why? Why now? All the people I care about die because of me. They were right. The people. I'm a Freak. I'm a fucking Freak bringing death to people. I'm not enough for this world. It's not John who deserved to die, it's me! You hearing me, God or whoever is up there?! It should have been me! I'm the malfunction! I'm the one who should leave this world!" He couldn't breathe anymore. The cries and sobbing had taken control over his body. There was no part of him that didn't hurt right now.

"Why couldn't you fucking let me die?!" he screamed one last time, before the darkness finally took him to a place, where no harm could reach him…

"Sherlock?" Someone was calling him. He started to stir. When he opened his eyes, blue eyes were staring at him.

"Mary? You again?"

She smiled at him. "Welcome back."

"What happened? I'm not supposed to be here."

"I know. This is not real anyway," she replied softly.

"So, what am I doing here?"

"Your heart broke," she explained.

"That's a fairy tale," Sherlock laughed.

"No, it's not. You are suffering from broken-heart-syndrome, caused by a great amount of stress."

"You must be kidding me," the detective whispered.

"I'm afraid it's not a joke, Sherlock."

"But broken-heart-syndrome never leads to death."

"Oh, it does Sherlock. It does. Not often, but it does. Especially with a heart history like yours. It's a possible scenario."

"So, I'm going to stay here forever now?" he wanted to know.

"The question right now is, what do you want. Stay here, leaving everything and everyone behind or are you going back to destroy Moriarty?"

"I can't go back without John being there. It's all my fault. I did this to him and without me, you and he would be still alive. Everywhere I go, people die. I need this to stop." Sherlock was serious.

Now Mary's voice deepened, "Sherlock? Look at me."

He did as he was told.

"What happened with me would have happened anyway. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even this year but it would have happened. In a different way of course, but it would have happened. It wasn't you, who killed Victor. It was Eurus and you did everything to help your friend. And by the way your sister decided to kill Uncle Rudy, not you."

"I was always defective, damaged. Never felt anything different."

"That's not true Sherlock. You saved a lot of people."

"Just show me one person who thinks that way," Sherlock whispered.

And Mary pushed him to a window, forcing him to look. There was a little girl sitting on the ground, not older than twelve years.

"Who is this? I don't remember her."

"This is Maddie. She was the kidnapped girl, you saved from the fire. One of your first cases."

"Impossible. It's been ten years. She was a little girl, kidnapped by some drug dealer who tried to get money from the family. Problem was, he chose the wrong family. They never had much money, so he thought taking the girl as hostage meant the government would pay him. I chased him down and when I found the house where he was keeping the little girl, he tried to burn both of us."

"So, you do remember. Her parents pray every night before they go to sleep, thanking God that you're here."

"But I couldn't save John."

"No, it's not you who killed him. It was Moriarty and therefore he needs to be punished. You hear me Sherlock? I want you to go back and finish him this time, understand? Go back and finish him. Not for me, but at least for John."

Someone was holding his hand. Mycroft. He could feel the trembling in his brother's hand. Slowly he opened his eyes, trying to find out where he was.

"Don't be scared. You are at the hospital."

"Hospital?"

"You are suffering from something called broken-heart-syndrome."

"How did you find me? I heard the helicopter leaving," the younger Holmes asked weak.

"I did send another unit, just in case of bad news."

"He's dead, isn't he?"

Mycroft nodded, his face full of sorrow.

Sherlock sighed and looked out of the window. "How long have I been here?"

"Since yesterday. They had to shock you twice. Your heart was out of control." Mycroft sounded sad.

"And how long am I supposed to stay here?"

"They said a week."

"Do you mind giving me some time alone? I have a lot to think about."

Mycroft patted his shoulder. "Of course, brother mine. Take all the time you need."

"Thank you."

When the older Holmes was out of sight, the tears were starting to fall again and there was nothing he could do about it. He would never allow his brother to see him like this…

Four days had passed and he was very slowly accepting the fact, that his best friend wouldn't return. He had promised to finish Moriarty and it was the only reason he forced himself to go on. He wanted to be strong enough to fight this one final fight.

It was around 12PM, when his mobile vibrated. When Sherlock opened the text message, he got excited.

Psalm 38:17

For I am about to fall, and my pain is ever with me.

Moriarty was finally calling him.

"Proverbs 30:2

Surely I am only a brute, not a man; I do not have human understanding."

He was curious while waiting for the next message.

Job 6:25

How painful are honest words! But what do your arguments prove?

Sherlock paused, then typed, "Where are you?

A place you only know far too well and by the way I already told you.

Now the detective was all ears. Moriarty had already told him his location? Sherlock was reading through all the messages again and all of a sudden knew, where he was expected. He didn't wait for the doctor to release him, instead he removed the IV, the electrodes of the ECG and the blood pressure cuff. In the wardrobe next to his bed were all his clothes. He dressed himself and escaped unseen. Outside of St. Mary's, he looked for a cab and when the cabbie asked for the location, he just said Bart's…

When he was standing in front of the building, where once Tim Moriarty had shot himself, he knew today was the day. This was their final battle and whatever was going to happen on that rooftop, it would change everything. He walked into the building and while he was walking up the stairs, he bumped into Molly Hooper. Their eyes met and Molly knew, what Sherlock was trying to tell her.

"It's okay," she said. "Whatever you have to do, I will always be waiting for your return."

He grabbed her face and gave her a warm smile he never showed her before. "I know, Molly Hooper. I know." And with these words he kissed her forehead and moved on.

When he opened the door to the rooftop, Moriarty was already waiting for him. His archenemy was watching the cars drive by, never bothering about the appearance of the detective.

"Look how life goes on for those people. The memory of the explosions already fading."

"Normal people. All the same," Sherlock replied bored.

"Oh, now that you are saying it." Moriarty now looked straight at Sherlock. "So sorry for your loss. Must have been hard to sit there and watch."

Sherlock tried to stay calm, but his hands had formed to fists now. Mentioning John Watson was not a good idea and Moriarty knew that exactly.

But Sherlock had a come-back. "Still crying over your mother's diary?"

"Don't mention my mother!" his archenemy reacted instantly.

"Why not. It must be so hard to grow up without a Mommy who loves you dearly."

James was getting angry and Sherlock liked it. No one should be teasing him with the death of his best friend. He could play that game, too.

"So, why are we here anyway?" the detective wanted to know.

Now Moriarty was walking around him. "Because it all ends today. You and me Sherlock, we have been playing for a long time now and I think it's time we face the truth."

"About what?"

"Well, I took your friend's life. I think that makes me the smarter one," Moriarty grinned triumphantly.

"You would have been the smarter one, if I had decided to end my life, but as you can see, I am still here."

Now Jim stopped for a moment. "That's right. You're still here. My bad."

Now Sherlock and Moriarty were pacing around each other.

"Seems like I'm smarter than you. How long did you try to hack the biggest server in the world? Let me guess, a few years now?" the detective wanted to know.

"Come on Sherlock. It's been over ten years now, dumbass!" his archenemy yelled.

Sherlock smiled satisfied. "And still, it's not working out for you."

"I was so close but failed because of this afro-man!" Someone was very angry now, the detective recognized and he decided to dig further.

"Did Hawi Abebe let you down in front of the machine?" It was meant more as a joke.

"Why would you care? This was my chance to rule the world and now everything is lost."

"Let's be honest: You never stood a chance."

"I had a chance, but then this old man fooled me!"

"He fooled you? How?" Now the detective was curious.

"Oh god Sherlock, are you really that dumb? Can't you figure it out? He didn't have the key anymore. I don't know how, but someone else is the key now and I have no clue who or where this person is. It's a disaster."

"So, you kept a man prisoner who wasn't useful anymore? That's the reason you killed him?"

"It was one of the reasons," Moriarty admitted defeated.

Both men looked at each other.

"When you were lying on that cold floor, I thought that was the moment. Finally, after so many years I was sure it was over. But as always, your idiot friend John Watson came to the rescue. He gave you his blood and made sure you stayed alive. Let's say that was what he tried. And when it didn't work out, I was hoping again. Hawi accidentally entered the room. I still don't know what he was searching for but unfortunately, he found you two. He made sure you were getting out of Sherrinford. He destroyed my plans and therefore had to die."

"Did you send those guys in the park?"

Moriarty started to laugh, "No. I didn't. Why should I? I was bored to the core."

"And why John? Just tell me why."

"As I already told you. I was getting bored. Needed someone to play with. And, don't forget, you teased me with my mother's diary. That wasn't very nice Sherlock."

"You tortured my blogger and now he's dead. Tell me something about not being nice," the detective countered.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock. Now you know what real pain is. THIS is pain. Not the scars on your body but this."

Sherlock was trying to stay calm. The loss of his best friend was torturing him from inside.

Moriarty was now standing next to Sherlock, both watching the cars underneath them. "Too bad, isn't it? We can't escape. The pain will always be with us."

"Until we die," Sherlock whispered.

Suddenly, Moriarty grabbed his neck. "Now tell me, where is the diary?"

Sherlock tried to get lose, but failed.

"The diary, now!" his archenemy forced.

"I won't tell you where it is. Never."

"Too bad. Your blogger also didn't know where the diary was kept."

Now Sherlock looked up. "John? You tortured my friend to get this information?"

"Why not combine the funny with the useful part?"

Anger was rising in Sherlock. Anger and something different. It felt like sadness, but a thousand times stronger than everything he had ever felt.

"You tortured him just to get information?"

"I need the diary!" Jim screamed again.

"No one knows the place but me. Accept it!" Sherlock yelled back and freed himself from Moriarty's grip.

Jim suddenly stopped, his eyes shining with something the detective didn't like.

"I see. You want to play with me again Sherlock. Good. Maybe this is how we can solve this."

Now Moriarty put his hand in his pocket and when Sherlock saw the remote in his archenemy's hand, he already feared the worst.

"Let me guess. Another bomb?"

Moriarty made a boyish face. "Not exactly. Let's say, if I press this button, you will be alone forever."

Now the detective started to worry. "What have you done?"

Jim looked away, "Oh, I just planted a bomb at Scotland Yard, one at Molly Hoopers flat, one at Sheila's, one at your friend's former house where your home is, maybe there are even more bombs somewhere…"

"You will never stop this, am I right? Torturing people," Sherlock whispered.

"The world is so boring Sherlock. You have no idea."

"Believe me, I know exactly. But it doesn't give us the right to let it out on innocent people."

Jim looked disgusted. "Look at you, Sherlock. What happened to the sociopath I once knew?"

"People change. That's what they do. They change to be part of the rest of the world." The detective once more stepped on the edge of the building, watching the cars.

Now Moriarty joined him. "It could be so easy to end all of this. Just a little push and it would be over in less than a minute."

"If I do this, my best friend would have lost his life without any reason."

His archenemy was playing with the remote. Sherlock sighed, "You can't fool me. That's a fake one."

"How can you be sure of that?"

Now Sherlock showed Moriarty his mobile. The camera was on and when Sherlock asked his archenemy to push the button, he smiled. "See? There is no red light seen on the screen. Infrared light isn't visible to the human eye, but for a mobile camera." A smile appeared on Sherlock's face.

Moriarty didn't seem impressed at all. "Come on Sherlock. You know me."

"Of course, I do. Now tell me what is the big surprise."

James Moriarty was staring at him, his eyes now sparkling in excitement.

"What would you say if I told you that your friend's still alive?"

Silence. Both men were holding eye contact. Only their steady breaths were filling the atmosphere at this moment. Sherlock was trying to control himself.

"Leave John out of this," he finally whispered.

"Come on Sherlock! Answer my question," Moriarty forced.

"Leave my friend out of this!" the detective screamed.

"What's wrong Sherlock? Is the pain too heavy to take?"

The detective was still standing on the edge, his body slightly trembling.

"It could be so easy to end all of this suffering, but I won't give in. Not yet." A wind was starting to blow, the Belstaff floating strongly in the air.

"Just face the truth. They lied to you! Your brother Mycroft Holmes lied to you! Your own brother, Sherlock."

"What are you talking about?"

"As I told you. Your friend is alive. I swear to you."

"Why should I believe this?"

Jim whispered into his ear, "Because it's the truth."

The wind was getting stronger now, grey clouds were pushing themselves in front of the sun. The sky was darkening and a few seconds later it started to rain.

"You are lying," the detective repeated.

"No, I'm not. I swear to you. Job 33:9 I am pure, I have done no wrong; I am clean and free from sin."

"Job 33:6 I am the same as you in God's sight; I too am a piece of clay." While he spoke those words, Sherlock was getting wet, like his archenemy.

Suddenly, James Moriarty pulled a gun, pointing it at the detective. "Do you remember?"

"How could I forget this moment? Tim sacrificed himself for his brother."

"My brother died because of you, Sherlock. You were hunting him and that broke him."

Now Sherlock was getting angry, "That's not true and you know that. He was trying to destroy me with your help. You planned every step of the game."

"It was his idea. He decided it was worth the try. I was busy with other things."

"So, why are we here today? I forgot."

"We are here, Sherlock, because one of us is dying today. And I have the feeling, it's not me." The smile on Moriarty's face was disgusting the detective, but he tried to show no emotion.

"And if I die, what's the reward for you?"

Jim sighed, "Didn't you figure it out? I will be the genius of the whole kingdom."

Now Sherlock started to giggle.

"What's so funny?"

"Look at you. If you shoot me, there will be one thing left: boredom. Who are you going to torture after me? My brother? Forget it. He's not very pain resistant and after my death he would suffer a great deal. It's always complicated with siblings."

"You know what? I don't care anymore. Now, why don't you tell me where the diary is before I shoot you?"

Now Sherlock started to laugh, "I will never tell you, my friend. If you were such a great genius, you would have already figured it out."

Maybe he had gone too far. Moriarty's face was showing the first signs of losing himself. He was now whirling around with his gun, not knowing how to break the detective's stubbornness. Sherlock could see the desperation of his enemy and smiled. Maybe this was the moment to end all of this. He jumped down from the wall and looked directly at Jim.

"So, what are you going to do now? If you shoot me, you won't get answers and if I live you would also get no response from me."

Moriarty was shivering while slowly approaching him. He started to laugh and Sherlock knew he had reached the point where James Moriarty was about to go crazy.

"Isn't it funny? All I wanted from you was a lousy diary and you ruined it all! You have no idea how it is growing up in an orphanage! You don't have a person who pretends to be your mother. You aren't loved, you just learn to function in the society. That's it. And sometimes you are even more lucky if there is a male person taking care of you! I was one of those lucky kids and believe me, from the first time on I swore to myself that I will get revenge. All those years of massive pain should not go unpaid."

Suddenly, Sherlock was feeling sorry for the man in front of him. Jim Moriarty was a broken man and the detective recognised that they were silently sharing the same kind of pain.

"Seems like we have more in common that we thought," he finally whispered.

"No! You never felt the pain that I felt!" Moriarty was trying to control himself.

"I did! Do you think it is fun growing up with an older brother, who always corrects you and tells you, that you are defective? Do you think it was fun being ignored by your parents because they couldn't keep up with your mind? Oh, and let's not forget the bullying in school! All my life people used to call me a Freak, but I'm not! I had only one friend and this friend understood my pain, because he was suffering, too. He was the only person who made me feel normal as a child, but then my sister decided to kill him because she was jealous! And you think I don't feel your pain? Well, think again," Sherlock yelled in anger.

"You have information about my Mum and you are keeping it from me."

"Like you took my best friend."

All of a sudden, James Moriarty was running against the detective, throwing him to the ground. They were fighting in the puddles, until they were again at the edge of the roof. They stood up, punching each other a few more times, before Moriarty once again held the gun in his hands. He started to walk backwards, pointing at Sherlock.

"You will never win, Sherlock. You want to keep the diary your secret? Well, let it be. We are both losers here, but the difference is, I am the better one!"

Moriarty was about to pull the trigger, lightning struck right in front of him and he stumbled backwards, falling over the wall. Sherlock reacted instantly and was able to catch his enemy before he faced certain death. Now Moriarty was hanging freely from the building, his hands desperately grabbing Sherlock's, who was lying on the wet ground, trying to pull the man back to safety.

He tried so hard, but soon both men realized that someone high above their heads had already decided.

Moriarty looked at Sherlock, giggling, "Funny, isn't it? A few minutes before it seemed like I was about to win and now someone changed plans and it's me who is going to die."

"Not on my watch! I'm going to find a way to get you over the wall again," Sherlock groaned while trying to keep hold of the man who had killed his best friend.

"Just let me go. It's what I deserve and I'm ready to die. Maybe I will see my mother again." Moriarty tried to sound brave, but Sherlock could see the fear in the man's eyes.

"I won't let you down. No one deserves to die, even you."

His enemy looked at him with a surprised look on his face, "I never thought you would change. But you did. You aren't the cold detective anymore."

"One person showed me that there's still hope in me."

"You're a lucky person Sherlock, you know that? You have more people around you, seeing you as a friend than you're aware of. Remember my words."

Both men knew, that time was running out. Their grips were slowly loosening.

"Guess, we don't have much time left, Sherlock. I really enjoyed our journey."

"For your knowledge, I buried the diary right under the tree where your mother's grave is."

Jim looked at him one last time, Sherlock's arms already trembling from strained muscles. "Thank you. Thank you for not letting me die alone."

"Your mother really loved you. There is a little excerpt I remember she wrote when she knew she was dying: My dear children. All those years I tried to find you two but no one knew what happened to you both. I was asking around, I shared flyers with the people and I once contacted the News for help but it was useless. Now that I am lying here, knowing my time has come, the last wish I have is to see my two boys again. One last hug, one last embrace and one last time telling you how much I love you."

James Moriarty looked at the detective with tears in his eyes. "I guess this is the moment the story gets its 'Happy Ending'."

Sherlock could feel his archenemy slipping out of his hands. He desperately tried to hold on, but his muscles failed and all of a sudden Moriarty was falling, a few seconds later a body shattering on the hard, cold stone could be heard. Shocked, Sherlock crawled back to the rooftop door, brought himself to a sitting position trying to catch his breath. This was not how it was supposed to end. Mycroft wanted Moriarty alive and now he was lying dead on the pavement. He had failed again.

The carousel was starting to spin in his head again.

"Freak!" "You failed her!" "You didn't kill Mary." "Just shut up, Sherlock!" "I don't have friends." "You're dumb, Sherlock." "All lives end, all hearts are broken…" "Love is not an advantage, Sherlock."

He grabbed his head. Why couldn't it just stop? Downstairs he could hear the sirens. At least it would be declared a suicide. It was still raining and he was getting cold, but he just couldn't find the strength to get up. A lot of things were trying to bubble to the surface, trying to bring up all the bad memories he had of his life. He was fighting against his inner demons but he was losing the fight and he knew it. Finally, the darkness overwhelmed him and he was thrown back to a time, where the real pain started…

"Come on you Freak. Where are you? Show yourself."

"Please, leave me alone!"

"Just come out of the bushes."

"I can't. Someone took my clothes."

He could hear the children laughing. It was June 1993 and he was eight years old. They had met with him at the lake, telling him it was the perfect weather to go swimming. At first it seemed they liked him and they made him feel accepted, but soon he had to find out that he had been fooled again. While he was swimming around in the lake, they had taken his clothes and when he discovered what they had done, all he heard was big and discriminating laughter.

"Look at him. He's so thin. I wonder if his weiner is that thin, too," Jason, the oldest asked.

"Oh guys. Look at his hair. He looks like a girl, so I would say he has nothing to share with us," Toby, the second boy replied.

"You two are wrong. He always knows everything about us: when we go to bed, how we ended up under house arrest, how long it takes for our homework to be done and he knows when we are cheating on tests. Remember the last time? When he told Mrs. Alwen that I was hiding some solutions under my watch?" Chris the third boy added.

The other boys nodded.

"I think this guy is an alien – a Freak! I think he's a Freak," Chris stated.

"You are right. Hey Freak, why don't you come out now?" Toby was walking along the lake, laughing.

"Just give me my clothes and leave me alone. I won't tell anyone," desperate Sherlock pleaded.

"Sure, you won't. You are a Freak. No one needs a Freak here. You have to get away, "Jason now yelled at him, while throwing stones at him. One hit Sherlock's face and blood started to colour the water.

"He's bleeding! This monster is bleeding guys!" While he was in no position to defend himself, the boys were enjoying every moment of it.

Little Sherlock was staring in shock at the water. "Help me. I'm bleeding. I need my clothes to get to a doctor."

The boys stood there for another five minutes, laughing. Then they turned around and ran away, leaving the injured boy behind.

Over one hour Sherlock held on to a branch, which was growing above the lake, scared and frozen from the shock. He was getting weaker and he felt his grip loosen. "Please, someone help me. I can't hold on anymore. I'm too young to die."

No one answered his calls, so he accepted that he was going to die alone in the cold water. The little boy looked at the sky, "I'm sorry God. I tried to be a good boy but I failed. No one likes me and I don't know what I did wrong." Finally, his hands let go of the branch and he slowly started to drown. The water was embracing him and for a minute this felt right. He would never bother another human being again. He was about to lose consciousness, when all of a sudden someone jumped in the water, swimming towards him. While he was pulled to the surface again, he wondered who the person was, that still cared about him.

He was pulled onto the grass, someone instantly throwing something soft over his body. And when he was finally able to open his eyes, it was Mycroft who was staring down at him, eyes full of panic.

"Thank God I wasn't too late," he whispered while examining the head wound.

"I always thought you hated me," the little boy said with a raspy voice.

His older brother was speechless. "Why do you think so?"

"You always call me defective," Sherlock sighed.

"Sherlock, listen to me. All that I'm doing is to prepare you for the world out there. People will try to fool you, hurt you. I don't want that to happen. You aren't like me. You are indeed very different, brother mine. We share the same intellect, but you are vulnerable and that's what will kill you."

The older Holmes boy paused, then added, "I love my little brother and I would do anything to save him."

It was the last thing Sherlock remembered but he later found out that his older brother had found the boys and he had made sure that none of them would ever go near him again…

When Sherlock slowly returned from the memory he had shut away for a very long time, the first thing he recognized was his shivering body. He was still leaning on the door, but it wasn't raining anymore. The clouds had lifted and the sun was shining. How much time had passed? Slowly he stood up, trying to remember what had happened. It must have been something bad, if he couldn't remember anything. Why was he on the rooftop anyway? Irritated, he stepped to the rooftop and looked down. There were traces of blood on the pavement and security tapes were keeping the spot safe. Otherwise, everything looked quite normal. When he turned around, his eyes saw the gun on the ground. Why was there a gun? He bent down and the moment he held the gun in his hand, the smell of perfume penetrated his nostrils, the memories were returning. He had tried to save his archenemy from falling and he had failed. The blood he just saw were the remains of a man who was searching for love and to make amends. Moriarty wasn't born as a criminal. He was made. Made by people who took his trust, Sherlock now understood.

He was walking in circles on the rooftop, not knowing what to do. So many things had happened the last weeks and he was still far away from being okay. He had lost people because of the bombing. He couldn't help those people working for Moriarty and on top of it all, he couldn't save John. John…

There it was again. The deep sadness and emptiness. He missed his best friend. Moriarty was dead and John wasn't able to experience this moment. God, how much he missed him and he never was able to tell him how much he cared about him. John would never know. Never. He had missed the many opportunities to tell him, because he was dumb. Because he thought they would solve many more cases in the future. How could he have been so wrong about that? He could hear his brother talking, "Caring is not an advantage Sherlock and the only thing we share with the normal people is death."

Death… The word was circling his mind now. So many times, he wasn't accepted as a normal civilian of this world. It seemed like there was never a place for him here. The only person who liked him dearly was John Watson. And John Watson was gone. The happy days gone, like Uncle Rudy and Victor and all the others he had failed to save. Maybe he should just end it now. His brother Mycroft would get over it very fast and his parents wouldn't care anyway, because they blamed him for Uncle Rudy's death. So, why not end this numbing pain?

He stepped on the rooftop ledge, his coat whirling in the wind. The sun was shining, but the wind never left. Sherlock looked down. There were people standing in front of the security tape, staring at the blood on the pavement. An old lady was looking up and when she saw him on the rooftop, ready to jump, she screamed, "Oh Lord, please don't do this!"

Now the other people were looking at him, too.

"It's detective Sherlock Holmes! What's he doing up there?" a man with red hair shouted.

"I don't know. But whatever it is that made him this desperate, we need to stop him," the old lady replied.

"I've heard he was attacked by a group of people. They wanted to get revenge for their loved ones who died at the bombing. They blamed him for all the wrong reasons," another man in his fifties explained.

The old lady grabbed her mobile and dialed a number.

"Who are you calling?" the man with the red hair asked.

"I'm calling this inspector, what was his name again? Graham Lestrade?"

"It's Greg Lestrade but never mind. Let's hope he can prevent the worse," the second man whispered.

He was still standing on the edge, not knowing what to do. There were now people staring at him and he wasn't sure if he wanted them traumatized. The sight of him on the pavement wouldn't be nice and therefore he hadn't jumped yet.

"Freak." "You're an idiot. Since when do you care for others?" "Just do it! It's time you vanish from this world." "No one needs a fool like you." "Friends protect you." "Just a little push, and off you go…"

The voices were getting louder. He couldn't think clearly anymore. Everything was a blur. So many years he had suppressed his feelings, had pretended he was a sociopath just to make sure people wouldn't hurt him anymore. He had endured so much pain in 37 years, maybe this was the right time to stop being a fool. While he was watching the crowd on the pavement growing bigger, a BMW appeared and Chief Inspector Lestrade was leaving the car. When he looked up at Sherlock, his face froze. He was whispering something, but he was too far away to hear what he was saying.

Suddenly Sherlock's mobile started to vibrate and when he looked on the display, he saw it was Greg. He answered the call, a lump forming in his throat.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm not leaving here, if that's the question," Sherlock informed.

"Sherlock, what happened up there?"

"I couldn't save him. I let him fall."

"Stop blaming yourself. You ended this and London can breathe now. You should be proud of yourself."

"Please, just stop it."

"You know what? I'm coming upstairs and we can talk about it, okay?"

"No! Stay where you are! Don't come any closer!"

Greg waved his hand, "Okay. If that's what you want, I will not move. But please don't do anything stupid, you hear me?"

"Just leave me alone. This is something I have to decide on my own," the detective whispered.

"Listen, I accept that something is tormenting you right now, but don't jump. Please, please don't jump."

Sherlock ended the call and looked down at the people. Now they were all coming here to see him jump. It was a miracle they weren't encouraging him to jump already. He waited for it. After all he had done to those people, it was their right to get revenge…

Five hours later, when it was dark outside, the detective was still standing on the roof, cold, shivering and crying. Meanwhile, people had left, not expecting anything would happen. Even Greg Lestrade had left. Not that he wanted to leave, but a case was calling him. Before he had to leave the scene, he had made sure that a group of firefighters were prepared for any scenario. Sherlock knew the procedure too well and prepared himself by blocking the rooftop door, so no one would disturb him. The fire brigade had already positioned an air cushion under him, so he wouldn't fall to his death. The detective sighed. He couldn't jump anymore. It wouldn't ease his mental pain and therefore he needed to find another solution. He wanted so desperately to be reunited with John Watson. He would never be okay again and he knew it. His hand slowly grabbed the gun, which he had put into the pocket of his Belstaff, alarming the firemen.

The fire chief grabbed the megaphone and shouted, "Mr. Holmes, this is chief Miller. Please put the gun away."

"Get away! Leave me alone!" the detective replied.

"Please Mr. Holmes. There is always a solution. We can talk about everything," the chief offered.

"I know you mean well but I have to ask you to get away! I want to be alone and I don't want anyone to see me do it!"

"Please…"

"I said GO AWAY or I'll end it right now!" Sherlock yelled and the chief understood, that the detective was serious. When they backed off, Sherlock sank to his knees and started to sob. All of a sudden, he heard a distant voice.

"Sherlock? It's me, Molly. I hope you can hear me."

"Molly?" Sherlock looked down. There she was in her lab coat, staring up at him.

"That's right Sherlock, it's me. I'm here for you. If you want to talk, just feel free to do so. I promised you, I will always be there for you. Remember?"

"I know Molly Hooper, and I'm sorry that you have to see me like this."

She was crying. He could hear it in her voice.

"What happened Sherlock? You can talk to me, whatever it is that's bothering you right now."

"You are a good person. Believe me, it has nothing to do with you. You have done nothing wrong Molly Hooper."

"Then tell me how can I help you?" she begged.

"There is nothing you can do Molly. I just can't go on like this. Not without him."

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" she asked confused.

"John's dead. I couldn't save him. I… I killed him, Molly. How am I supposed to live with that?"

"God Sherlock, I… I didn't know…," the pathologist said shocked.

"It's okay. You shouldn't be bothered," he assured her, while the tears were still running down his face.

"Why didn't you come to me?" she wanted to know while rubbing her own tears away.

"I couldn't. It was too much for me. Sorry if I hurt you."

"It's okay Sherlock. I'm not angry at you. Just come down and we can talk about it."

"You don't understand Molly. There is no coming back. Not without John. He was more than just a friend. He was my best friend, my companion. He was my doctor who cared about me and he was the one, who taught me to trust people. He made me laugh and we had fights, but our friendship stayed. Even when he used Mary to ease his pain over my loss."

Molly was staying there, her face full of sadness.

"So, if this is goodbye, I don't want to be here to see it. If you really want to end it, there is nothing to stop you from doing it. I've known you long enough and I want to keep the good memories of us. You saved my life and I will never forget that."

"I always loved you, Molly Hooper. We weren't meant to be a couple but all those years I loved you as my friend and that is something you can be proud of. I normally don't trust people."

When Molly slowly stepped away fighting to stay brave, Sherlock stared at the gun in his hand. It was the same gun Tim had used to kill himself and which was now going to end his suffering. His heart had broken the moment he saw his friend die right in front of him. He would never get over this picture and he didn't want to relive those memories every day.

Still kneeling on the cold stone, he started to guide the gun to his sleeve. Now, that everyone was gone, he could finally let out all the pain he had suppressed over the last weeks. While he was holding the gun in his shaking hand, he cried. He cried so hard, that he wasn't aware of the black car approaching the scene. He was about to pull the trigger, when suddenly a voice called him.

"Sherlock don't! For God's sake don't do it!"

The gun glided to the ground. That voice! It was impossible! He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the pavement.

"That's not possible," Sherlock whispered as he stared at the figure standing there in the darkness.

Suddenly the detective backed off and sat down, heavy panting. It must have been the psychological shock, trying to prevent him from shooting himself.

"Sherlock? Please look at me," the voice spoke again.

"Go away! It's just my brain playing tricks on me," the detective screamed back.

"Look at me, goddammit and just for once listen to me!"

Slowly, Sherlock crawled back to the edge and looked down. There, in the darkness stood his best friend, staring at him.

"How is that possible? You died and I… I was there when it happened."

"It's true. I died on the scene but look at me. It was just a trick. Just a magic trick," John explained.

"No! No, it's just my imagination. You're not real!"

"You're wrong Sherlock," another voice now appeared next to his best friend.

"Mycroft," the detective asked irritated.

"Why don't you let Dr. Watson come upstairs and talk to you? I think there is a lot you two have to discuss," the older Holmes proposed.

Sherlock was overwhelmed. John Watson was alive? How was his brother involved? He was hyperventilating again, his heart beating out of control now. Panic attack, he diagnosed and tried to calm himself. It didn't work and he started to feel dizzy.

John and Mycroft were standing in front of the air cushion, looking fearfully at Sherlock, who was tumbling on the roof. The next moment a body was falling towards them, landing softly in the air cushion.

John was the first to react, gently pulling the detective from the cushion.

Sherlock was unconscious, not even noticing his friend bending over him, checking for injuries.

"I think we have driven this way too far," the doctor whispered when he saw the state his friend was in.

"I only did what you asked me to do," Mycroft replied unimpressed.

The blogger sighed, "I wanted him to feel what I felt when he jumped from this rooftop, but I never thought it would affect him that much."

"My brother always was a very emotional child Dr. Watson. He cared for animals, he cared for the people around him and the only thing he found was loss and pain. He was hurt so many times, that one day he decided to shut away his emotions, becoming the cold and distant man you once met."

"Shame. He has one of the purest hearts I know and I hurt him so much. I don't think he will ever forgive me for what I've done."

"I would say the first thing we do now is get him home, warm him up and make sure he's not doing something dumb afterwards," Mycroft offered.

He could hear people talking. The voices very familiar. A fire was crackling and he felt warm and comfortable. When he slowly opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a sofa, wrapped in warm blankets. Someone was taking his pulse.

"Just lie still, don't move too much."

"J… John?"

When the doctor heard the broken voice of his friend, he felt very sorry for what he had done to him.

"It's me Sherlock. It's really me. I'm here and I won't leave you."

The detective didn't smile. There was no emotion on his face at all. The blogger looked at Mycroft, telling him with his eyes, that they needed to talk. Both men walked into the kitchen, closing the door, so Sherlock couldn't hear them.

"To be honest Mycroft, I don't like where this is going."

"My brother will get over it," the older Holmes assured.

"I don't think so. He's deeply traumatized. He still hasn't registered, that I am really here. He's opening his eyes from time to time, but he isn't really here. He has himself totally locked away."

The older Holmes was pacing around, playing with his umbrella. John could see that the man was very nervous.

"How can you be so sure of it?" Mycroft wanted to know.

"I saw it before," the doctor paused a moment, then continued, "when I hurt him at the mortuary. When he was finally recovering from his injuries, he had locked himself away so no one could hurt him any longer. This is very bad, Mycroft. Very, very bad."

"So, what are we going to do about it?"

"You just go home. There is nothing you can do right now. I have to fix this," the blogger replied while going back to the living room. Mycroft knew, that John Watson would make sure that his younger brother was getting the help he needed and so he left quietly, not wanting to alarm his brother even more.

When the two men were finally alone, John sat down right next to his friend, watching him closely. Sherlock's dark circles under his eyes contrasted with the pale face.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock. You must have gone through hell." The doctor gently wiped away the sweaty curls, not sure what to say to his friend. He was so sure that when his friend found out he wasn't dead, he would be glad to see him but he was wrong. Maybe Sherlock had thought the same thing when he returned two years later, meeting him in the restaurant. Maybe he was expecting the same reaction from him. John suddenly understood, that he hadn't reacted any differently than Sherlock now.

"When I thought I had lost you forever, I didn't try to commit suicide but I started to drink." John cleared his throat, "I wanted to forget. I wanted so badly to forget, that you once were an important part of my life. I couldn't get over your loss, not even with a psychologist. How hard it must it have been for you?"

Once again, the detective opened his eyes and when he saw his best friend right in front of him, he tried to back off. "You are not real. Just a hallucination in my head."

"You're wrong Sherlock. I am here and I am real."

"No. You died. You died when I was too late to rescue you," a faint voice whispered.

Very slowly, John grabbed the detective's hand and squeezed it. "See? I'm really here. It's not in your head. I am really here and I am alive."

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's me who should be sorry," John admitted.

"I'm a Freak. Just a Freak. Nothing more," the detective mumbled.

"Don't say that please. I know you are hurt and in emotional pain, but don't say such a thing."

Sherlock's eyes began to water again. "You are not real. Just leave me alone."

"Sleep. I will watch over you. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day for both of us."

"Where have you been John?"

"I was in Berlin, unknown identity, so Moriarty wouldn't find out about me still being alive."

There was no response from the detective and John sighed. What had he done?

It was 2AM in the morning, when the detective started to thrash around on the sofa, knocking the blogger out of his dreams.

"Please! Please stop it! I can't hold on any longer! Make it stop!"

Softly, John tried to wake up his friend but he was getting more and more agitated. When nothing seemed to calm the detective, John Watson had no other choice than to sedate him.

When the detective woke up again, it was already midday and the sun was shining. Slowly he got up, checking the room. Home. He was home. Or at least at his new home. How did he end up here?

Irritated he stood up, wrapped the blanket around his hips, scratched his head and walked to the toilet. He opened it and got the shock of his life.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock! You scared the shit out of me." John greeted him; his face full of embarrassment.

"I… I'm sorry. I didn't expect you here…"

"It's okay, you hear me. Maybe you want to close the door for a few more minutes please?" the doctor asked.

Sherlock did as he was told and waited for his friend to finish.

When it was his turn and he entered the toilet, he smelled and yelled through the closed door, "For a friend who only exists in my imagination, this scent seems very realistic to me."

"How often do I have to tell you. I am here! I am not dead! It was all a magic trick to irritate Moriarty," John explained once more.

He placed the cup of coffee on the table, together with a marmalade sandwich. The blogger knew, that Sherlock was again not in the mood for food, but he had to try. When the detective stumbled back into the living room, he looked confused at the food.

"Look John, Mrs. Hudson made us breakfast. There is only one plate on this table, so I am right. You aren't really here. Otherwise, she would have brought two plates, am I right?"

"Oh, for God's sakes!" John jumped up from his chair and tried to stay calm. "I am telling you, and I will tell you again and again until you get it. I am not dead. It was just a magic trick."

"Prove it," the detective sat down and grabbed the cup of coffee.

John cleared his throat, "When Moriarty tortured me, my heart stopped beating. You did a very good job in keeping me alive. I was brought to the hospital clinically dead. They tried to revive me for nearly one hour. Normally they would have stopped the measures, but in my case they tried longer."

"Sounds interesting but what has this to do with your magic trick?"

"You're the detective. Figure it out," the blogger offered.

"I can't. My mind is blocked at the moment."

"Have you ever heard about the Lazarus phenomenon?"

Now the detective looked up from his coffee and stared at John. He's getting it finally, the doctor thought to himself.

"What have you done, John?"

"Mycroft and I needed a plan to make sure Moriarty would be concentrating on you, not me again. It was necessary that he believed he had killed me. And it was also necessary to make you focus on him. So, your brother and I were discussing different scenarios. We both knew Moriarty would come after me again and therefore we needed to be prepared as well as possible. There was a team on standby, waiting for the outcome. When you were doing CPR on me and the team finally arrived, it was decided that I needed to die. I was inserted with a substance, which makes your heart stop and shuts down the other organs. This substance avoids cell damage and only makes it appear you are dead, but you aren't. When I was in the hospital, things didn't go as planned. The electric torture had affected my sinus node and it took the team longer to revive me. Thank god Mycroft had informed them about what we had done. When the substance was out of my body, I could leave the hospital after a 24-hour observation. To make sure you would fully concentrate on Moriarty, we decided it was better to stay out of the way. If I would have been there with you, Moriarty would have tried another round to kill me for real and we didn't want that to happen."

"Just a magic trick," Sherlock repeated.

"Yes, just a magic trick."

Both men sat there in silence. The detective was trying to take one bite from his sandwich, but he couldn't.

"You're not hungry I guess?" John asked worried.

"I can't. There's too much in my head right now."

"I'm glad you finally believe that I'm really here," the blogger whispered.

"Kind of. The whole thing has triggered me. A lot of my childhood is returning and the memories are disturbing."

"If you want to talk about it, feel free to do so," John offered.

Sherlock wrapped himself in his blanket and sighed, "May I ask you one question?"

"Yeah, of course."

"How did you feel when I faked my own death? How were you able to hold on, not breaking?"

His best friend stared at him in disbelief. "I did break, Sherlock! I was seeing my psychologist and even she wasn't able to help me. Each day that passed, it was getting worse. It all ended up with me drinking. First just a glass, then two a day… Before I met Mary, I was drinking a whole bottle nearly every day. It wasn't fun. I had become an alcoholic like my sister."

The detective was trying to avoid John's gaze. "I hurt you."

"Deeply, yes," the doctor admitted.

Another round of silence filled the room.

"I didn't want to jump from that roof," Sherlock finally began.

"Sorry, what?"

"I didn't want to jump. Believe me."

John recognised something in Sherlock's voice, he never heard before. The detective was trying to hold back tears, so John wouldn't be alarmed.

"Jesus, Sherlock. What happened in those two years?" the doctor asked astounded.

"When Moriarty told me on the rooftop that I would have to kill myself, I didn't know what that would mean for both of us. But I had no other choice. He had shot himself and Moriarty already had his snipers positioned. If they did not see me die, they would have killed Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and of course, you. To save all of you I had to disappear."

"Sherlock… This is… I didn't know…"

"Mycroft decided it was for your own safety to not inform you. I wanted to take down Moriarty's network first, so no one would be left to threaten you. It never crossed my mind that I was playing against two people at the same time. If I had known that, I would have chosen my actions differently."

"I saw the scars on your back a few times… What happened?"

The detective tried to look away.

"Sherlock? Maybe it's time you tell me the whole story. Otherwise, it will always come to the surface and we both don't want that," John tried to encourage him.

"You don't want to know, believe me."

"I guess I have seen you in critical condition more than once," the blogger replied seriously.

"Believe me, those injuries were nothing compared to the ones I sustained in Serbia."

"Serbia? So, we are talking about Serbia?"

The detective nodded.

"I was traveling around Europe, to destroy Moriarty's network. I was in Italy, Poland, Germany, Russia and my last station was Serbia. I had just finished destroying the network, when I made a mistake and they were able to track me. I tried to escape through the forest, but they were everywhere and I knew this wasn't going to end well."

"God Sherlock, I wish I had known about this."

"It's okay. You were so mad at me for lying to you. There never was a chance to tell you about this."

"Tell me what they did to you," John tried to sound brave.

"I was brought to some underground interrogation room. First, they started to just ask me questions. Who I am, what am I doing here, you know? Just ordinary stuff. But when I wasn't willing to cooperate, it started getting really bad. I didn't get food and when I was about to starve to death, I started to eat the moss from the walls. They tortured me every day, hours and hours. I lost my memory, I lost my dignity, let's say I lost everything in there. They burned me with cigarettes, they cut my skin, they made me feel like I was drowning. When I was wet, they started to shock me with electricity. I tried to get away, thinking of the good times we both had. When they understood, they couldn't make me talk, they started to use other methods. They threw me on the ground, beating me to a pulp. They cracked my ribs, I had a concussion, internal bleeding somewhere and a lot of other things appeared to be damaged. My cell had nothing, not even a mattress or a blanket. I had to sleep on the cold, wet stones. There was so much pain John, I really thought I would die in there. They didn't care about my condition. I was malnourished, injured and dehydrated. It was clear that they would never let me go. Not alive.

The last thing I remember was that someone was beating me with a pipe and Mycroft appeared, telling me the holidays were over and we would go back to Baker Street. I guess that helped me to pull through."

John was sitting there, not saying a word. He was trying to get rid of the lump witch was forming in his throat.

"I had a bruised kidney, a ruptured spleen, a tear in my liver, seven broken ribs, infected skin… And now that the memories are returning, there was even more. Concussion, broken wrist, pneumonia and a very badly punctured lung. When they slowly brought me out of the coma 24 hours later the pain was so intense, that my heart stopped. They revived me and I was left in a coma for two more days. The next awakening wasn't better. I screamed five whole days from the pain, screaming your name, asking for your support, but you never came."

The detective's voice sounded so sad, that John had the feeling his heart was breaking right now.

"They gave me every painkiller possible, used the highest dosages but the pain was still there, torturing me for a very long time. They had to feed me through a tube, because I was so weak. The doctors then worried, I would die from malnutrition. They fought very hard for my life."

"God Sherlock, I had no idea. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," the blogger whispered.

"Believe it or not, my brother was thinking about telling you."

"Why didn't he?"

"Because I didn't want him to. It's not that I didn't want you at my bedside, I… I just couldn't bare the thought of you breaking when you saw me. I didn't want to hurt you any further."

The doctor was moved. His friend had never been that open about feelings.

"I… I don't know what to say. You've never talked that openly about something."

"You asked me, so there's your answer," Sherlock replied sadly. "They broke me. At the end I didn't know who I was or where I belonged. On one occasion I answered I was Madonna, imagine that."

Both men were looking at each other. John never saw the detective that broken before. Something had changed after Sherlock found out he had been tricked. Sadness was lying all around and John felt sorry for what he had done. He cleared his throat, "Listen, I am sorry for what I've done."

"You did what was necessary. There is nothing to be sorry for."

"I wanted you so desperately to feel the pain I felt those two years. I was so stupid. You were tortured and nearly killed and I… I have nothing better in mind than faking my own death to show you how I felt."

"Sometimes we aren't aware of the hurt other people are facing. It's not your fault. I wanted to save the life of the people I care about and therefore I had to sacrifice myself. It is what it is, John."

"I was so angry at you, when you returned after two years."

"And I don't blame you for that. You had all the right reasons," Sherlock assured him.

"I missed you. I really missed you Sherlock. I was going through hell and even Mary couldn't fill that spot."

"When you died in front of me, my heart broke. Not only literally, but for real. When Mycroft told me this, I first thought he was joking. But he wasn't."

The doctor tried to supress a grin. "Sounds like we have been a couple."

"Oh, of course we are a couple. But a couple not in the way everyone thinks of us. We have a very special friendship and a very special bond. People easily misunderstand that. I am not gay, but on the other hand, I'm too busy with solving cases so that I can't have a woman by my side either. Time for speculations," Sherlock explained.

Another wave of silence.

"You should eat something. Now that I'm here, there's nothing to grieve about," John tried again.

And slowly, oh so slowly, the detective grabbed his sandwich and took the first bite. It would all be okay. Yes, everything was going to be alright…