Chapter 9

Sherlock couldn't remember much of what happened between leaving Johns and waking up the next day. He was on complete autopilot. His heart shattered to pieces, knowing that the love he had for the right man, the good man, would always be unrequited. And the love he found to be requited was with the wrong man, an evil man. When he woke up James the flat was empty. Sherlock wasn't sure what had happened when he left the flat that night to go to Johns, he could remember a struggle, he must have confronted James, they must've fought. It was all very blurry, that whole day. From the moment things clicked into place, Sherlock felt like a mess of emotion. Incoherent. Confused. But he felt clearer now. He knew what had to be done.

He got up and wandered into the living room, where he saw from the window, Johns's car parked outside. He picked up his violin and began playing his own composition.

"You're here to help with James I suppose" Sherlock said, not turning away from the window as he continued to play.

"Sherlock, James isn't here." John said. There was an unnerving tone to his voice that was enough to still Sherlock's hand. He put down his violin and bow and turned to face his guests.

"What? Well not now, he left last night, I assume"

"No, Sherlock, James isn't in the country. He hasn't been for a while."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You remember he left, months ago, after that dinner, when you broke his nose?"

"I- no he broke my nose" Sherlock was suddenly remembering his fist hitting James nose. How Sherlock had cried and begged James to stay as he walked out the door with his suitcase.

"No, you broke his nose, remember, darling. He was leaving you again, and you were upset." Mary interjected, her tone calmer than Johns, who seemed frustrated, aggravated, concerned.

"No that - he was here yesterday! He gave me this." Sherlock pointed to his black eye.

John and Mary looked at each other concerned.

"He's evil, he's tricked you. It was him, this whole time, he was Moriarty! I was blind not to see it, but it was him, he's been killing all these people."

"Sherlock…" Mary looked as if she were about to cry.

"Yes, it was him. Mary, he's good I know, he tricks people, he gets into their head, but I need you right now to know I am telling the truth." Sherlock quickly turned. "John, you believe me. Of course I can trust you, you believe me right."

John was silently looking at the floor, he slowly raised his head and Sherlock noticed his face was angry, angrier than he'd ever seen it. "Not this time." He spoke in a slow quiet whisper.

"Mary, please tell your husband he's-"

"SHUT UP! Stop fucking talking." John roared. "You don't get to do that." His voice was shaking. "You don't get to say her name. You don't get to say my wifes name. Not after what you did."

"What I did." Sherlock laughed, exasperated.

"Oh don't you dare. You can have your delusions about James all you like, but you don't pretend you don't remember, not her. You have some GODDAMN RESPECT YOU COWARD." Sherlock was thrown by John's sudden seemingly irrational anger. Then suddenly, in a quiet shaky whisper, tears beginning to fall down his face John spoke the words that changed everything. "You killed her."

"Wha-"

"YOU KILLED HER YOU MONSTER"

"I - Wha-" Sherlock looked back at Mary, except, where she was stood, where she was just standing, only moments ago, was just an empty space.

"You killed, and you killed and you killed. And you convinced everyone you were the good guy, on the side of the angels. You convinced us all you were actually trying to help. But it was you, all along. It was always you. How could you- to me, how could you lie to me?"

"No, no thats not - thats not the truth"

The room felt like it was spinning, and suddenly, Sherlock was remembering things. Remembering things he didn't even know he'd forgotten. The feel of his fist breaking James' nose. The empty spaces he was sure James had been in all those times. The way his hands felt around his victims throat as he choked them to death. How they fought back, left him with a black eye and a scar across his face. He remembered seeing James walking in the flat, with his knuckles bruised, only it wasn't James, it was himself he had seen. He remembered the way he had felt after John told him he could never love him. How everything had gone black. How he felt in his mind there was only one thing to do. He remembered the way his heart was beating in his throat as he waited on the street for John to go to work. How he'd eagerly watched as he cycled away. He remembered the feeling of pushing the key in the lock, the key John had so caringly trusted him with. He remembered the excited look on Rosies face as she noticed him before her mother did. He remembered the sound Mary made when he pushed the knife into her stomach. The look in her eyes as she realised what had happened. The sounds of Rosies crying as he rushed out the back door, leaving her mother bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

"NO, NOOOOO" Sherlock screamed. He couldn't understand. How, HOW could it all be true. He fell to the ground in a panic, clutching his head as he rocked back and forth, the memories of all the horror he had inflicted flooding into his mind. He noticed, as he looked up to see John staring down at him,that the walls were flashing with blue light. The police were downstairs. They were here for him. He heard as their footsteps marched up the stairs, pushing Mrs Hudson out of the way. As he looked into John's eyes, a thousand memories passed his mind. Of all the times they shared, of all the good times they had, of the ways John had looked at him before. And now, he saw nothing but pure hatred. And as Greg and his team entered the room, John spoke quietly, so only Sherlock could hear him, and said "I wish you had died when you jumped off that roof."

There had been two times when Sherlock had been on a roof with James with the intention of jumping. The first, James had pulled him down, cried with him and told him he loved him. The second, he had forced him to jump. Or so Sherlock had thought. So he had remembered. But with his memories becoming clearer and clearer everyday, he remembered, in moments, in flashes, of unkempt clarity.

"This is my note" He spoke to John, who was standing on the ground below. Sherlock hadn't intended for him to be seeing this. His mind was racing. He felt panicked. He didn't want to hurt John, but carrying on living felt like something worse. And then there was the voice in his head, telling him he is better off dead, telling him his story is over, telling him John would be better off without him, that everyone he knows would be better off without him.

That voice sounded a lot like James.

But James wasn't there. It was obvious now, what had happened. Sherlock had gone through a trauma, when he fell to the ground, and hit his head. He was as good as dead when John rushed over to him with a host of doctors and nurses. It was an oversight on Sherlocks part, if he really wanted to die he should've chosen a taller building, and definitely not one filled with people who would immediately try and save you. But alas he lived. And what's more, he lived with pretty much no major brain damage. He had spent two years in an inpatient facility. 8 months were mainly focused on the physical, he had to learn to walk again. But after that it was purely suicide watch. Mycroft had paid the hospital off to be particularly wary, to pay the closest of attention to Sherlock Holmes. But Sherlock was horrified at the thought of John knowing how truly broken he was, knowing where he was, and instead, created a false reality, in which he believed John thought he was dead. This of course wasn't true. John had been to visit Sherlock at almost every available opportunity over the 2 years he was in hospital. But Sherlocks mind deleted what it wanted, to feel better, and created what it wanted, to make the lies he told himself make sense.

But what no one knew, because Sherlock was a great liar, was that the fall had affected him. He had begun to see things. He had begun to remember things wrong. And he'd begun to have black outs that lasted anywhere between hours and days. And so, in the corner of his room, for the two years he stayed there, was a vision on the person who hurt him most, who had led him to stand on the ledge of a roof more than once. He saw an evil, twisted version of the man he once loved, who had hurt him so often. This version of James, this 'Moriarty', would torture him from inside his head. Play games with him. Convince him he was alone in the world. Convince him to do things he didn't want to do. But he could shake him, he'd often forget him for months at a time. And when the real James would come back into his life, he would find it difficult to distinguish the real James and the version he had in his mind. And sometimes, when he was high, he would forget about 'Moriarty' all together. And other times, when he was coming down, he'd be so confused and scared, he would fear James and love Moriarty.

And then, the final time James left him, and Sherlock knew it was really over, he got so lost in his mind, Moriarty came back with full force. This time, Moriarty was able to convince him to abandon the side of the angels. And Sherlock would often find himself waking up, days passed since he last remembered anything, with blood on his hands and a bad taste in his mouth. And he wouldn't remember a thing.