I wrote this as an essay for school. Sorry if some stuff is a bit confusing. I tried...
~~~
There was a dead man laying on the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Jim Moriarty laid there with ripe, crimson blood spilling out of the back of his head. The gun that he shot himself with was enclosed within his limp, pale hand. Jim's facial expression was oddly calm. It was as if he took pleasure in shooting himself. It would take anything to break Sherlock Holmes; including his own life.
Sherlock Holmes stood on the very edge of the roof, a feeling of coldness, or rather fear, surrounding him. Fear: that very feeling that he refused to admit. It pressed him with an overbearing sense of what was yet to come. As every single second passed by, it seemed incredulous that one of his only three friends in the world could be dead. At any moment, the snipers could strike. That was the fear that chilled his spine, gnawed at his heart, and expressed a terrifying sensation of emotion.
Jim had taken the three closest people in Sherlock's life and had them under strict surveillance. They would die unless he jumped. James Moriarty, the Consulting Criminal, had been ahead in the game set several years prior to this unfaithful event. It was a checkmate. One way or another, someone had to die. It couldn't be Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or John, for that matter. Therefore, it had to be him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. He would make one last call.
---
"Ta-da! Here we are!" exclaimed the Doctor with an ungraceful, dramatic-intending swoop of his lanky arms. "Go out and take a look for yourself."
"Well, I really hope it's not some weird planet where giant wasps fly around," said Clara as she started to open the door, "because otherwise, that would be really unfortunate. I hate wasps." She stepped out while talking to him, but in the process, didn't look where she was going. When her foot stepped out of the TARDIS while talking to him, she felt absolutely nothing beneath her and started to rise upward. "Hey! You didn't ever tell me that we were just going to float around in a random place in space!"
"It's not just any random place, Clara, it's the HORSEHEAD NEBULA!" said the Doctor as if he were an excited six-year-old talking about candy. "Isn't it beautiful?"
Clara's brow creased. "Yeah, but didn't all your companions think that floating in eternal space was a bit queasy?"
"Oh, come on. Don't be a party-pooper. I'll hold your ankle."
"Fine."
As she floated along with the TARDIS, she saw beautiful, gleaming, colorful stars. Her chestnut curls rose up above her forehead, making her appear like a variation of a lucky troll doll. The stars were combined with inexplicable darkness; not the kind of darkness that was there when she closed her eyes, but rather a darkness that was much blacker and empty than the normal shadows. She didn't really know how that worked, exactly. Clara felt lost in an eternal abyss of nothingness; consisting of...stars. This went on for around ten minutes of so; she never thought it was going to end. It was what she thought until she felt a sudden jolt and was yanked into the TARDIS.
"HEY! What was that for?" she asked, shocked to feel her feet back on a solid surface.
"I got a visit from my future self. And check it out! I got a free dummy!"
"Dummy? It looks EXACTLY like a person! A DEAD person. More person-y than any dummy I'd see," said Clara, a bit horrified.
The dummy that much resembled a dead person was wearing a black, wool trench coat and a blue scarf. It had a pale face with prominent cheekbones, which looked a lot like the Doctor's. The dummy, or mystery dead man, had a curly mop of black hair that unintentionally had him look like a very, very, photogenic cauliflower. There was a striking smear of blood on the side of his head, like he just hit his temple VERY hard.
"Who even is that?" asked Clara.
"I dunno. I just got a visit from my future self. He gave me this dummy and told me to wait for 'the fall.' I don't really know what's going on anyway. I'll find out. That's the fun of it!"
"So, where exactly are we going to?"
"Saint Bartholomew's Hospital," replied the Doctor with a grin.
---
Sherlock clenched the small, black, mobile phone in his hand and pressed it hard against his ear. He looked down upon the sidewalk as the toes of his shoes loomed over the edge of the hospital. Sherlock could see John standing afar. The short doctor, like him, also had his cellphone in his hand, anticipating the call. He finally picked up.
"Sherlock? Are you okay?" asked John's muffled voice on the other side of the line.
"Turn around and walk back the way you came," ordered Sherlock.
"No, I'm coming in." John had a certain persistent tone to his voice, as if he was very determined to figure out what was going on. He was confused.
"Just..do as I ask. Please."
"Where?" asked the puzzled army doctor, walking around cluelessly.
"Stop there."
"Sherlock."
"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."
"Oh god."
"I-I-can't come down so we'll have to do it like this," mumbled Sherlock in a broken, sorrowful voice.
"What's going on?" inquired John.
"An apology. It's all true."
---
The delightful and satisfying 'whooshing' noises of the TARDIS ceased as it materialized outside the hospital ward. As the Doctor and Clara walked out of the TARDIS onto the streets, Clara noticed a short man, not much taller than her, talking on the phone and looking up. Her eyes followed his head, and soon, they led to a dramatic silhouette on top of the roof. She looked closely and saw that the figure, too, was talking on a phone and was also wearing a black trench coat that was very noticeable. It was the dummy within the TARDIS. He was standing on the roof.
"Doctor, that man-"
"Is also in the TARDIS. I was told I had to wait for 'the fall.' Oh my God. He's going to jump any minute now," said the Doctor. "Clara, get in the TARDIS. I'm going to sort this matter out myself." The Doctor grabbed a vortex manipulator and strapped it to his wrist. "Whatever you do, just stay in the TARDIS unless I tell you to do something else." With that, he vanished in a blink of an eye.
The Doctor materialized into the hospital ward. Within the room, he saw several sets of lab equipment used for tangible crime evidence. He stumbled around the room carelessly, but cautiously and ended up pretending to sneak around like the stereotypical cartoon detective. The Doctor spotted movement towards the doorframe, and moved closer. When he opened the door, a woman with dirty-blonde hair and honey eyes jumped back.
"You aren't supposed to be here, you know. Who are you?" she said timidly.
"Sorry, I just got..lost. Uh, do you happen to know who's standing on your roof right now? Black trench coat? Skinny? Because I think he's about to die.."
"Do you mean Sherlock Holmes?"
"SHERLOCK HOLMES?! HE'S GOING TO DIE!"
The woman gave him the peculiar I-think-you're-just-a-madman look.
"Wait a minute. I'll be right back." With another slam of the vortex manipulator, he went back twenty years to the woman's timeline, and soon came back to the hospital with another slap of his hand. "Okay. Molly Hooper!"
As if she had known him for more than half of her life, her eyes lit up with excitement. "Doctor! I haven't seen you since I was thirteen!"
"Now, Molly. I told you something very very important. Do you remember what it was?"
"Of course I do. Sherlock Holmes was going to die in twenty years... Oh my God. Today's the day."
"Yes, and I need your help. Do you happen to have a dummy?"
---
"What is all true? I don't understand." John stood on the gloomy sidewalk out in front of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. He felt so confused at what Sherlock was trying to say.
"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."
"Why are you saying this?" He was absolutely bewildered at the fact that Sherlock sounded like he was crying. John KNEW that Sherlock had nothing to do with Moriarty-except for the fact that Moriarty had been playing him over a course of roughly two years. Plus, John had never known Sherlock to cry. He had, once, when he had encountered the Hound of the Baskerville and actually felt some form of FEAR. However, that was only once. Sherlock was made of steel. It would take so much to fully break him.
"I'm a fake."
Those very words echoed in John's mind over and over. I'm a fake. It was the most shocking, unexpected thing for him to hear in his entire life. Never would he imagine that the brilliant observations Sherlock made were fake. Brilliant and completely self-centered, yes, but not fake. In return, he tried to protest. "Sherlock..."
"The newspapers were right all along," said Sherlock. "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."
---
"Doctor!" exclaimed Molly.
"Yes; what is it, Molly?"
"I found a face cast I made for Sherlock a while ago. I told him it was for experimental purposes. I haven't used it yet, but maybe if we could just find a body to put it on..."
"Great. Brilliant! Why didn't I think of that?" said the Doctor as he gave himself a little slap on his mop of brown hair. "But we do need a dummy. I'll go out onto the roof to see how he's doing." The Doctor once again slammed his palm down on his wrist and soon appeared on the roof.
Standing right in front of him on the very edge of the roof, the Doctor saw Sherlock Holmes conversing with the man on the sidewalk, presumably John Watson. With his curly hair blowing in all directions and his coat slightly open, Sherlock was the exact replica of the dummy in the TARDIS. Sherlock didn't notice the Doctor, for he was too busy saying what he thought were his last words. Behind him was a dead body. Blood spilled out from the back of his head and there was an eeriness to his open eyes. They were so rid of emotion, yet they still seemed alive.
The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver and quietly examined the body which was still warm. He had died just moments ago. A gun was in his hand, suggesting suicide. The Doctor had absolutely no idea why this mysterious man killed himself, but he then realized something. The shape of the dead man's hands were strikingly similar to those of the dummy's. The Doctor then realized that this WAS the dummy. Molly intended to put Sherlock's face on this man, and the thought of that made him sick. He grabbed the body by the shoe and pressed the manipulator again to when Molly told him about the face cast.
"Molly! Uh, I found the dummy. Eugh, he's bloody," said the Doctor. It was true. He was disgusted at having to lug a dead body for a few minutes to the hospital ward. Hopefully Molly would take over the stages in the near future, meaning next couple minutes.
"Will you just, um, put him on the table for me?" she asked.
"Sure. Ewww."
Molly walked over and looked at the body. "Wow," she said, "way back, he used to be my old boyfriend. But that was until I found out he was a psychotic killer."
"You mean, HE'S MORIARTY?"
"Yes, he's Moriarty," exclaimed Molly as she took out the mask. "If we could just get this over his head...Would you mind?"
As soon as Molly asked, the Doctor obeyed. He felt absolutely grossed out at the fact that he was handling a dead body, but he knew a life depended on this. It had to work. The mask was heavy and ridiculously hard to get on Jim, but it surprisingly worked. Molly popped on a black, curly wig, and the end result was astonishing. He looked EXACTLY like Sherlock Holmes.
"The clothes," mumbled Molly.
"Sorry, what?"
"We had to do something about the clothes. These are not garments that Sherlock Holmes would wear. I'm sorry, but would you mind going to 221b Baker Street, and getting, you know, a proper coat?"
"Sure thing. See you in a flash!"
---
"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met-the first time we met-your knew all about my sister, right?" objected John.
"Nobody could be that clever," answered Sherlock. There was something seriously wrong. Sherlock never admitted that someone else was smarter than him, or that he was dumber than someone else. John had no idea why he was behaving this way. It was so...odd.
"You could."
"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."
---
Fifteen minutes after the Doctor arrived back in the lab, Jim Moriarty started looking more and more like Sherlock Holmes. The black curly hair, the blue scarf, and the pale, sharp cheekbones were the most accentuating highlights that were so hard to miss. Within the mask, Molly installed a pack of Sherlock Holmes's blood that would explode on impact, causing blood to leak out. Everything was perfect. The Doctor popped the deerstalker he found on his head. He hoped that Sherlock didn't mind that he borrowed his deerstalker for a bit. He thought he looked pretty hip.
"Doctor, there's only one problem. How are we going to get this body out with no one seeing us?" inquired Molly.
"Leave that to me!" blurted the Doctor. With a flash, he left Molly and the body alone in the lab. He then found himself in the TARDIS again.
---
"Stay exactly where you are. don't move," demanded Sherlock.
"Alright," sighed John.
"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? Leave a note?"
John was still confused. "Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye, John." That was when everything started making sense. The fraud information, the magic trick. Sherlock had so much pressure from the news. He was going to die.
---
"It's about time!" screamed Clara. "He's wrapping up the conversation soon." Her breaths were ragged and she spoke very quickly and urgently. "Please do something."
"And do something I will!" whooped the Doctor. "Clara, open all the doors to the swimming pool. We're going for a ride!"
The TARDIS whoooshed and flew over to the side of the building. The Doctor, furiously sweating, held the brakes down; sideways. He was having fun. This hadn't happened since the time with the Pond family. Pond. The Doctor soon pushed that thought out of his mind.
Sherlock tossed his phone aside. It landed on the roof with a small 'plop.' As soon as it hit the ground, he took a deep breath, and spread out his arms. He leaned over the edge and closed his eyes. There was a blurred sensation of falling; Moriarty was right. Falling was like falling, only with a more permanent destination. He braced himself for the hardness of the concrete pavement, when suddenly, he felt something...wet.
---
Whoosh!
"Oops! I forgot something! Do you mind just holding this button for me?" asked the Doctor after Clara heard an unforgettable splash.
"Sure."
He speedily pressed the vortex manipulator multiples of times as he went from TARDIS to Saint Bart's.
"Molly! Thanks for all your help, I'll visit you sometime, and bye!" yelled the Doctor hurriedly. He soon reached his final destination. Back in the TARDIS, he saw his past self holding the ankle of Clara Oswin Oswald.
"Hello. This is an EXTREME paradox. Anyway, I haven't got much time; please take this dummy. And wait for the fall. Go to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. It'll make more sense. Bye!"
The past self marveled at the dummy, or rather, dead person and then proceeded to jerk on Clara's ankle.
---
"I'm BAAACK!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Wait, throw the dummy out! Quick! Do it!"
Clara involuntarily lugged the dummy out the door and it soon landed on the ground with a nauseating 'flop.'
"It's done," she said.
"Great, now can you just check on him for me?" he asked as he handed her an orange towel.
She ran down the spiral staircase until she reached the pool. There, she saw a tall, skinny man in a soaking wet trench coat and damp curls.
"Where am I," he asked, "and who are you?"
"I'm Clara. You're in the TARDIS. I'd reckon you need to take your coat off? I got a towel for you," she said with a wink. "Go and dry yourself off. If you want, there's an extra set of clothes over there."
"You're not the only one here, are you?"
"No; of course I'm not. I'll answer more questions once you're dressed. C'mon!"
It took only five minutes for Sherlock to walk out of the changing room in a fresh set of black clothing. He turned around and looked at her straight in the eye. "Do you even know who I am?" he asked.
"No idea. Not the slightest."
"I'm Sherlock Holmes."
"But..You're FICTIONAL!"
"I'm here right now, am I not?"
"Right. Good point."
"How did I not hit the ground? Where exactly is this TARDIS?"
"Well, you'll have to talk to the Doctor. He better at explaining this stuff than I am. Come, you can meet him now! Follow me!" she said, her voice more enlightened than before. Clara felt good, knowing that the Doctor had saved the life of SHERLOCK HOLMES. She just felt good, period, for knowing that a life had been saved. There was something strangely satisfying about that. She bounced up the spiral staircase with the stunned Sherlock Holmes trailing behind her, until she reached the main console room.
Over the controls, the tall, lanky man in the tweed jacket and red bowtie was fumbling with the controls. He loomed over the TARDIS screen, looking and transcribing Gallifreyan words with a flip of his hair. On top of his head rested the deerstalker which, coincidentally, matched his jacket. He turned around and opened his arms as Clara and Sherlock came up.
"Hello, Sherlock," he said in an animated manner as if he were only ten years old. "I'm the Doctor!"
~~~