The room is quiet.
Sherlock Holmes is sitting, staring in front of him.
His gaze isn't fixed on something in particular; he just looks lost, empty, almost on the verge of sleep.

It's ten o'clock in the evening when his thoughts are interrupted by someone in the room clearing his throat: seeing John standing there, waiting for him to acknowledge his presence, makes Sherlock smile, one of his rare genuine displays of emotions.

- Evening, John.

The doctor doesn't say a word, but instead drops a huge folder on the coffee table, so heavy it almost tips over the cold cup of tea next to it.

- You brought work?

Sherlock reaches out and slowly opens it.
The first thing he notices is a little piece of paper inside a transparent plastic bag: the message he left for John before jumping.

- I see.

Under that, a stack of newspaper clippings, pages printed from random internet sites, notes and photocopies.

- You've done your homework.
- Don't be a smartass.

With those words, John flops down on the couch, opposite of Sherlock.

- I'm not being sarcastic, my words are genuine.
- Well, I did what you asked me to, as usual. I kept thinking.

Sherlock shuffles with the contents of the folder and he's rendered speechless by what he sees in front of him: amongst others, there are clippings from the Adair case and the one about the mysterious murders of the "two English citizens found dead in Van, Turkey". There are indecipherable notes – doctor's writing – and printed e-mails from fans who claim to have seen Sherlock around town after his "death".

- You believed these?
- Of course not. They just…I don't know, they made me feel less alone. Do you know that a couple of weeks after your death people started writing on walls "Sherlock Holmes is alive" or "Richard Brook is a fake"?

Sherlock chuckles.

- Yeah, I was still here when it happened. The homeless network started it.

After a moment of silence Sherlock sighs and turns to face his friend.

- John, I need to tell why I did…what I did.
- Go on. I'm listening.
- Well. Like you said, this isn't something people do just to have fun or play games with criminal masterminds, as much as I liked to. Do you remember, outside that journalist house? I had one of my…epiphanies. I knew I was going to die. Or at least that was what Moriarty wanted me to do. I needed a plan so I went to the morgue to talk to Molly.
- Molly helped you right? She had a strange look every time she tried to talk to me, like I was some kind of ticking bomb.
- Yes, you know her. I'm actually surprised she hasn't broken down sooner.
- Give her some credit, Sherlock.
- I did, that's why I put my life in her hands, literally.

Sherlock is now pacing around the room, holding his hands behind his back, and John closes his eyes in disbelief, finding the moment familiar yet surreal.

- So?
- So…I went on the roof and Moriarty was there waiting for me. Long story short, "you have to die but I won't kill you so if you don't jump your friends will die".

John sighs and rubs his left temple.

- Yeah, Moran mentioned this.
- What did he tell you?
- That he was targeting me while you were about to jump.

There's a moment of silence and then John leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees; he licks his lips and then stares intensely at Sherlock.

- Because you jumped, right?
- I jumped.

The doctor looks at the detective, cocking his head to the side, waiting for an explanation.

- There was a rubbish truck.
- So you landed there.
- More or less.
- Did you think about the possibility of Moran seeing you alive?
- At that moment, Moran was targeting you, that's why I asked you to stay put, so both of you wouldn't see my landing, given the considerable distance between you and the sidewalk. It was a matter of seconds, I had to act quickly. The first person who arrived on the scene added the fake blood.
- So how did he find out you weren't dead?

Sherlock sits on the couch again and turns to John with a look that screams "forgive me".

- You have to understand John. Moriarty was the Devil himself. He planned all this, the little speech he gave me on the roof about me being on the side of the angels, wanting me to fall into disgrace. I think someone could easily find a biblical allegory for all of this. Then I found a loophole in his sick scheme but he went a step ahead again by killing himself.
- I believe you.
- That doesn't mean forgiveness.
- Sherlock, could you please consider my point of view for a second? I thought I was supposed to be the one involved in these kinds of things.
- But you were the target, John.
- Doesn't matter, I felt stupid and alone. Did you think about the actual consequences of your actions?
- I did.
- Did you? You would never be able to live with yourself if you knew what I've been through.
- I can't live with myself.

It's almost a whisper and John has to repeat his friend's words in his head a couple of time.

- I understand what you did; I would have done the same.
- I know you would.
- I don't know about the waiting-eight-months-to-tell-you-I'm-alive part, but I get it.
- It was hard for me too.
- Was it?
- Are you implying that it was easy for me? Lying to you and admitting defeat to the only person whose opinions matter to me?
- So why did you lie?
- What did you expect, hey John, I'm still a genius but I decided it's time to die?

They look at each other and after a while John bursts out laughing, followed by Sherlock.

- We can't giggle about this.
- Show some respect for the deceased, John.

The laughs fade away and they both sigh.

- I was in so much pain.
- I know.
- I didn't let anybody see that, as much as I could, but sometimes…really Sherlock, it was almost hard to breathe. The weeks after that are a blur to me, I had blackouts during the day, I slept most of the time and when I didn't I was in some kind of…mind palace. An empty one.

The detective shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

- You heard me cry. Right?
- I did.
- So, if you know me, I don't need to tell you anything else.

John looks at him and stands up. Sherlock instinctively reaches out for him, touching his right arm.

- Don't go. I'm sorry.
- Me too.
- … I see.

Without saying a word, Sherlock walks to his room: John is entitled to leave, he has all the right to do that and never come back, but that doesn't mean Sherlock wants to witness the moment he turns his back on their friendship.
Ten minutes pass by and Sherlock rushes back into the living room, pacing furiously, determined to find all the secret stashes he planted in the past and that John never found, when he suddenly stops and his eyes widen: John is sitting at the desk, typing slowly at Sherlock's computer.

- So what should we call this? "The Adventure of the Empty Warehouse"?

So this is it, folks! This is the last chapter. This was basically how a pictured a possible reunion, so it has to end this way. I plan on doing more – if someone's interested –, solely based on the original stories and how a possible "Mofftiss" adaptation would be like, at least in my head. A way to cope with the insufferable hiatus they are putting us through. I hope you enjoyed it and I am really really grateful for all your reviews and comments; I'm not just saying that because it's what people usually do around here, I really mean it. It's my first fic so I started writing with very low expectations and this is all new to me, every comment and story alert made me jump with joy (literally). Hope to see you next time :)