Well, so after the wonderful reviews I've got inspired and I wanted to make you cry some more.

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"I love you, Sherlock."

Lestrade was the first to know after the police received the call. Molly saw it in the news. They were only saying the place and interviewing some witnesses, no names, but you didn't had to be a genius to figure it out. She drop everything she was doing and went there.

She showed her card to be granted access, but she didn't cared for the body. She truly didn't. Instead she looked for him, but found Lestrade staring at Sherlock from a certain distance, his mouth gasping but no words came out.

Molly went to him and told him that it was allright. That Sherlock's suicide had been fake. She surely didn't wait the reaction that came from Lestrade.

"You!" he shouted, pointing at Sherlock who was sit at the back of am ambulance with a shock blanket over him. Lestrade walked angrily in his direction, "You!"

Sherlock looked at Lestrade with big red eyes, for once, he looked clueless.

"It was you fault, you asshole!" screamed Lestrade and he almost throwed his fists as Sherlock if it wasn't that Molly grabbed his arms.

"Please, Greg, no! Stop it!" she cried.

And after some struggling, Lestrade finally cried holding onto Molly.

Sherlock still kept a blank look.

"It is my fault," he whispered.

"I love you, Sherlock."

He was back at the 221B of Baker Street. They had cleaned the blood from his hands at the hospital, but to Sherlock they were still red. As soon as he arrived, he sat next to the answering machine, and played the one message.

Four words kept stabbing at his heart.

"I love you, Sherlock."

He didn't heard the sound of the keys at the door, but he did heard the footsteps. When Mycroft appeared infront of him, Sherlock looked at him with red eyes from crying. And for the first time in years, there wasn't any kind of resenment in that look, nor dislike. There was only a silent plea for help, for this nightmare to stop, for a miracle, for John to be alive.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice cracked.

He had never seen his brother in such a state, he had never thought it possible. But years of a broken relationship weren't fixed on a day, and all he could do was stand there and hold his look.

"Help!" screamed those eyes.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Mycroft stayed with him at the flat. He knew his brother and he knew of what he was capable. He searched the entire place and threw away all kinds of drugs. He even took away the knives, he only left a couple of blunt ones.

And Sherlock let him do it. He actually didn't do anything. All day, he sat next to the answering machine, refusing to take any food. With the same four words playing in his head over and over again.

"I love you, Sherlock."

The man who prided himself to be a sociopath was feeling. And he truly wished he was one, because his feelings were threating to kill him. But that had changed when he met who was going to be his best friend.

The man who defied everything he thought to know about himself. He had never felt attraction to anyone nor desired any physical contact. And he cried because the only time he had hugged him, it was to his lifeless body.

"I love you, Sherlock."

He knew he could move on. Go back to the sociopath he was before meeting John, so he did. So the next day, along side his coat and scarf he wore a blank mask.

"Brother," he said totally composed to a surprised Mycroft, "I assume I have your help to put my papers in order."

Mycrof nodded. Without further ado Sherlock left to the police station.

"I love you, Sherlock."

At the beggining Lestrade hated him. He despised him for lying and he blamed him for John's death. And he tought it insulting that Sherlock was acting as nothing.

But it was Molly who helped him to see the truth. Because when Sherlock thought that no one was seeing, the mask would crack and his eyes would reflect his true sadness.

Lestrade forgave him. He even fired Anderson the first time he said something hurtful to Sherlock about John. Maybe it was his imagination, what when he shouted to a complaining Anderson that he was lowering the IQ of the whole block, he would swear he saw a tiny smile on Sherlock's lips. Or so he hoped.

"I love you, Sherlock."

It had been five years, and each day it was harder to maintain the mask. Each day, the same four walls would drill another crack into the mask.

"I love you, Sherlock."

And when the day came that the mask exploded into a million pieces, he grabbed his gun. With the kneels to his chest, he sat on the sofa.

"I love you, Sherlock."

It was unberable. It had become too much. It was a voice that covered all other, that filled his Mind Palace. The same four words flooded his brain.

"I love you, Sherlock."

It had to stop. He could't take it anymore.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Someone, please, anything, help!

"I love you, Sherlock."

Enough, was enough!

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you, Sherlock."

Please!

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you, Sherlock."

...

"I love you too, John."

BOOM!

No notes, no voice mail, no anything. Only a red stain on the wall under the smiley face and a bullet hole on the right side of Sherlock's head. Directly into his brain, to shut down all thoughts.

Whitout Sherlock having known it, the final piece in the set had moved. Check mate.

At the end, Moriarty had won.

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Okay, so there might or there might not be a third part. One that gives some sort of closure, a so waited and deserved reunion. But I do not know, the fic is closed this way.

And yes, I hate myself.