Author's note: Dear Lena, I'd be delighted and very honoured if you translated my story into Italian!

Delusion

A sledgehammer cannoned into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs and throwing him on his back. His head struck concrete with a skull splitting crack, numbing his senses. With his mind reeling from the shock of the impact, he belatedly realized he had been shot, and the horror of it ran through him like an electric current.

Something had gone wrong. But they had said Moran had been caught? Oh my God, the bastard had fooled them. And what about –

He blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision, staring up at dozens of faces blocking out the light, hands reaching down, fussing over him, the face of the walkie-talkie man coming into sight, his mouth forming words, but he could not hear him, the ringing in his head was drowning out everything else – well, the idiot looked pretty horrified now, served him right. You fools, you got it wrong …

God, he couldn't breathe, his chest really hurt – the vest may have stopped the bullet but he would still be all black and blue with bruising, maybe broken ribs – and where was Sherlock, why did he not see him?

Suddenly, fear washed over him: two shots. He had heard two shots, and Sherlock had not worn any protection – for God's sake, where was he? Sherlock!

He tried to sit up but his arms just flailed – he could hear himself yelling his friend's name and strangers' voices trying to hush him, cooing, "stay calm,", "don't move,", "it's okay, help's on the way, it's gonna be alright". He was struggling to get up, and the hands kept pushing him down, so he fought them, clawing at arms and shoulders – and suddenly he realized his own hands were red. He lifted his head, staring dumbly at the crimson smudges.

Blood. Blood all over his chest. Oh my God …

The walkie-talkie man abruptly withdrew, ushering people in yellow reflective jackets forward, paramedics, thank you, and someone was putting an oxygen mask over his face, but it smelled wrong, this was not –

He felt himself fade; and just before his eyelids drooped, he saw Sherlock standing there, looking down on him, his face set in stone, eyes sad.

'He's alive, thank God,' John thought, and then the darkness closed in.

The doors of the ambulance were slammed shut and the vehicle sped off, escorted by police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Mycroft watched his brother, sitting across from the unconscious man on the stretcher, his face impassive.

Without taking his eyes off the motionless body, the detective asked, "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"I am a friend of the victim," the elder Holmes answered smoothly. "It would be natural for me to accompany him – and my distressed brother," he added poignantly.

"Nonsense," Sherlock spat.

Mycroft sighed. "I will hardly have another chance to speak with you – I know, you will make sure the reporters get their pictures of the critically injured Dr Watson being rushed to A&E with you by his side, but you'll dash off long before he wakes. Leaving me to do the explaining."

"Sorry about that." It sounded more like a sneer.

Mycroft bit back a cutting remark. "I am the last person he wants to see when he wakes up, Sherlock."

"Get his wife, then."

"I will." Mycroft raised his brows. "And what do you expect me to tell her?"

"The truth, of course."

Mycroft gave his brother an exasperated look. Turning to the paramedic monitoring the patient's vitals, he asked, "How is he doing?"

The paramedic took off the stethoscope and covered the unconscious man with a blanket. "He's doing fine apart from a possible rib fracture, we'll have to wait for the X-rays. Probably just bruised ribs, though."

"He hit his head when he fell," Sherlock interjected sharply.

"We'll keep an eye on it," the paramedic reassured, "but so far there are no signs of a concussion. Vitals are good and the anaesthesia should wear off soon enough."

"Very well, then," Mycroft gave a tight smile. He turned back to Sherlock, holding his gaze for a full minute without speaking a word. Then he said in a low voice, "He won't forgive you this, brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Probably not. Though I've misused and tricked him before, he shouldn't expect anything better from me."

Mycroft's mouth twitched. "You've never shot him."

"I didn't shoot him, technically."

"No, but he did believe it when he saw the blood."

"Which was the whole point of the prop with the explosives. If he believed it, so will the rest of the world."

"Undoubtedly. Yet, it neither lessens the risk nor the trauma." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother.

"Well," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, "he's been shot before, it shouldn't be too alien a feeling. Anyway, it was necessary." He took out his phone and started typing.

Mycroft frowned disapprovingly. "You take this too lightly."

In a sudden fit of rage, Sherlock slammed the phone down on his knee. "No, I do not take this lightly, Mycroft! I do not, do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," his brother retorted unfazed.

Sherlock huffed. "Anyway, much will depend on how you break the news to him."

"Tell him yourself," Mycroft calmly insisted. "You do know that he desires your presence much more than any explanation."

"Not important."

"Sherlock," Mycroft leaned forward, frowning. "He'll forgive you almost anything. But not this silence." When Sherlock did not react, he snapped angrily, "For God's sake, he's forgiven you making him watch your suicide! Talk to him!"

"I can't." Sherlock pressed his lips together.

"You can't or you won't?" Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"Both." Sherlock went back to typing, but his pinched mouth suggested that his mind was not focused on it.

Mycroft gave a deep sigh, leaning back. "Accepted. But you should have displayed some sort of emotion in front of him – you know how important this is to them."

"I have none. Therefore, I can't show any."

"Then bloody well act it!" Mycroft exploded, his face flushed with anger.

Surprised, Sherlock looked up, his fingers hovering over the phone. For a split second, his eyes were wide and anxious, but his face instantly turned to stone again. "You? Sentiment?" he drawled, sneering at Mycroft. "Brother, dear … who would have thought that?"

They stared at each other for a long time, and Mycroft did not miss the spasms in Sherlock's hand, betraying extreme anger underneath the cold mask.

Finally, the elder Holmes straightened, looking down his nose at his brother. "Well."

The next minutes passed with neither of them saying anything, the heavy silence between them strangely emphasized by the sirens and the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. Finally, the ambulance slowed down: they had arrived at the hospital.

Sherlock slipped the phone back into his pocket and glanced at Mycroft. "I trust you to impersonate the heartbroken friend at the press conference when you inform the public that sadly, Dr Watson succumbed to his severe injuries." Scoffing, he added, "You will undoubtedly act the part much better than I would. See it as an exercise for your political career, Mycroft – feigning sorrow is vital."

The elder Holmes gave him a dark look. "I don't have to feign it."

The press was already there, Mycroft had made sure of that. They put on a proper show: when the doors of the ambulance flew open, the stretcher was instantly surrounded by a medical team making the required fuss. With dozens of cameras flashing, Sherlock jogged alongside the stretcher, holding John's hand, shock and concern duly written all over him, while the older brother trailed behind, a look of startled dismay on his face.

Inside the building, Mycroft immediately turned to his PA, ignoring the stretcher being wheeled away. Sherlock followed the medical crew for a while; and suddenly, he realized he hadn't just acted the feelings of fear and horror for the cameras – they were real, as was the unsettling thought that this might be the last he'd ever see of John. And what was the last image of Sherlock John would have in his mind? A stoney-faced psychopath refusing to touch him despite the bleeding man yelling his name.

God, he actually had to swallow tears – but still, it was better John hated him in case he didn't survive this day.

Though John would never hate him, he knew that deep down inside, no matter what he did; John would just be confused and hurt. Maybe he should make more of an effort to sort out this mess … but then again, John had Mary. Sherlock relied on her. Absolutely.

He paced the corridor, lost in thought, waiting for news from his homeless network, until he noticed that people were staring at him. Two anxious old women, one waiting for the results of some examination, the other – her sister – to comfort her in case the news was bad … she would have to comfort her, he realized, the woman had death written all over her sallow skin.

Suddenly, their worries seemed to fill the air, suffocating him, disturbing his own burdened mind so much that he wanted to shout, 'Accept the inevitable and stop whining! You're old! You've had a life!' Instead, he just fled the place with John's voice in his head, quietly urging Sherlock, in this particular intonation that meant I understand your reaction, but they don't – so stop it.

John.

John.

John, I'm probably not going to see you again.

John, I'm sorry.

There was a garden, half-dead at this time of the year, offering some sort of sanctuary, but he hated it as soon as he stepped into it: the wet smell of rotting plants; frail old people crawling around at a snail's pace, a grossly overweight man in a wheelchair, angry at the world, and on every bench some moping, sickly person – suede slippers and striped dressing gowns and hospital smells; worse, over there a dreadfully happy family with a newborn, cooing all over the red bundle … he would have scoffed tedious, but in reality he found it just overwhelming.

Struggling to concentrate, he chose a tree to lean against, facing away from them. Then he took out his phone and continued where Mycroft had distracted him.

John,

In the ambulance Mycroft scolded me for the way I treated you. In that, he is right.

But he misses the point. He did accept the fact that I cannot talk to you now – and, rightly, pointed out how important it is to show some emotion and not just offer this cold exterior.

To be accessible.

Yet, I can't. Mycroft understood; but he told me to act it, then.

To pretend. To fool you.

He saw my anger despite my display of coldness; he knows how close he came to end up on that stretcher instead of you, only more severely injured. He does not understand why there is a difference between faking a sniper attack and faking emotions. Both are lies. Both come easily.

I can act the heartbroken friend for the press if I have to; as you've seen, I can even pretend to be myself in front of a judge at the Old Bailey.

But I cannot and never will pretend in front of you ever again. Not after the rooftop.

This is the last chance I have to fulfill the promise I made. I said I would tell you what happened. So I will. I will spell it out for you. Then I shall give the phone to Mycroft. He is not to hand it over to you before he has retrieved my old phone, the one I lost in Russia. One does not make sense without the other.

Giving the phone away also means cutting loose ties – without it, Mycroft cannot track me, and I am finally on my own.

But enough of the future, back to the past.

Repeatedly, I tried to describe what happened to me, but failed spectacularly every single time. I deleted all the attempts.

The main problem is that my memories are severely damaged. This is why I need my old phone - I kept a diary on it. When you read this message, you probably know about the phone and my need to reconstruct my memories.

I once described my mind palace to you, do you remember?

It's burnt down, John. A firestorm raged through it. I don't even have a timeline, just moments of consciousness between nightmares, all blurring into an indistinguishable mess of memory fragments. It is not the drugs that caused this; it was something much worse than cocaine or conventional torture. They tried ttt

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. He instantly suppressed the urge to lash out and attack. "Don't do that, Mycroft," he hissed. "I could have killed you!"

"Hardly," his brother replied. "You were so distracted that any knife-wielding lunatic could have sneaked up to you. A word with you, please."

"Again?" Sherlock bridled.

"Yes." Mycroft nodded at the building and started walking towards it. Slipping the phone into his pocket, Sherlock huffed a sigh, then followed his brother into the hospital.

Mycroft led him to an empty waiting room; a sickly Benjamin's fig dropped a few leaves when he closed the door. Sherlock stopped in front of the window, his back to Mycroft.

"Sherlock. Please look at me."

No answer.

"Sherlock."

"If I hear that concerned tone of voice one more time, I'll throw myself off the building."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "With you, that's to be taken seriously."

Sherlock turned around, his hands hidden in the pockets of his coat. "You don't believe me. You just don't believe me," he said in a soft voice.

"I do believe you," Mycroft said wearily, briefly rubbing his eyes. "I believe you are perfectly serious, and I see the logic of your line of thought. I also believe you follow a self-destructive path for no sensible reason."

Sherlock went utterly still, watching his brother intently. "You think I'm delusional," he stated in sudden realization. "You don't just think I may be wrong, you think I'm going insane. You believe the torture has broken me, that the drugs induced continued paranoia." He narrowed his eyes, scanning his brother for a reaction. Mycroft hesitated – which said more than words.

Sherlock rushed forward, his voice suddenly pleading and his face animated. "Mycroft, if I can fake my death, so can he. He had ample time to prepare everything, I had mere hours and still pulled it off. Pretending to blow out one's brain is not an easy feat, granted – you need explosives, you have to provide the blood and gore, and timing is absolutely crucial, but come to think of it – it is a lot easier than falling from the roof of St. Bart's and still be walking." He paused. "John and I are both living proof of that."

Mycroft shook his head. "Faking a bullet through the head is much more difficult than pretending to be shot in the chest."

"But not impossible."

Mycroft nodded gravely, choosing his words carefully. "Not impossible, agreed. But Moriarty did kill himself on the day you jumped, Sherlock. It was definitely him, I was thorough–"

"Oh, were you?" Sherlock snarled, stepping back. "Did you do the legwork yourself this time? Did you, Mycroft? DNA samples can be faked, records forged, people bribed or blackmailed – did you view his corpse? With your own eyes? Did you take the liver temperature? Make sure it's him, and make sure he's dead?" Sherlock stared at him challengingly. "I can think of at least two drugs that would make him pass for dead easily enough and that's not even taking into account much simpler methods such as bribing or threatening people on your team and planting a mole."

Mycroft remained silent, regarding his brother with sad patience.

"Did you see him with your own eyes, Mycroft?" Sherlock pressed on. "Did you view the corpse?"

"Sherlock, no, but I made absolutely certain–"

"Not certain enough," Sherlock moved a step back, folding his hands behind his back. "No. He's alive."

"Sherlock, please listen," Mycroft pleaded in a gentle tone, one that he hadn't used since Sherlock was ten years old. "You value logic and reason above all, please consider – just consider for a moment my point of view; consider that it is more likely that Moriarty is dead and that your obsession with him is – unsurprisingly – the result of a severe posttraumatic stress disorder."

Sherlock stared at him – and suddenly broke into a grin. "You're right."

Mycroft drew back, watching his brother warily.

"You're right," Sherlock repeated, his face a grimace. "I'm obsessed with Moriarty and I suffer from PTSD. I won't deny that. But he is alive."

Mycroft briefly closed his eyes, then tried again. "You have no proof that he is alive. You have destroyed significant parts of his network and there was never any indication that someone was still governing this network – if Moriarty were indeed alive, he would try to stop you, would he not?"

"That's part of his plan." The answer came so fast, it was premeditated.

Mycroft blinked and opened his mouth, then said nothing for a long time. "What about Moran?" he probed. "The interrogation has shown that he is utterly convinced that Moriarty killed himself of the roof of St. Bart's."

"He was fooled, too. And don't bother, he won't crack under torture."

"Moriarty would not give up his right-hand man, Sherlock."

"Why not? He has a self-destructive streak, like me," he sneered.

Mycroft did not rise to the bait.

Sherlock sighed and looked to the ceiling. "Oh dear, this is me proclaiming there is an invisible man in the garden, and no one can prove me wrong, for he is invisible." He smirked.

When he turned back to his brother, his face was serious again, eyes wide and clear. "Moriarty is alive, Mycroft," he said softly. "That you don't believe me only proves how clever he is – he is fooling even you, brother, and that is his sweetest triumph. It completes my fall, don't you see?"

He slowly walked towards Mycroft, his eyes glittering. "When I have lost everyone who loves me, then he has truly burnt the heart out of me. And he doesn't need to kill my friends, oh no, killing is much too quick for him to enjoy, he prefers a slow and agonizing death – he wants me to watch as everyone loses faith in me. First, the public, then my friends, and finally, I myself." He smiled, a spark of his old energy returning. "Oh, he is patient, Mycroft, and his scheme is more intricate than any of you can see – he's tricking my friends into believing that I have lost my mind, and, oh doesn't he make it plausible? Torture causing post-traumatic stress disorder, the drug-induced psychosis, the flashbacks and meltdowns – the fragile mind of a genius breaking under the strain, my naturally obsessive personality focusing on the cause of all of this: Moriarty." He let out a long breath. "It's a battle of minds, brother. Between you, me, and him."

Mycroft just stood, his face inscrutable.

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "You do know what Moriarty's ultimate triumph would be, don't you?" He looked at his brother questioningly. "No? Come on, Mycroft." He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on his brother's. "It's obvious, isn't it? I, ending up sectioned, drugged out of my mind in a psychiatric hospital." Smiling bitterly, he stepped back. "I'm not very far away from it if you have your way."

"Sherlock–"

"Don't bother." Without another look, he brushed past his brother and walked out of the room.

Mycroft felt as if someone had just stuck a knife in his chest.