"Well, good luck with that!" Moriarty pulled his hand away from Sherlock's, grabbed the gun and put it into his mouth, salivating with joy and pride. Sherlock only had a second to react. With a gasp he stumbled backwards, just as the deafening shot of the gun sprayed blood out of the back of Moriarty's head.

Sherlock stared down at the limp, smiling body lying on the floor. He immediately knew what he had to do. The killers, no longer could be called off, so therefore the last resort had to be used. Sherlock's body shook with sorrow, and he breathed heavily. Stepping onto the edge of the Hospital roof, he looked out onto the street. A cab pulled up, and out came John Watson, rushing out on the streets. Sherlock took out his phone and called him.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Are you okay?" John walked toward the hospital, rushing and anxious.

"Turn and walk back the way you came." Sherlock's voice was harsh and sad, never had he felt such loneliness and sorrow.

"No! I'm coming in."

"Do as I say!" Sherlock's voice had risen to a desperate yell and he raised his hand motioned for John to move.

"Look up, I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh, god."

"I-I-I" Sherlock sobbed silently and inhaled quickly, a small tear falling down his cold cheeks. "I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology. It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they've said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock-"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell LeStrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met—the first time we met—you knew all about my sister, right?"

Sherlock laughed. It was cold and sad and sarcastic. "Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

Again, he laughed. But it died out and his face returned to the hollow look it had before. "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you." Another laugh. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

"No! Just stop it, stop this now."

"Stay exactly where you are! Don't move!" His voice was high and shrill with the tears that he refused to let fall.

"Alright."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?

"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they?" Sherlock turned around, looking at Moriarty's life bleeding out on the stone paved roof. "Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No! Don't – " John's words were cut off by Sherlock hanging up. Sherlock looked at the phone, and then let it drop behind him. He stepped forward, leaning over the roof. His destination held an audience now. Sherlock spread his arms out, and let himself step off the roof.

The fall seemed like forever. The cold winter air surrounded him and made a barrier around him. Feeling infinite, Sherlock closed his eyes, letting more tears fall silently down his cheeks. The moments he was falling felt like flying, and he had never felt freer. What did they call this? Free falling? When the speed finally caught him, he opened his eyes, and saw the ground rushing up to meet him.

Instead of ground, Sherlock was met with the soft rustle of garbage. He looked up onto the drivers seat, seeing one of the assassins that had taken residence on Baker St. The woman put a finger to her lips and made the truck shudder, knocking Sherlock to the ground. The impact of concrete on skin and bone was brutal. Sherlock could hear the screams and shrieks of bystanders and the rush of hospital employees. He could feel and hear the thump of his heart and see the blood rushing onto the sidewalk beside him. His vision was blurry and he closed his eyes, letting the blackness take up around him.

Sherlock woke to bright lights of white lamp hanging above him. He had a pounding headache right where his head was bandaged. His blurred vision focused on the thing leering over him. Sherlock blinked and narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock! You're awake!" The girl with mouse brown hair smiled sadly at him.

Sherlock slowly sat up. "Molly? How long has it been? Did you do the things I asked? How's John? What happened at the - "

"Sherlock! Stop! You've only been out for a day. I did do what you said. Look, Sherlock. The nurses think your dead. When you were in 'critical condition' I unplugged your heart monitor and everyone thinks your dead. John is… he's in hospital. Shock. After they carried your body away he started screaming and crying… they need to sedate him. He's fine. You – you can see him."

Sherlock sighed. Sherlock looked down, suppressing the tears that threatened to pour down his cheeks. "I can't see him. Not now, not ever. I'm sorry, Molly. It's for the best." Sherlock leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you for everything."

With those words, Molly knew it was time to leave Sherlock to his thoughts. She got up from the chair, walking briskly towards the door, her heels clicking in a rhythmic pattern behind her as the door clicked closed.

Sherlock leaned back onto the pillow, rubbing his temples and trying to ease away his headache. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, thinking of his dilemmas of the present and John and nothing else.

"I demand that you release me! I have been here for too long!' Sherlock screamed at the receptionist, dressed in the clothes that he had arrived into the hospital with.

"But Mr. Holmes – "

"Sherlock! Sherlock." Molly came running down the hall. She wore her lab coat and had dark circles under her eyes. "Oh, Sherlock. Yes, Andrea, release him. He's been here for a week. He's coming to live with me."

"Pronounce him dead?"

"Yes. Now. No one can know." The receptionist nodded and handed Molly a sheet to sign.

After giving back the pen, Molly dragged Sherlock away from the halls and down the winding halls of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. She finally led him out the back door.

"Pull up your coat."

"What?" Sherlock turned to her while continuing to keep up with her brisk pace.

"Pull up your coat. Now!" Molly pushed his head down and yanked up his collar. She pushed him down into a car, closing the door quickly and getting into the drivers side.

Sherlock sat up straight, staring out the windshield.

"Where are we going?" He asked strangely calmly. Molly started the engine and headed out the back gate of Bart's Hospital. She stared on straight ahead, not giving an answer.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock's voice was stern and sharp, like a demanding kid not getting what he wants.

"You're funeral was two days ago. And this is just –"

"No one came, did they?"

"Sherlock –"

"Molly, I'm not stupid. I knew no one would come." Fresh tears started to form in his eyes, but Sherlock Holmes was not a man to cry, so he wiped them before Molly could console him with her stupid caring words.

"Actually, Sherlock, lots of people came. LeStrade, John, Ms. Hudson… loads more people I couldn't remember."

"And Mycroft?"

"He showed up and well… things got out of hand. He got into a fight with John. John was yelling at him, telling him he didn't deserve to be at your funeral. Mycroft didn't say anything, but John was yelling things at him, oh Sherlock, just horrible things! LeStrade had to hold John back and Mycroft just left."

Sherlock played the story in his head, as if he had been there to witness his own funeral. He could imagine the silent scene as people who didn't have any feelings for him watched is casket being lowered into the deep earth that was his deathbed. "Was anyone else there?"

"There was this one girl that I was curious about. She was tan with brown frizzy hair and she kept crying into Anderson's shoulder saying that it was her fault."

"Sgt. Donovan." Why had she felt guilt? It was her doing that had put him into hiding, her and Anderson's yet it was he who provoked him for many years and read their bodies and minds like it was a children's book. "You didn't answer my question, Molly."

"John and Mrs. Hudson are going to you're grave as we speak. It was suggested by John's therapist that he go and say a proper goodbye."

"So why am I going to my grave? To tell them I'm alive?" Sherlock snorted in mockery and disbelief.

Molly narrowed her eyes out the window. "You're going to hear what they had to say. Sherlock, I know you didn't want to do this, this whole alive-dead thing. You did right though."

"How is it right if someone that it actually dear to me, and Molly this it to me, is unhappy?"

"Even if it makes some people sad now, Sherlock, it will always turn out better in the end. Would you rather be alive and the only three friends you have dead?"

Sherlock went silent. "I have one more friend, Molly. Moriarty wasn't smart enough to count her. Molly, please. After all of the years of you putting up with my coldness and me being an ass, you still did this for me. You are the last friend, and the only friend, that actually knows that I am alive."

With this, Molly reached over and squeezed Sherlock's hand, then released and turned back to driving, and slowly pulled up behind the cemetery. "Come on." She said to Sherlock as she pulled the car into park and switched off the engine.

Cold winter air hit Sherlock as he opened the car door and followed the rushing Molly into the tiny forest that occupied a small amount of space on the cemetery area. "This way," She whispered, taking his hand and leading him behind a small covering of trees. The foliage was thick and Sherlock could barely see through some of the trees, but he had a clear view of the recently filled grave, which he could only guess was his. He brushed away some of the overgrowing branches, giving him a better view of the stone.

He saw the two figures standing there, one wearing the same tweed coat, collard shirt and pants. The other one clung to his arm, wearing a prune and black coat and gown. The woman clinging to his arms had tears streaking down her cheeks, while the man, much younger than her, soothed her with kind words.

"I'll leave you to your goodbyes, John." Mrs. Hudson walked away, wiping away the tears and makeup that smeared as she flustered over he wrecked appearance. John turned towards the grave, sighing heavily and clearing the tears that as a member of the army, refused to let tears stain his pale cheeks that froze with the cold.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock heard John speak since his fall. " Um. Hm. You... you told me once that you weren't a hero." John laughed a small, cynical laugh. "Um. There were times that I didn't even think you were human."

John kept chocking on his words as sobs built up in his throat. "But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human... human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie." John sighed heavily and finally let a tear fall down his face. "And so... there. I was so alone and I owe you so much."

John shook his head, smiled and turned away. Looking back at the gravestone he spoke once more. "Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me." John had the tears falling relentlessly down his cheeks, but he didn't seem to notice. "Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this." And with that, John straightened himself up in military fashion, turned around and walked away.