A/N This is my fanfiction, please read and review. All rights to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, all geniuses in my opinion. Please read and review...

The Final Solution

Chapter 1

He had to die. He knew he was right, he and Moriarty were so alike, he knew exactly what he was dealing with. Even if Moriarty began one step ahead Sherlock would always catch up, because he knew how Moriarty's mind worked, just like his own. It was the only logical ending to this game, 'The Final Problem' as Moriarty had put it, he must die in disgrace, killing himself would confirm the doubts that had been sown in peoples minds over the past twenty four hours. But how? How could Moriarty make him do it, the answer hit him before he even finished the thought.

John. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade.

The ones that mattered, the people he almost considered friends, threaten them and he would do anything. This was exactly why sentiment was a weakness, it made fools of men and soon, it would lead to his death.

This realisation hit Sherlock in only seconds, standing outside of Kitty's house he stopped, thinking. John was talking to him, well, more like at him he wasn't paying attention. He was thinking, thinking, there must be some way to prevent this, but Moriarty, the ever so meticulous consulting criminal, had contacts all over the globe, in every police force, every government. His friends would never be safe, not while he and Moriarty still lived.

Every possibility, every possible decision or consequence was running through his mind, cycling around his head and John was still talking, still rambling on about some insignificant detail. Detail, that was it, it was all in the detail. He had to kill himself, or at least appear to. Moriarty would want it to be public, witnessed, he'd want as many people as possible to see the ultimate downfall of the mighty Sherlock Holmes, but was there a way he could fake his own death. He'd need help from someone, but all of his friends, all of the people he first thought of were in danger. Then he realised, when it came down to it he and Moriarty were the same and that fact is what he would need to exploit. To beat Moriarty he would have to think like someone else, consider what he wouldn't normally consider, do what he wouldn't normally do. Molly, he hadn't originally contemplated Molly, so neither would have Moriarty.

"Sherlock?" John was asking him something, but it couldn't be as important as the thought process occupying his brain currently.

"There's something I need to do." he replied, not an answer to the unheard question, just a statement, the facts. He turned to leave.

"What? Can I help you?" John Watson, his flatmate, his friend, always willing to help, but not this time, never again.

"No, on my own." With that he left, strode away still considering solutions, searching for the answers that must be locked somewhere inside his brain, they always were, surely this time wouldn't be different.

The cab ride to St Bart's had been insightful, over 800 possible answers had whizzed through his head all vetoed for some reason, some flaw. As he approached the hospital one potential idea formed, it could work Sherlock thought, but he would have to work quickly, he'd have to get Molly on side. For perhaps the first time in his life he would have to trust someone completely, but first he'd have to find out if she trusted him. Sherlock had always known Molly was attracted to him, the elevated pulse and reddening of the neck textbook signs. Honestly he had never thought of Molly that way, but then again he never thought of anyone that way. However since he'd met John he had developed as a person, for the first time there were people he cared about, people he would die for and although he didn't make it obvious Molly was one of them. He could only hope she hadn't seen the papers yet, there was a small possibility that she would believe them and then she would blame him for the whole 'Jim from IT' incident. Sherlock had never asked Molly about the relationship she'd had with the international criminal, but feelings weren't his area of expertise and, to be honest, he'd never thought to ask.

He entered the lab and found it dark and seemingly empty, but signs showed she had not yet left for the day. A half empty pack of crisps, some notes left unfiled and most obvious of all the sound of her footsteps approaching. He waited for her to reach the room, she was just passing through it seemed so he spoke up from where he'd been lingering in the shadows.

"You're wrong you know," Molly gasped and span around, shocked by the sudden interruption to her solitary thoughts, "you do count, you've always counted and I've always trusted you." For once he was saying what he was thinking not just assuming everyone kept up with his train of thought. "But you were right," he admitted, "I'm not okay."

Still slightly breathless form the shock he had given her Molly took a step towards him "Tell me what's wrong."

"Molly," he looked her straight in the eye "I think I'm going to die."

"What do you need?" She replied immediately, Sherlock was confused, why didn't she question him, attempt to find out more.

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am. Would you still help me?" For some reason he wanted to warn her off, scare her away, maybe even keep her safe.

"What do you need?" She replied again, still with no hesitation. This was it he decided, time to be honest and after a pregnant pause he answered.

"You."