The final chapter! This has been very fun and challenging to write! But I still hope you guys enjoyed it ;-)

Cheers! hahaha

"Please." John scoffed, in complete bafflement, furrowing his brows tightly together. "Go ahead."

"John, I believe you may want to sit down for this." Sherlock offered his desk's chair and closed the door to his room. He quickly made his way back to John, who seemed vexed.

"Ok…" John accepted the offer and made himself as comfortable as he could. Suddenly he realized, "Hold on a minute. What of Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock cocked his head, "What about her?"

"Shouldn't she know too?"

"You can tell her later." There was a tone of disturbance in his voice. "I want you to know first."

The soldier nodded with apprehension and uncertainty and tapped his thumbs expectantly on the desk, which for a while had been barren of all of Sherlock's materials and possessions. "Well?" He said eventually, running his fingers along the smooth wooden surface.

But all that followed was an unnerving silence that flooded the room before either of them had a chance to do anything about it. And John even felt himself choke on the thick coating of quietness. He shifted uneasily on the chair. "So what is it? The truth?" He replied, unintentionally sounding too desperate.

Sherlock blinked and stood straight before John like the tall, stick-like statue that he had become and cleared his throat. "Oh yes, of course." Sherlock seemed jittery with anxiety. "John, I have a problem."

The soldier raised an eyebrow dubiously. "What do you mean-"

"Just listen. Please."

John gulped his next words down. He waited.

And waited.

"Sherlock." John began. "What is the problem?" He insisted. The suspicion was burning him from the inside out, and the longer Sherlock took to verbalize the facts, the more he caught himself jumping to his own conclusions. What if he became a murderer? What if someone's after him? What if he's faking this all?

What if?

John's thoughts were interrupted as he saw Sherlock twiddle his fingers, staring down at his shoes, trying to avoid direct eye contact with his flat mate. He also caught sight of his friend's chest rise and fall with deep breathing. Soon his own breathing matched Sherlock's in their fight for air and general calmness alike in that stifling room. "Tell me what's going on." John stood up with impatience.

"Don't!" Sherlock barked abruptly. The soldier caught his breath.

"Sherlock-"

"Sit, John. Please." Sherlock begged. He was shaking a little.

But John, stubborn as he could be, didn't budge. "Tell me what's going on! Or I will leave." He repeated angrily with more authority, and turned towards the door.

Sherlock swallowed down his nervousness and composed himself.

The phone in the detective's pocket started to moan again, but he just picked it out and threw the object onto the bed.

"Stay John. I- I'll start from the beginning." But he didn't sound very assuring; it was more as if the detective was trying to evade a deadly subject. And after some struggle, Sherlock started.

He slowly explained everything to John. He informed his friend of how he'd managed to survive the fall with both Mycroft and Molly Hooper's help*.

John grew paler, "Wait- so they knew all along?"

"Yes."

This sudden awareness stabbed the soldier with an imaginary, sharp dagger, making sure to twist itself around once it had pierced the flesh.

But it also made John understand why both Molly and Mycroft had acted the way they did, especially during the fragile, casual talks regarding Sherlock.

He remembered a couple of times in the past such as ones where Sherlock's older brother had coldly told John to let Sherlock go because he was 'dead', or when John had tried to evade another awkward conversation with Molly Hooper just because it always led back to the detective.

Sherlock, unaware that John had been temporarily lost in thought, continued. He told his flat mate of Moriarty's assassins. "Obviously it didn't take them very long to realize that their employer had died. Therefore, most fled the country."

John snapped back to reality at the mention of the word 'most'. "What do you mean by this? Why didn't they all leave?"

Sherlock frowned as if trying to remember. "There was one that remained, Moriarty's closest ally, considered the second most dangerous man in London: Sebastian Moran. He stayed behind to either kill you or me. For revenge that is." The detective paused and shifted from leg to the other. "A year had passed before I finally found him. Moran had located himself in the undergrounds of London, and if it weren't for the homeless network, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to meet him face to face. It had been a tough battle of fists and wits. I won, of course. He's now in prison and will remain there for God knows how many years."

So there's still a bit of arrogance left in this broken man. John smirked internally. "Didn't the police recognize you when you brought him in?" He said suddenly, logic catching up with him.

"Oh no. I asked one of the homeless people to do it for me." Sherlock leaned on the walls with his nervous hands placed in his pockets. "With that out of the way it had been necessary to keep a low profile."

"But why didn't you come back home earlier? Why wait three years?" John's voice came out a little more high-pitched and upset than he intended them to be. But then again, his emotions were all over the place. "Why did you come back so different? Is this your idea of a sick joke?"

"No John, it was all to protect you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade- everyone that I knew who could be in potential danger." Sherlock's tone changed from neutrality to fear. "And something did happen. Something that changed everything."

There was finally a crack in that porcelain face of his.

John was breathing heavy by now. Out of all his mixed feelings, apprehension jumped out at him the most. "For the love of God! Just tell me what's happening-"

His friend cleared his throat. "I don't think I should anymore."

Ok. That had been the last straw. "Sherlock!"

No more waiting, and definitely no more guessing. This had to be it. The moment for such a long awaited and desired truth.

John stood up and made his way Sherlock and grabbed him by the collar roughly. "Tell me!" He ordered in his best military-sounding voice.

About 10 seconds of silence, and some noises on the streets outside, Sherlock opened his mouth and let his guilty words spill out freely.

"I developed schizophrenia John."

Another invisible stab and John staggered backwards in shock, slowly prying his fingers away from the other man's shirt. "You what?" His voice cracked at the end.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. "It started 2 years after my fake death." He took his hands out of his pants pockets and crossed all their fingers together like a group hug between friends. "Of course, Mycroft discovered and forced me to see a doctor." Sherlock blinked multiple times since his eyes were reddening. "They said it wasn't genetic and that it was just caused by my brain's structure. It was inevitably going to happen at some point." He shrugged dejectedly.

"Sherlock, this- this is serious! Why in the world didn't you tell me sooner?" John's inner doctor surfaced. He neared Sherlock again. "We have to get you to the hospital immediately!"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Jesus- don't be an idiot! This disease could potentially drive you insane, Sherlock!" Spit flew out of John's mouth like lost little bullets trying to reach their target and failing midway.

"It already has." Sherlock murmured, pulling his hands apart and putting his fingertips on the sides of his head and massaging it in circular motions. "I can't separate thoughts and feelings from reality anymore. The voices- they never shut up! And the hallucinations-" He began to panic and breath quickly. "I don't know what to do John! My body's betraying me again. I'm losing myself." By now he was sniffing. "It gets worse and worse-"

John visualized the emotionless stone that Sherlock became explode into a million pieces, revealing inside a scared, small boy who just needed a hug.

And a hug he did receive. John was beside Sherlock in a matter of milliseconds and led the weeping man over to his bed, where they sat together for many minutes.

Sherlock eventually leaned his head on John's shoulder.

"Hey, it's going to be alright. I'm a doctor remember?" John tried to say with a light, carefree tone.

"You had bad days." Sherlock muttered quietly, still sniffing.

Yeah, I did. "Don't worry." John said as he brushed a few dark curls off the detective's face with his free hand. "I'm right here."

Sherlock then searched for John's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Yes, you are." He convinced himself and breathed deeply. "I'm scared John."

"I know you are. But I'll take care of you."

The consulting detective nodded weakly.

Both knew now that life would never be the same, and would be much harder.

Yet they knew they would manage, because they were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson right?

With that thought stuck in his mind, John lied down on the bed, legs dangling off the edge.

Sherlock followed his example.

And together, they held hands and drowned in the silence.

So what exactly happened to you, Sherlock?

This is finally an issue that I've started to understand a little.

Because now I know that in the end,

You killed yourself, Sherlock.

*Did not want to go into details as to how Sherlock survived the fall… Because honestly, I have no idea how he did it.