There were two figures sitting on stiff armchairs by the fireside. One sat forward in his chair, elbows on his thighs, hands intertwined and his chin resting on the crook between his thumbs and forefingers. His eyes were fixed on the fire as it cast dancing shadows on the heavily decorated walls, the carpeted floor and their skins. The other figure was watching him, leaning into the chair with his legs crossed. The fingers of his right hand were on his lips, giving him a thoughtful and calculating look. Their faces betrayed no hint of the surging thoughts they had within. To an outsider, the two men would just appear to be absentmindedly staring into nothingness. But an absent mind is never the case for the Holmes brothers.

The silence was both familiar and terrifying. The two brothers were used to not having to speak to communicate. Their similar ability allowed them to read each other most thoroughly. But this conversation was unprecedented and the conclusion of this could have great repercussions.

Mycroft reached for the glass of scotch on the small table between the chairs and drank. Sherlock's was untouched. As he set the glass back down, he noticed a subtle change in Sherlock's posture. His shoulders relaxed for a fraction, releasing some of the tension that was there.

"Have you made your decision, dear brother?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away. He settled back into the chair and aligned his own arms with the chair's. He closed his eyes and let out a breath.

"I don't know if I can do it, Mycroft. I can't do this to John."

"It's not a question of your capability, Sherlock. Will you do it? You are well aware that I would assist you in every way I am able. Maybe you've forgotten-"

"Of course I haven't," Sherlock snapped. His hand reached for the glass on the table and both of them noticed it was shaking. He pulled it back, fisted both and tried to calm himself. Breathe. Just breathe. He tilted his head back and allowed the air to fill his lungs. That's it. Deep breaths. Mycroft waited patiently. It was disarming to see Sherlock this way, but unlike his little brother, Mycroft's emotions were always in check. The Iceman, he had called him.

Sherlock reached for the glass once more, this time his hand was steady. He took two sips and set it back down. "I know the gravity of this matter. Jim Moriarty must be stopped. Forgive me if I take a moment to consider what this would do to John." Sherlock looked straight into Mycroft's eyes and the latter could see the anguish in those pale, storm-coloured eyes.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," he said, not breaking eye contact. Mycroft watched as his younger brother buried his face in his hands and then ruffled his hair twice.

Sherlock thought long and hard. He knew it had to be done and he knew he was the only one who could do it. But John… Sherlock couldn't even begin to imagine what it would be like if John had done what he was thinking of doing, what he was about to do. Just the thought of John… dead… Sherlock repressed a shudder. He knew he'd be devastated beyond belief. And he knew that he'd blame himself for the death of his best friend. If this reaction was something he, a high-functioning sociopath, would be capable of, he had no doubt John – warm, sweet and normal John – would feel undoubtedly worse. He had no tangible data to support this conclusion and the idea that he might soon be able to filled him with excitement and dread. Mostly dread. Because being excited about such things would be a bit not good, John would say.

"He'll never forgive me for this," Sherlock said solemnly. Mycroft noted that his whole body appeared resigned. He looked up at his brother once more; his mind finally decided and said, "Promise me you'll look after him, Mycroft."

"Naturally, of course."

"Let's do it then. When are we meeting?"

"Tomorrow. He was the one who organized it. If we had set it on our terms, he would be more suspicious, I'm sure."

"What do I have to do?"

"All you have to do is jump. I will take care of the rest. By this time tomorrow, Jim Moriarty will be dead. And to the rest of the world, so will you."

"Just text me the details. I'll be going home then."

"Anthea shall accompany you."

Sherlock couldn't be bothered to resist. Quite frankly, he'd rather be alone to think some more. Whatever Mycroft had said about caring, Sherlock knew there was only one reason he was committed to bringing Jim's whole empire down. Sherlock cared about John and he didn't deserve to be put in danger just because he had the misfortune of being associated with the world's only consulting detective. John's too good for that.

John didn't know what was going on. In fact, he was barely aware of where he was and what he had been doing. Find Lestrade. Yes, that was what John had to. He had to find Lestrade. He would clear everything up. He'd explain everything. He'd explain how everyone seems to think that Sherlock was…

John made his way through the crowd, pushing just a little bit harder. Blood was flowing through his veins, spreading panic and fear throughout his entire body. John knew that if he stopped moving for even a second, he would be paralyzed by all his emotions. He had to keep it together. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. Lestrade. Where's Lestrade?

His eyes quickly spotted the familiar silhouette, frantically shouting orders. John rushed right over. Lestrade saw him approach and met him halfway. John noted that the detective inspector looked weary and visibly worried.

"What the hell happened? Where's Sherlock?" John asked him at once.

"John…" Lestrade gulped before continuing. "We have teams searching the waters. We'll find him, John."

John shook his head tentatively. "I… don't understand," he looked at Lestrade and slowly shifted his gaze towards the expanse of water. Sherlock is somewhere there? Underwater?

Lestrade was still speaking, probably trying to explain it to him. He tried to make himself listen, but his mind was too busy processing the information from his eyes as he scanned the surface of the water. Waiting, just waiting for an out-of-place ripple or a bubble. Anything. Come on, Sherlock.

He managed to understand snatches of words. Sherlock and Moriarty. Helicopter. A text. It didn't make any sense to John. Surely it was all just a misunderstanding. He half-expected Sherlock to come up from behind and tell them off for being so stupid to think that he would actually jump off of a helicopter. It was bloody ridiculous. This whole thing. Why haven't they found him yet?

"We got here as soon as we could by car, just in time to see the helicopter lose control for a bit. Two bodies fell out and hit the water. It was him, John. Him and Moriarty. Someone was definitely bleeding, water turned red as soon as it settled."

The mental image of blood seemed to stir John from his dazed state. He was a soldier, a man of action. This was no time to stand still. "Mycroft. Did you call Mycroft?" John's voice seemed suddenly hopeful. Everything was possible with Mycroft. He'd find Sherlock for sure. Has to.

Lestrade tried to hide the pitying expression on his face, but John noticed and felt his own face fall. "He has his own team out there searching."

"How long have they been out there?" John asked, mentally preparing himself to hear the answer. He thought of what Lestrade had just said. He thought that as long as Mycroft came to assist them, they would be able to find Sherlock. But the fact that he was already here and they haven't found him still…

Lestrade looked at John hesitantly. He was just as afraid to answer as John was to hear it. "It's been three hours."

Three hours. The thought seemed to punch John in the stomach and his lungs felt as if they had imploded. There was not enough air and his heart was pumping twice as hard in response. The ground rose up to meet John as his bad leg gave way. They're not expecting to find him alive. They're just looking for the body.

Lestrade gripped his arm and lowered himself to John's level.

"I'm sorry, John. But at this point…"

"Don't say it, Greg," John warned, still feeling a bit winded.

"You may have to accept that he just might not come back…" He trailed off.

"Alive. That's what you mean, isn't it?" John snapped, his eyes shooting daggers. "He can't be dead, Greg. He just can't. Not like this."

"I know." Lestrade repeated those two words over and over, trying to comfort him. His voice grew softer and the hand gripping John's shoulder was now gently moving up and down John's arm.

"I was just with him this morning. I was just…" John tried to remember everything that had happened, if he had missed something, anything at all that would have warned him that this was how the day was going to end.

He sensed a presence beside him and saw Lestrade give a weak smile in greeting.

"John, let me offer you a ride home."

It was Mycroft. "No, I want to stay here. They'll find him soon. I'll wait until then," John tried to get up but he couldn't.

"You're in shock. You need to rest. I will inform you of any developments." Mycroft hooked his arm under John's and Lestrade did the same; together they helped him up. "Come along, John."

He allowed himself to be led away into a sleek, black car. Before he'd even realized it, they were in front of 221B.

"This is a nightmare, worse than any nightmare I've ever had." John buried his face in his left hand, trying to will himself to wake up.

"My brother was very fond of you, John."

John noted the past tense and a sob almost escaped his lips. Is, he wanted very much to correct him. Mycroft shouldn't be using the past tense. No, he'd do anything for his brother. He wouldn't give up. Never. Yet he'd used it just the same. That one word told John everything he didn't want to know.

He got out of the car as quickly as he could and ran up the stairs before Mrs. Hudson could come at him with questions. The flat was unnaturally still and quiet. It was as if it knew that one of its tenants wouldn't be back. Don't be silly, John. His eyes wandered around the room, taking everything in. It all seemed so very different all of a sudden. The knowledge that Sherlock was possibly dead changed his entire perspective; it changed him. Because he was now John, the person who had just lost his best friend, unlike this morning when he was John, the person who shared a flat with Sherlock. It was all so surreal. He glanced towards the wall with the painted face and thought of how Sherlock would never shoot at it again. He looked at the violin propped on Sherlock's chair where he had left it this morning and thought of how he could never hear Sherlock play anymore. He saw the skull on the mantelpiece and remembered how Sherlock had once said it was a friend of his. It was all wrong. John's legs had stopped holding him up and he dropped to the floor on his knees.

A beep sounded from the inside of John's coat pocket. It was from Mycroft.

John didn't open the message for he had noticed something flashing on the top right corner of his phone. A voicemail? After fiddling with the buttons, John managed to play it.

"John…" The deep baritone voice greeted him from his phone. His hand reflexively gripped it harder. Oh God, no. You did not just leave me something like this, Sherlock. This is so not on.

"Please forgive me for this," the voice continued. John could feel tears welling up behind his eyes, the fingers of his right hand were digging into his palm. If he didn't relax it, he would bleed soon. But he didn't care.

"You left me, Sherlock. Why? I would have come along. I would have, no, I could have helped, you bastard."

"It had to be done. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. You would have come after me. And I didn't want that."

"Of course, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one can compete with my massive intellect," John said bitterly. He could feel his throat closing, it was getting harder to breathe.

"I don't know how everyone else is going to interpret this. Lestrade or Mycroft may lead everyone to believe it was some heroic act. Queen and country. I don't care what they think, but it is imperative that you know…" The voice paused and John heard the slight break in Sherlock's voice. The tears were falling freely now and John used his palm to wipe them away. He saw the blood on his hand and the open wounds where his nails had cut into his skin. His ears strained to hear, the pause seemed to last for minutes.

" I did this for you. No one's going to strap a bomb on you or aim a sniper at your chest. You're safe now, John. You're the only one that matters."

An electronic voice informed that it was the end of the message. John felt the phone slide from his hand and it fell to the floor. A sob was rising in his chest, ripping through his insides, mixing with all the grief and anger and guilt. It came out of his mouth in waves and folds. John slammed both of his fists on the floor. He had a strong desire to shoot something. Or someone. He would probably shoot Sherlock for dying and John knew this wasn't a rational thought. He didn't know what to think anymore.

Sherlock was dead.

He's dead, John.

Sherlock's dead.