The folly of logic is that, when properly applied, it can be used to justify nearly anything. The folly of genius – aside from (or perhaps a subsection of) its need for audience – is that, when the mind is left uninterrupted and an idea starts to formulate, it will fester and grow into a veritable living thing if no one is there to protest.

And so here sits Sherlock Holmes; logician, genius, and utterly alone.

Were he sentimental, the word abandoned would ring a bit more true. Rejected, even. Exiled.

He's not sentimental, though. So. Alone, then.

The letter John had Molly deliver sits on the desk before him. He's opened it, read it, read it again, and read it several more times after that purely for the purpose of searing the words into his brain. John has always put his feelings into his writing – even on case posts when Sherlock believes that he should focus solely on the facts – and so the depth of his rage is a near-physical thing as he makes it clear that Sherlock is the sole possessor of the blame in the death of his wife. As he disavows Sherlock of his title of godfather to Rosie and all access to her. As he, in no uncertain terms, calls Sherlock an uncaring monster.

A small portion of his mind knows that it was Norbury's choice to pull the trigger, and that it was Mary's choice to jump in front of him, but every time he moves to be hurt by John's words, logic rises up to meet him and presents a chain of reasoning so clear it may as well have bullet points.

Because:

If Sherlock had not attacked Norbury verbally, she might not have been motivated to shoot him and there would have been no bullet for Mary to jump in front of.

And:

If he had not found her after she ran off then she would have been safe from Ajay and would never have been in the aquarium in the first place.

And:

If he had not convinced John to go back to her after she shot him then he would have hated her enough that if Ajay caught up to her, her death would not have affected him as harshly.

And:

If he had not jumped off the roof of St. Bart's hospital, John would not have started work at the new clinic where he met Mary and would not have been so emotionally distraught that he fell into the arms of an assassin.

And:

If Sherlock had never met John or had never taken John on that first case, then Moriarty would never have been able to use him as leverage, and even if Mrs.. Hudson and Lestrade were motivation enough, his death wouldn't have affected John because John wouldn't have known or cared for him.

It's a beautiful, terrible line of reason, and it all circles back to him.

An even more terrifying chain of reasoning follows as such: John is Sherlock's weak point, and with Mary gone, Rosie is John's sole weak point. This means that, should any Magnussen-minded criminal wish to get to Sherlock, all they would have to do is threaten Rosie. This is absolutely unacceptable, and it will only cause everyone involved unending pain and make John resent Sherlock even more than he already does.

Mary told him to save John by making John save him, but John's hatred for him is so strong that there's a good chance he won't come to his rescue and it will be a waste of energy. There are far more efficient solutions to the current predicament—or, more specifically, one solution that, with a little work on the details, trumps them all.

See: one can have John Watson, his daughter, his wife, and his (admittedly few) friends, and disregarding the common problems all modern people face like taxes or trouble at work, the result is general happiness. The moment Sherlock and his care for John are factored into the equation, the result invariably comes out painful. If not immediately, then eventually. Without fail.

Theoretically, the solution is simple: remove Sherlock's caring attitude towards John. The flaw with that theory, however, is that statistical analysis and scientific experimentation have yielded undeniable evidence that such a separation would be a virtual impossibility. Time and time over, criminals and masterminds and villains have tested the hypothesis, and the conclusion is always the same: put John Watson in danger, and Sherlock Holmes will come.

So. Sherlock cannot be present in John's life without caring for him. He can also be absent (Exiled) from his life, but his care for John will likely be ever-present. As long as Sherlock Holmes exists, he will care for John Watson, and as long as he cares for John Watson, John will experience pain.

Unacceptable.

Here, of course, is where the idea blooms thick and inky in his mind, and has nothing to do but claw at the inside of his cranium. If, he realizes staring at John's letter his love for John causes John pain and he in inextricably attached to his love for John, then the only way to actually save John isn't to make him save Sherlock, like Mary thought. It's for Sherlock to stop existing entirely.

The tragedy of it is: if anyone at all (aside from Mrs.. Hudson, who would fuss and cry but ultimately bluster in the face of Sherlock's logic) had been present to speak this conclusion aloud to, the idea might at least be thrown into doubt if not quelled entirely.

But, folly of genius and all that. So. He sits alone in his flat.

And the idea feeds.

Of course, it's not the simplest thing in the world to arrange one's own death without anyone catching on.

This time, he has to keep it from Mycroft as well; telling him last time was at least justified by Sherlock's need for a confidante while he operated as the living dead.

The goal, this time, is not to live.

But he did make a vow, and there's always the irritating chance that someone Sherlock put behind bars or a family member thereof will attempt to exact revenge on John after Sherlock is gone. Sherlock's death will take care of future threats, but one can only manage past history, not erase it.

Mary taught him this much.

"What on earth is this?" Mycroft demands, staring at the document.

Sherlock shrugs. "John no longer wishes to be associated with me—" he begins as though the words don't taste like acid.

"Which is why he will not appreciate my interference with his affairs at all," Mycroft interrupts impatiently.

"Incorrect," Sherlock declares, "As I was saying, his lack of involvement leaves me with almost no backup when I'm on a case and therefore makes it far more likely that I'll be injured or, very possibly, killed."

"This is utter nonsense," Mycroft spits, "you will not be killed by some petty criminal trying to outrun the law, Sherlock. That is far beneath you."

"In case it has escaped your notice, brother dear," Sherlock snaps, "the people I've been dealing with extend far beyond the realm of petty criminals." He sneers, and then adds, "Besides, desperation makes people do curious things. I want every eventuality prepared for."

Mycroft stares at him for far too long as the words hang in the air, sounding far more ominous than Sherlock had originally intended. Finally, he says, "What are you not telling me?"

Sherlock huffs a laugh. "Do give yourself some credit, brother," he deflects, "of all people you ought to be the sole possessor of the skill of seeing through me."

"I'm not," Mycroft says severely, "and you know it." He doesn't say who the actual "sole possessor" is. Doesn't need to.

Eventually, Sherlock says, "Perhaps this whole…business," he settles on, "has made me far more aware of my own mortality. I thought her to be indestructible, Mycroft," he adds, "She was better than me, and even she wasn't good enough. So, given where my line of work is likely to lead me, I will not leave John exposed."

Mycroft doesn't say anything; he merely stares and stares and stares at Sherlock with a deeply-furrowed brow. Sherlock doesn't squirm under his brother's scrutiny. (Perhaps he does a little).

"Sentiment," Mycroft finally accuses.

Sherlock sighs. "Sentiment," he concurs.

Mycroft signs the contract.

Of course, he thought about simply faking it and leaving Britain forever, delving deep into the pits of MI6 and traversing the world as a dragon-slayer.

He tied his own noose, though, by pulling that very stunt years before. Now, there will be public (and government) outcry for evidence, for a body, for confirmation that he's not faking this time. And even if he manages to escape public scrutiny and go undercover, his face has been plastered so far across the globe that it will be an enormous effort to go undetected.

It's got to be real, this time.

(He wishes he could see Rosie one last)

It helps, sometimes, to keep his thoughts ordered on paper, so he keeps a notebook.

He writes down the entire chain of reasoning, muses over any ways around the conclusion and finds none.

He makes a copy of the contract and sticks it between the notebook's pages (alongside Mary's dvd and John's letter), keeping the original somewhere safe. No good to burn the original when he burns the book.

He realizes quickly that his death is going to have to be an accident. It can't happen on a case with the yard; he won't make Lestrade lose his job again. He would try to engage some serial killer or criminal mastermind, but it would seem—infuriatingly—that Sherlock's taken care of the majority of them.

It needs to be his own fault, a slip of his own mind; he will take no guests with him to Samarra.

He scribbles Accident in his notebook, and leaves it at that. He will know what it means.

His will isn't a problem. It's been the same since he departed on his two-year-long "tour". From then to now, it remains: everything he has—everything he is—belongs to John Watson.

(It should be enough to pay for a nanny for Rosie)

(And school for Rosie)

(And a nicer house where Mary doesn't still walk the halls)

He doesn't think of it as a sacrifice, per se. To him, it feels more like a necessity. He doesn't want to die, but he would if it meant John's safety. That hasn't changed in the course his life took from the roof of Bart's to the sidewalk on which he sees John a few days after his meeting with Mycroft.

He sees John from the other side of the street, about to cross at the light. He isn't with Rosie, and he looks tired.

He doesn't seem to see Sherlock, but for a moment, Sherlock wishes selfishly that he knew. That he knew what Sherlock was about to do for him, that he knew the depth of Sherlock's commitment to his happiness. He wishes he was better at expressing his (feelings) thoughts, so that he could make John understand that, even if there hadn't been a plan in place to survive the Fall, Sherlock would've jumped anyway. The second Moriarty put John under fire, he would have jumped anyway.

He solves a few more cases – either with the yard or from his flat—and tries his best not to die on anyone else's watch. He knows, though, that his days of dragon-slaying are composed of borrowed time and nothing more. He knows, every time he wakes up, that he is drawing ever-nearer to Samarra.

He tries not to think about the fact that he's literally going to kill himself.

It sits in the back of his mind, alive and alarmed, occasionally screeching what are you doing?! at him in an attempt at self-preservation. His heart beats an insane staccato when it occasionally dawns on him that he's going to die, beats hard and fast like it knows it will soon be out of the job.

What are you doing?!

Saving John Watson. I am saving John Watson, and I would do it again.

He texts John in a final, not-desperate bid to see if there's any way John will allow him back into his life. He doesn't know what he thinks it will accomplish—even if John forgave him, the danger to him would still be present and Sherlock would still have to go. Perhaps he simply wants to see John, talk to him one last time, die knowing that the man he's dying for doesn't loathe him.

So he texts: I know why you wish for me to no longer be a part of your life. If you wish, though, to proverbially "clear the air" and give us both a chance to say what needs to be said, I will be at Angelo's tomorrow night from 6:00-8:00. You don't need to come, but if you do, I will listen to everything you say.—SH

He arrives at Angelo's the next night and explains the situation to him ("I might not order anything; I'm just hoping someone who's upset with me will come."), and he sits at a table in the corner and waits.

Of course, John doesn't come, and Sherlock leaves alone.

He texts John: I understand.

In the end, it actually is an accident.

He's standing on the kerb at a busy intersection when he receives a text from Lestrade about an interesting disappearance. Whilst reading it, he thinks that he sees people start to move across the street out of the corner of his eye and follows the flow without looking up from his phone.

It's not until the driver honks at him that he raises his gaze and realize no one had actually moved.

It's a burst of relief, another burst of terror, a pedestrian's cry, and barely enough time to think with alarm I didn't burn the book before he

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A/N:

I published this a while back on AO3 and only just realized that I never uploaded it here. Not a WIP; I'll be posting the next chapter once a week or so. There are also some format changes since I can't use strikethrough on FF, and it's pretty heavily used in the original. If you'd like to see the complete version without waiting for updates, feel free to visit my AO3 profile!

Reviews are greatly cherished.

-D