Here we are, the final chapter [dramatic music]

Chapter Six: Blurry

The next week dragged by. No cases, keeping up appearances for John, boring, boring, B-O-R-I-N-G! Jim's plan was well thought out and perfectly formulated, there was just the task of it being carried out. As the week drew to a close, Sherlock found himself growing more and more on edge, his nerves jittery, his breathing erratic, and his heart pounding thump-thump-thump against his ribcage. It was the final day. His final day to John, that is. It began normally, as any other. Around mid morning though, Sherlock received a phone call. Private, it would seem to John, as Sherlock took the call in his bedroom. But it was the plan beginning, the first vital ingredient in a chemical concoction setting off a chain reaction.

"Are you ready to begin?" the soft voice murmured.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed.

"Hey now, calm down, there's no need for that attitude."

Sherlock sighed.

"Sorry," he breathed, resigned, "It's just I'm theoretically dying today."

"So am I!"

"Yes, but you don't have to 'die' with your best friend actually believing you're dying, and hammering on the door to get in..."

"True," Jim said apologetically, "Look, Sherlock, it'll be fiiiiiiiine. You can do this. You're a good enough actor, I know you can."

There was a brief, tense silence.

"I can't do it, Jim," Sherlock choked out, a catch in his throat, "I can't do this to John, it'll destroy him!"

"Sherlock," Moriarty warned, "There's no backing out now. You have to do this. It's the only way you and I can be together. Be a man. Or a woman. Or whatever. Don't behave like a scared little girl. You do still love me, don't you?"

Sherlock's breath rattled out.

"Yes," he whispered, "Of course I love you Jim...it's just...- sod it, I'll do it. I can do this. I will do this. The prize is worth the loss."

"Goooood," Jim purred, "Remember, you have all the time you need. My guys are on standby, waiting to intercept John's call. Good luck."

The dial tone sounded. Sherlock laid the phone down on his bedside table, and, with a groan, buried his face in his pillows. Tears were flowing freely down his reddened cheeks. Good, he thought. He'd have to appear very upset to John. The act wouldn't be taking place until the evening. Sherlock inhaled a deep breath and let it back out forcefully. He shook his head, clearing his mind, and stood up, leaving the room to return to John. He was highly aware of his red eyes and tear-stained face. He sank into his chair as John looked up from his paper. It fell to the floor with a rustle.

"Sherlock!" John rose and surged forward, resting his hand on the taller man's shoulder, "Sherlock what's wrong?"

The consulting detective opened and closed his mouth, searching for the right words to convince the older man of his fabricated story.

"John...," he mumbled, letting out a small sigh, "Jim...he...he's killed himself..."

John's eyes softened. He may not have liked James Moriarty, but he would never wish suicide on anyone.

"Oh Sherlock.." John murmured, "I'm so sorry...did he...leave a..-a note, or anything?"

Fresh tears began to stream down Sherlock's face. He nodded once quickly, and swallowed hard, choking back the sob that was rising in his throat. He wasn't doing this just for performance's sake, he truly was feeling awful for lying to bare-faced to John.

"Ye-yes," he stammered, "He...-he said that...that he did it because of me!"

Sherlock's voice rose into a strangled cry.

"He did it because I finished with him! He got depressed...and decided he couldn't live without me...so he took his own life, John! This is my fault!"

John sat on the edge of Sherlock's chair, and wrapped an arm around him.

"Sherlock really you mustn't blame yourself. It was not your fault," he reassured the younger man softly.

"Y-yeah," Sherlock muttered, "I know...it-it's not my fault...I mustn't..." still tears flowed down his face.

John pulled Sherlock into a hug, resting his chin atop the consulting detective's dark curls.

"Look, I'll phone in sick today, alright? I can't leave you on your own, not in this state..."

"No John," Sherlock mumbled, "You can't miss work again, not because of me. It's fine. Really, I'll be fine...just fine..."

John breathed out heavily.

"Are you sure? I'd really feel more comfortable staying here, making sure you're okay..."

"John," Sherlock grumbled, "Just go. It's fine."

John sighed, releasing the younger man. He studied Sherlock's face carefully. The tears had slowed to a trickle, and his eyes were a bit red and swollen.

"Are you absolutely sure? Positive? 100%? I don't need to go if you-"

"Just go to work John I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped, raising his voice.

John threw his hands up in defeat.

"Fine. Okay. Well then, " he coughed, "I'd best be off."

The hours dragged by. He was to go to his room and lock the door shortly before John arrived home at five O'clock. John wouldn't be concerned about his general absence until he'd not seen him for a few hours anyway. Right on time, the trudging footsteps up the creaky old stairs signaled John's arrival. The front door slammed, and Sherlock could hear John's heaving sigh, along with the familiar fabric-on-fabric of him settling into his chair.

"Sherlock?" he called out.

"In the bedroom John!" Sherlock answered, hoping John wouldn't come looking for him. At least, just not yet.

A few hours later, John found himself standing outside Sherlock's room, rapping on the door with his knuckles.

"Sherlock? Are you you hungry? I've got chinese."

He received no answer.

"Sherlock?"

"SHERLOCK!"

John backed up, and, with all the force he could muster, kicked the door in. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes.

Sherlock lay perfectly still, empty pill bottles littering his room. Playing dead was hard. Beneath each arm (which by now were both thoroughly numb) he clenched a small rubber ball, cutting off each blood supply, and therefore stopping his pulse. Along each pale limb several cuts (deep but not fatal) marred the alabaster skin.

"Sherlock!" John cried out as he stumbled into the room. There were several empty paracetamol bottles on the bedside table, a few more fallen onto the floor. Sherlock lay face down on his bed, unmoving. John surged forward, catching Sherlock's wrist only to be met with a sticky warmth. He drew his hand back and looked at it. Blood! he looked at the once-white sheets, now stained scarlet red. John grabbed the younger man's wrist again, feeling for a pulse.

"Come on Sherlock! No!"

He couldn't find one. His knees gave out beneath him.

"No," he breathed, "No no no no no...god no..."

John collapsed backwards and pulled himself out of the room, breathless. He scrambled his way across the room to his phone, managing to call an ambulance, before dropping the phone and breaking down completely.

"M...-MRS HUDSON!" he called out between sobs, his voice cracking,"Please, MRS. HUDSON!"

"John? What is it dear?" her voice called back.

"PLEASE! JUST...PLEASE GET UP HERE!"

As soon as she entered the flat she spotted John on the floor, and the blood on his hands. Sobs wracked his small body as he lifted a shaky arm and pointed her in the direction of Sherlock's room. Mrs. Hudson grew pale and hesitantly peeked around the door. She was out of sight for mere seconds before there was a horrified shriek, and she backed out of the room.

"Oh John!" She cried tearfully, "Is..is he..."

John's breath caught in his throat as he choked out a "Yes."

The next few moments were a blur, paramedics rushing in. The last John Watson saw of Sherlock Holmes was a pale, blood streaked arm swinging off a stretcher as he was carried out of 221b Baker Street. A small rubber ball rolled off and bounced down the stairs, but John, grief-stricken, did not notice.

And there we are. I thank you for reading.

Please review, let me know what you think.