AN: I love Sherlock and am so glad I began watching. I own nothing. This is my first fanfic in over a year so forgive my writing (it may be a little rusty).

SHSHSHSH

He'd always been different.

He spent his childhood exploring, identifying, and betting with his brother.

He observed.

He watched.

He complained.

Alone.

It was funny to him. Not "ha-ha" funny but a sort of sick funny how his childhood was similar to now. It was almost identical to now.

How ironic it was that he never really grew up.

But he was never really a kid.

He never had friends, really. He played alone. Not with toys, but with his violin. Any toy he had was deemed by him as meaningless. He had no imagination, he only had detailed reality. His violin, however, was magical to him. It stimulated his senses. It was his only friend.

He grew up drastically different than his popular brother. But he had the intellect that his brother lacked. That's when he realized he had a gift. He realized he had something with which his brother couldn't compete.

Despite no confrontation with pretty much everyone, he still had enemies. They were more like bullies, really, teasing him every day in school. But one day, he stopped taking it. And he decided to do whatever it took to stop his enemies from harming him.

He couldn't help but wonder how the person he grew up to be could survive in society. He was dependent on so many people, yet so distant. He continued to thrive because of yet push away the only people who meant anything to him. One friend who basically had to take care of him. A brother who competed with him. A nemesis that wanted to destroy him.

That's why staring over the busy streets of London from the top of the hospital was easy for him. He had always contemplated death. He came closer to it with every case.

Now he was the closest he'd ever been.

Of course killing himself was not his real intention, however the entire situation made it seem like a real possibility. And when he stood on the ledge, watching the same streets of London he had run around both as a child and while catching criminals, the desire grew.

But the feeling did not gain enough strength.

Faking was good enough.

He pulled out his phone and called his comrade, apologizing, confessing being a phony.

As he did so, he couldn't help but internally laugh at himself. As Holden Caulfield observed, wasn't everyone a phony?

As he dictated his suicide note to his only friend, the moment became real. His tears were not feigned. Seeing, imagining, and hearing the despair of his friend was heartbreaking.

Before the call, staring at Moriarty's body, he had begun preparing himself for this speech. Yet no amount of preparation would be enough. It was really the most emotion he had ever felt.

The physical hurt of the fall would never compare.

Ah, yes, the fall. He forgot about that part. Like ripping off a bandaid, he threw the phone across the roof.

He took a deep breath.

And fell.