"And I'll feel my world crumbling

I'll feel my life crumbling

I'll feel my soul crumbling away

And falling away

Falling away with you"

-Muse

John Watson and I quickly get out of the cab, heading towards St. Bart's Hospital as John's phone rang.

"Hello?" He pauses, then puts the phone on speaker. "It's Sherlock," he tells me. I nod in response.

"You okay, Sherlock?" I ask him over the phone.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came. Now," Sherlock instructs.

John protests, "No, we're coming in."

"Just do as I ask. Please," Sherlock says in an almost pleading tone. He never pleads... We both walk back a few feet, "Stop there."

No, something's wrong. Oh dear God, something is wrong.

John felt it too. "Sherlock?" He asks, panicking a little.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop," Sherlock says. The words echo in my head as I gaze up.

"Sherlock!" I grab the phone from John, "Get down right now. Whatever's wrong–"

"I can't come down, so we'll… we'll just have to do it like this." He looks down at John and I as I clutch the phone in my shaking hand.

"What? What's going on?" John asks.

"An apology. It's all true," Sherlock tells us.

"What?" We both ask in confusion.

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." No. No, that isn't true. Why would he put himself through so much turmoil? No, it isn't possible.

"Sherlock, stop this right now." I demand, my voice cracking into the phone as I feel a hot tear stream down my cheek.

"I can't, Ellie. I'm sorry, but I'm a fake. Tell everyone and anyone that will listen to you two. I invented Moriarty."

"No. No you're not and you didn't." John says, "The first time we met, you knew all about my sister."

"Nobody could be that clever," Sherlock tells John solemnly. This isn't Sherlock. This is a side I rarely see of him. This is fear, I can tell from his voice. This is fear and sadness and regret all mixed together.

"You could," John states matter of factly.

Sherlock laughs a little, "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

"No. Stop this, Sherlock. Stop it now!" John pleads angrily. He starts to walk towards the entrance of Bart's, and I follow. We have to get Sherlock off the roof to safety.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move! Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" He asks frantically.

We stand still, another tear rolling down my cheek. "Sherlock, what's this about?" I ask, my voice quavering.

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

"Leave a note when?" John asks.

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock says. "Goodbye, Ellie," his own voice trembling.

Suicide. This is his suicide. A sob takes over my body and my knees feel weak. He spreads his arms out and plummets to the ground.

My heart stops beating and everything seems to slow down, as if wanting me to remember this moment for the rest of my life. It feels like death, grabbing me with hollowness and tears. I watch him as John shouts out his name and another sob takes over my body. A secret lingers on my lips, not leaving them.

I love you, Sherlock.

I never had told him that, and now I never could.

John stares forth with disbelief, then looks back at me, holding me as I feel my knees collapse underneath me.

"John," I sob. "John, that didn't–," my breaths are quick and shallow, "that didn't happen."

"Come on," he says, helping me up. We start to run around a building that is hiding our view, and then a biker slams into both of us. I fall down. I stay put, feeling numb, and close my eyes, only wanting to wake up from this terrible nightmare I am living.

John gets up a few moments later and drags me along. We approach Sherlock's body and more tears come down my face. I can't look, so I turn away.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I stared at Sherlock. His eyes seemed only inches away, but he was far up on a building and I was on the ground. "Sherlock, please," I whimpered.

"I'm so sorry," he told me, his voice a whisper in my ear.

And then he jumped.

"Sherlock!" I screamed.

I open my eyes, now wide awake, and sit up in bed, scared and panting. "Sherlock…" I whimper, clenching my teeth and wrapping myself in my blanket. I want him here with me.

But I was alone, and no amount of begging can bring him back.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

It has been almost two years since the untimely death of Sherlock Holmes. The magazine and news articles have been showing up less frequently than ever.

"The Double Suicide of Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty."

The world has moved on.

John has a girlfriend now, a pretty serious one. I think he's planning to propose to her soon. Mary, her name is. She's nice.

How am I, you may ask? Well, I took up a job with Scotland Yard, helping to solve the odd little cases here and there. I'm not as good as Sherlock, though. No one could ever be as brilliant as he was. Never.

Speaking of Sherlock, there's been news cases popping up recently. The most recent is a Serbian site – the Baron Maupertuis, I believe it was called. It sounds like something he would do. Mycroft believes it could be a sign. I'm not sure what to think, but I know all hope I once had for Sherlock perhaps being alive is now gone.

I'm currently sitting in 221B Baker Street, looking over the files for a new case. It's completely silent and peaceful. And then my phone rings. I jump, startled by the sudden noise.

I pick up the phone, the caller ID reading 'John', "Hello, John."

For a moment there's only breathing coming from the other end, then a broken voice, "Ellie?"

Suddenly I'm on alert. "John, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, I–I just… Be prepared…," came his vague response.

There came the sound of shuffling over the phone, and then another voice. "Eleanor…"

My blood runs cold. That voice. A voice I haven't heard in two years. A voice I never thought I'd hear ever again.

"Sherlock…" I speak barely above a whisper. I suddenly feel weak, my knees sinking me to the floor. He continues speaking, but I can't hear him. I seem to have lost all competence.

And then I hear the creak of the stairway.

I freeze, listening for whom it may be. How did I not hear the front door?

"Lovely evening we're having. Don't you think, Eleanor Archer?," says a smooth, Irish voice.

I stand up slowly, my back to the person. Then I abruptly spin on the spot.

There's a figure hiding in the shadows. Slowly the person steps out.

No. No, he can't be alive.

He is back.

Moriarty.

Sherlock's voice speaks into the phone again, "Ellie…? Are you alright?"

I still don't reply.

They're both alive.

James Moriarty smirks upon seeing my reaction, "Did you miss me?"

I let the phone slip through my hand and it goes crashing down, shattering along the wood floor.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-