"Oh, John! You made me jump!" Mrs. Hudson cooed as he came rushing in the front door. "Is everything alright now, with the police? Has Sherlock sorted it all out?"

He stopped dead, staring at her with wide eyes.

She was obviously fine.

Not dying from a gunshot wound, like he'd been told over the phone just shortly before, when he'd left Sherlock alone at the hospital to come see her...

Sherlock alone.

"Oh my god..." John breathed in disbelief, worry starting to chill his blood all over again.

Without another word he wheeled around and went tearing out to the street, commandeering a taxi and repeating a steady stream of "No, no, no—" under his breath.

It had all happened so fast.

But now the events of the past week came crashing back over his head—the doubts, the rumours, and the subsequent arrest of Sherlock Holmes on suspicion of fraud, before they had escaped.

And now...

It was all Moriarty's fault.

It had to be.

Jim Moriarty must be Satan himself, if he could take a man's life and twist it like that—break it, turn it all against him in a massive tempest of lies and accusations.

One big lie, with just enough truth to make it easy to swallow.

That's how Satan did it.

That's how he killed the angel helper.

In truth, you like the pain.

You like it because you think you deserve it.

And now the whole world believed Moriarty was just an actor, hired by Sherlock Holmes to portray the villain and make him look good. The whole world—

They all thought Sherlock had kidnapped those children.

They thought he had stolen all those paintings.

They thought he was the one who'd had bombs strapped to people in public places.

Hell, they probably thought he was the one who had forced people to choose between two identical pills, too—

And not one bit of it was true.

Sherlock was the innocent.

John knew that.

He was, actually, probably the most innocent person he'd ever met, despite his attitude.

There were so many things Sherlock Holmes just didn't know. And perhaps he never would. They say that what you don't know won't hurt you—but it can't help you, either.

Maybe Sherlock needed that.

But at this rate there was no way John could get him to understand.

I wish to not have feelings.

I wish to be a machine.

And to think, Moriarty's source for information on Sherlock was none other than his own brother—Mycroft Holmes.

He'd provided the most dangerous criminal mind in London with exactly what he needed.

Moriarty had a bone to pick with Sherlock.

And Mycroft had given him the perfect ammunition.

And John had left him alone.

Again.

Alone is what I have.

Alone protects me.

Maybe if John had tried harder—maybe if he'd spoken up earlier—but what could he have said?

He'd already tried so damn hard…

He'd been there all along, trying…

And still, the whole world had fallen apart about their heads, and there wasn't a fucking thing he could do for his best friend because everything had spiralled out of control and now not only was it like he couldn't reach him, but everyone else was out to get him, too.

Not just himself anymore.

I am told not to be myself.

Am I really that much of a freak?

Moriarty did exist.

He did.

Jim Moriarty truly was the real, good-old-fashioned villain of their little fairytale.

And John would make sure that the whole fucking world knew that.

It didn't matter how long it took.

It didn't matter who he had to shoot.

Sherlock's name would be cleared.

It had to be.

He deserved that much.

I feel as if I should apologize.

I'm sorry.

For disappointing you the way I must have, the way you complained all the time.

I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promises. When I said I wouldn't cut again. I didn't mean to slip up, but things happened.

I guess that's why you stopped trying after a while.

I'm sorry I couldn't be normal for you.

I'm sorry I was heartless, and ignorant, and a soulless machine... I'm just trying to be perfect.

That's what I'm supposed to be, right?

But there was no way.

But I tried.

Trying doesn't count, though.

Almost as soon as the taxi had pulled up in front of Saint Bart's hospital, his mobile started ringing.

John was almost in too much of a hurry to pick up as he got out, but just in case it might be important… "Hello?"

"John."

"Sherlock." He didn't stop walking. "Are you okay?"

"Turn around and walk the way you came."

"No, I'm coming in."

"Just… Do as I ask. Please."

That sounded a bit familiar…

"Where?"

"Stop there. Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop. I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

John looked up with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the detective, high up above him on the windy rooftop. "What's going on?"

"An apology. It's all true."

No.

No, no, no.

Not happening.

This must be a dream.

Another nightmare.

Another excess of scarlet.

He'd wake up.

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this?" That sinking feeling was twisting itself into a tight knot of horror, made all the worse by the sheer confusion he felt himself drowning in.

This was so wrong.

"I'm a fake."

"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."

But if this was a dream, why was Sherlock saying these things?

Nothing like that had ever happened before.

"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."

So tell me, how does it feel to know you get to me like no one ever has before?

Sherlock almost managed a smile at that, despite it all. "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."

"No. Alright, stop it now."

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

John held up his hands in desperate surrender, feeling like he was about to run out of breath forever. "Alright."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me." Sherlock's words shook, and in that moment John imagined that the worst sound in the world must be the break in the voice of a person who's about to cry. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

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

John's heart stopped. His blood froze. His breath caught. He didn't want to believe this. He couldn't. Not this time.

If he just...

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."