(Sherlock's POV)
Dawn was breaking. A new day. The last day I would ever get to see the love of my life.
I rolled the rubber ball back and forth across the bench in Bart's lab monotonously, replaying the last night's events in my head over and over. Moriarty. Kitty Riley. The computer keycode. (Y/n). I winced at the thought of her name, guilt panging me. I knew that after all I had done, she wouldn't be quick to forgive me. She might never forgive me.
But that was ok. At least, that what I was trying to convince myself. How would Mycroft put it? 'The ends justify the means'. But that didn't change anything. Didn't change the fact that I was about to confront Moriarty. Or the fact that I would either die or fake my death- I couldn't be sure which would happen. I didn't know. And I hate not knowing.
I spare a glance at John, who is hunched over another bench, sleeping. I smile to myself. Good old John. My first, and possibly most trusted, friend. But in some ways, he could never compare to (Y/n). She and I share an inexplicable bond.
I feel emotions welling up in my chest. Fear. Guilt. Longing. Love. But I force them down. My death was going to crush John and (Y/n). I had to let them go. No more feelings. No more anything.
They were going to need each other.
Suddenly, a phone ringing splits the silence and I close my eyes quickly as John groggily answers the phone.
"Hello?"
(Your POV)
"John, you better tell me what the fuck is going on. Now."
"Okay, okay. Slow down, I'm just waking up."
"No I will not slow down! What the hell happened last night?!"
"Listen, (Y/n), there's a lot to explain..."
I sit there in shock and disbelief as John explains to me everything that happened in the agonizing 10 hours since Sherlock's getaway.
"So... Moriarty never existed? What the hell!! There's no way he was fake, he tried to kill me! SEVERAL TIMES!!"
"I know, I know," John tries his best to soothe me over the phone. "We know he was real, but he's created all this evidence to make it seem to the rest of the world that Sherlock is a fraud. Mycroft gave Moriarty some information and he spun it into a web of lies."
My stomach dropps. "...Mycroft? Betrayed us?"
"No not exactly... look it's a lot to explain. Where are you? I'm coming to get you."
I look around at my dismal holding room. "Well uh, still at Scotland Yard, no thanks to Sherlock. Where is he by the way? Can I talk to him?" Hope flickers in my chest.
"He's here at Bart's with me but he's in his... mind palace, or something."
I hold back a sigh of frustration. "Fine. Just... come get me out of here John."
"I'm on my way."
(Sherlock's POV)
I hear John click the end call button, but I don't open my eyes just yet.
"Sherlock," he starts, determination in his voice, "It's (Y/n). They've got her locked up at Scotland Yard but they're willing to release her if we come pick her up. Let's go." He grabs his coat and starts for the door.
I do not respond.
"Sherlock?"
I open my eyes slowly. Uncaringly. "I'm not going."
He scoffs at me. "You're joking, right? She's only there because of you and you can't even be bothered to go and get her?"
"Hmm, yes, and it's me they're after. I'll only be arrested if I go. But you won't." I give him a tight-lipped smile in which I try to convey- end of discussion.
He flails his hand in utter disbelief. "You machine. Fine. Fine. Stay here if you want. Alone. Jesus..."
"Alone is what I have." I quip back as he exits in haste, "Alone protects me."
Yet, I don't believe my own words as they come out of my mouth.
A ding.
I'm waiting -JM
For a split second, I compose myself. This is it. This is the end.
(Your POV)
I step out of New Scotland Yard into the bright sunlight, shielding my still-puffy eyes while I search the streets for a familiar face. Then I spot him.
"John!" I cry, a big fat smile breaking onto my face.
He rushes to me and wraps me in a tight hug. "Jesus, (Y/n), are you alright?!"
"What? Yes, I'm fine now, why?"
"Well I mean it's just... your face..."
I roll my eyes and scoff. "Gee, thanks John, I-" I stop suddenly. A strange feeling, like a sixth sense, washes over me followed by a feeling of strong nausea. It's only moments before I'm doubled over the sidewalk, vomiting up my tea.
"(Y/n)!" John rushes to my side and holds my hair back as I finish my retching. "What's wrong?!"
"Ugh..." I groan, weakly standing up. "It's nothing. I just need some food, probably, is all..." I trail off, suddenly remembering the strange feeling I had just had. "Something's wrong."
"What is it?"
I look at John with pure fear in my eyes. "Sherlock. We have to go. NOW!"
(Sherlock's POV)
"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."
Moriarty groans. "Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort." Frustrated, I begin to pace nervously. Trying to deduce every and any possible way out of this situation. "Go on for me." I shoot him a warning glance that he ignores, instead raising his voice into a high-pitched squeal. "Pleeeease??"
Growling, I grab him by the collar and lean him over the edge. Inches from death, he looks at me not with fear, but with interested amusement. What? "You're insane."
"Uhh, you're just getting that now? Well. Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."
No. As much as I try to stop it, I can feel the fear begin to creep into my eyes. "(Y/n)."
"Not just (Y/n)," his whisper is evil. "Everyone."
"John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade."
A delighted smile erupts from his venomous mouth. "Everyone. Four bullets, four victims." My grip on him begins to release. "Tell me, does anyone know about (Y/n)'s pregnancy? Or will they have to just find out post-mortem?"
Fury and rage erupt inside me and I throw him back onto the rooftop, gasping for air. "Stop this. Don't you touch her."
He shrugs. "There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump." He continues to talk, but I am barely listening. I cannot escape the overwhelming terror of my own approaching death. And yet, that constant thought manages to peek through my mind. (Y/n).
(Your POV)
"Here. HERE! Stop the car!" I yell at the cabbie as we approach the street across from the hospital. I clamber out of the car with John in a hurry. As I begin to cross the road, john tugs on my sleeve.
"Wait! Sherlock's calling!"
(Sherlock's POV)
My breaths are shallow. Quick. The blood of my arch nemesis pools around my feet, and I suddenly know what I must do. End it.
(Your POV)
John answers the phone and puts it on speaker. "Hello?" A passing car honks at us and I try to give a wave of apology. "Hey, Sherlock, you ok?"
"Turn back and walk the way you came."
John and I stop in the middle of the road, confused. "No, we're coming in." I insist.
"Just do as I ask. Please." His voice is frantic and I feel the sixth sense welling up in my chest again. I hurry back the way we came, snatching the phone from John. "Stop there."
"Sherlock?" I plead. "What's going on?"
"Look up. I'm on the rooftop."
My heart sinks into my aching stomach as John and I look up at the sky, only to find Sherlock a tiny figure perched on the edge of Bart's roof.
"Oh God," John mutters.
"No." I demand. "No, get down."
"I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this." His voice is shaky and I can tell he's on the verge of tears. I can't even begin to explain the emotions beginning to fill every fiber of my being as I stare upwards in anticipation.
John is just as anxious. "What's going on?"
"An apology. It's all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." What? No. Impossible. I know I had considered the thought that he might be guilty last night, but those thoughts had long since passed. I knew Sherlock. Knew every inch of him. And Sherlock Holmes was not a criminal. Or a liar.
It takes all my willpower to keep my composure. "Why are you saying this?"
"(Y/n)... Please. I need you to trust me. One last time." Tears fall down my face as I hear him sob. "Will you do this for me?"
And suddenly, I know what's coming next. I cannot stop the flow of tears as I cry out. "Sherlock... Sher... I don't understand. This isn't you! What did he do to you?!"
He ignores me. "John?"
"I'm here, Sherlock," he battles through the tears.
"Take care of her for me."
"No!" I plead over and over. "No, no please! PLEASE!"
"I love you."
And just like that, I watch as Sherlock falls to the ground. And my world falls with him.
"NO!" I wail, sprinting across traffic, narrowly avoiding cars.
I stop. A body. His body. Splayed across the concrete, blood staining the ground.
Paramedics rush past me, yelling, knocking into me as I sink to my knees.
I cannot move. I cannot breathe. I am numb. I stare on as they lift his body and take it away, John fighting to see him.
But I cannot fight.
My heart, my soul, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.
As I should be.