He stands on the rooftop, the mobile in his left hand, while holding out the other to John. How he wishes that he could feel the touch of a human one more time before this would all start. Sherlock throws his phone away and looks far off into the distance. He lifts his arms, takes one last breath and leaps.

During his fall he thinks a lot:

I'm doing this all so they won't get hurt, hurting them in the process. Then I won't be able to talk to any in weeks, months, or even years… Maybe it's better not to know, not to know why I have to do this… I don't think I can take seeing them being hurt.

So that's what he does. Subtracts the painful memories piece by piece while time passes… until nothing of him is left.

"Wake up now, please…" a soft voice whispers. It isn't unlike the one, of which the memory hurts his head to think of, but it's friendlier and welcoming.

You can't deem a voice "friendly"! You're a machine. Remember? Another voice says.

"Sherlock?" the voice mumbles gently, and he can clearly feel the warmth of a hand on his own.

Wait. Why does he know what a hand feels like? And why does it comfort him?

His eyes slowly open. He can tell that there is something in front of him. Something that should've always been there, but he can't recognize what it is.

"What happened, Sherlock?" hearing this voice somehow manages to turn off the screaming in his ears, so that the unwanted pain from the other voice finally goes away for a second and he feels something else: Relief.

"I'm not mad at you, at least not for now. Now please, say something."

The thing is asking something of him. He wants to open his mouth and answer but when he tries to let out a sound, he realizes that he's forgotten how to speak as well. Or maybe, he just isn't able to.

"What's going on, Sherlock? Talk to me! I wasn't able to hear your voice for three years. Please…"

The voice is begging him now. He still isn't sure what he's looking at, but he knows that its presence is comforting.

"What really happened on that roof top?" it asks.

That's where it all began…

He tries to say it, though he doesn't know what it means, but he just ends up choking on his words. He leans forward and tries to regulate his breathing. Again he feels the warmth of a hand, this time on his back.

"Whoa… calm down, it's fine. It's all right. You're going to be okay, Sherlock."

Again he tries to say something, but it just comes out as some incoherent mumbling.

"Just let it out. I know you have something to say."

The hand gently caresses his back. He continues to babble something, tears filling his eyes. It seems like the emotions from so long ago are kicking back in. Maybe he isn't a machine after all…

Just when the thought crosses his mind the yelling starts again:

Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine!

He lets out a screech of pain and puts his hands on his head, shaking. Then, the first words pass his lips, the first words he can remember ever saying

"M-Make… it stop." He says weakly.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" A voice interrupts and the screams stop. But then he notices, the two are identical: The voice haunting him and the voice comforting him. How can that be?

He weakly opens his eyes and looks. But really looks this time. Finally he recognizes a face. A face that's smiling at him, but suddenly he can see it growling at him:

You machine!

He shakes his head and blinks the image away.

"No…" he whispers.

"What's going on, Sherlock?"

"I don't… I don't… I don't… I don't… I don't… I don't…"

No! That's not what he wants to say!

Finish that sentence!

"…Know." He sighs.

"What happened? Why are you looking at me like you don't know me?" The voice is becoming very desperate.

He closes his eyes and murmurs: "Memory deleted…"

"W-What? Why did you do that?" He can feel the hurt in the voice.

He wishes he knew the reason, but that memory was deleted as well.