Author's note: Here is the last chapter. Enjoy!

Greg opened his mouth to speak to the figure that was lying completely motionless on the bed when it seized up, writhing to and fro and almost falling down on the floor.

"John!" he called out, rushing towards Sherlock and trying to fixate him.

"What happened?" John asked with the professional demeanour of a doctor, pushing Greg away. The DI saw his hands were shaking.

"I came in and he started having a seizure" he said just as calmly as John, trying to hold unto Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson, call an ambulance!" John ordered when they heard a soft intake of breath behind them.

She left the room and moments later they heard her talking in her mobile phone. They did their best to hold unto Sherlock, John monitoring his breathing and pulse.

They were too busy to be scared, which was a good thing, as Greg would later reflect when the ambulance came and took Sherlock away.

As soon as they watched it drive away, John collapsed and would have fallen down on the asphalt if Greg had to been keeping him up.

"We need to go after him" he said and John straightened immediately, waiting by Greg's car before he could even take his keys out.

Mrs. Hudson had decided to stay behind under the condition that she would be informed hourly how her boy was doing; Greg doubted that she would indeed stay at home if Sherlock's affliction proved to be dangerous, but for now their landlady was safely in her flat, resting. It had been a shock for them all, and he didn't want the nice old lady to suffer because of it. They needed someone to stay sane amidst the craziness of the last hour.

John looked out the window almost the whole way, his hands clenched into fists. Greg knew that if they hadn't been, they would have shaken.

"How could this happen?" he asked, more himself than the DI. It was easy enough to guess his thoughts. John was blaming himself.

"We don't know what it is yet" Greg tried to soothe him, but he shook his head.

"There had to be symptoms – there just had to be. And if he – no, I would have noticed" he mumbled.

Greg had also wondered if Sherlock was taking drugs again, but John couldn't have failed to notice that. He would have noticed any symptoms Sherlock displayed, in fact. He couldn't have missed any indication that he was sick.

Maybe there was a simple explanation. Maybe Sherlock hadn't eaten or slept enough, and he'd been confused because of that and then his body had shut down –

Again he remembered what he had thought when he had talked to him. This strange feeling that he wasn't talking to Sherlock at all, but to someone else – and since John had told him what Sherlock's last words before going to his room had been – no, it couldn't be. Whatever he had thought was too weird to contemplate. Sherlock had acted like this, had worried him because he was about to have a seizure, it was as simple as that –

Sherlock would hate him for theorizing without data, so he shoved the thought away and concentrating on getting to the hospital as quickly as possible without causing an accident.

Sherlock couldn't say that he woke up, because when he did, he was surrounded by darkness. But it was not the comforting darkness of his subconscious; it was another, dangerous gloom, and he wondered if he was dead, if there was an afterlife and it consisted only of shadows, then he forced himself to think clearly.

He had shot Moriarty, had succeeded in pointing the gun at his head and pulling the trigger. He had fainted afterwards, right as the consulting criminal collapsed, which strengthened his suspicion that they were linked somehow, that Moriarty had not only presented a memory, but a part of himself he was desperate to repress as well.

Where was he now? This was not his mind palace, and not his subconscious. But where could he be? The mind had mountains, and apparently they were countless. He had somehow ended up where he had never been.

Maybe he wasn't dead, but dying, having killed Moriarty creating an imbalance in his mind that caused his body functions to cease. If so, he was more than happy to accept it. He had defeated Moriarty; his friends were safe. London was safe. He could drift away, he could stop to exist. No more memories that haunted him. He was about to sit down and wait for the inevitable when he remembered.

A shaking hand, a desperate plea for him not to be dead.

An angry reminder that he was the worst tenant anyone could ever have.

A badge, half ruined by the weather, that he had found at his grave after he had returned.

He could have died peacefully if he had been assured that his friends wouldn't suffer, but they would. He had seen them suffer before. He couldn't do it to them again, he couldn't force John to go through it again. Much as Sherlock had tried to ignore it, his death had almost killed him the first time; what if he was the one who found his body now?

He started to move. He couldn't see his own body, he could see nothing, but he felt himself move, and he hoped that it was in the right direction. He felt that it was, but perhaps he was so far gone that part of him wanted to finish the journey.

He soon found that it was difficult to move, as if he was struggling against a current pulling him in the other direction. He was confused, dizzy, and only one thought kept him going. John. He couldn't do it to John. He couldn't die on him again.

And he moved. He could be struggling his way back to life; it certainly felt like struggling. It was certainly better than waiting quietly for death.

How did his mind palace look now? The thought appeared suddenly and he held unto it, as a lifeline, as a thought that connected with consciousness, with life.

The damage that Moriarty had done had to be reparable. It had to be. He would work on it until everything was as it was supposed to be, until the corridors where light and airy once more, the memories safely stowed away and unchanged, connections where he had created them –

Once he got there. He had to get there first. And, as he walked, he was starting to see a light. He hoped it wasn't the light at the end of the tunnel, as people liked to say; he'd always seen the metaphor as contradictory – death was the dying of light, so why should there be any?

He concentrated on reaching it. It was all he could do. When he did, when he touched it, when movement suddenly became easier –

He woke up. He knew immediately that he was in a hospital.

"Sherlock!"

John and Greg cried out his name simultaneously, the doctor informing him that he'd had a seizure and been brought in two hours previously. He advised him to take things slowly and was astonished when Sherlock sat up and asked, "When can we go home?"

"You can't. There are tests – " Sherlock stood up. "Sherlock – "

He opened his mouth and closed it again. What was he supposed to tell him? He had an excuse for his behaviour. The seizure he had apparently suffered after he had shot Moriarty. His strange behaviour in the days preceding it might well be explained through some strange medical problem that had appeared as quickly as it was gone again.

He could tell John the truth. But would he believe him? Would anyone? When he had been in his mind palace, fighting Moriarty, he had firmly believed that his friends would recognize the truth and act because he had to, because it was his last hope if he didn't succeed. But in the real world, things were different. Moriarty was gone. Why should he drag his spectre into the light when it was all over? Being declared insane would mean that the consulting criminal had won after all.

The decision was easy.

He submitted to the tests, and after two days, having been found healthy, he was allowed to go home.

When he came to pick him up, John asked, "Do you remember what you told me before..." he trailed off, and Sherlock realized he had one more chance to tell the truth. He decided against it and simply replied, "I don't know what I said. I remember talking to you, but I was too confused to understand my own words".

John beamed all the way to Baker Street.

He stopped smiling as he paused ton his way to the kitchen to make tea and turned on the telly to catch the news.

All they saw was Moriarty, asking them one question.

Did you miss me?

Author's note: I hope you liked this story – and of course I hope UsagiRyu liked this story, first and foremost.

I tried to keep it open to interpretation – Sherlock could be mad, or it could have been Moriarty, come to life in his mind palace. I contemplated different endings for this, one having Sherlock die, but then I remembered the season 3 ending and felt that it would be perfect.

Please leave a review, and have a wonderful day!