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SERIOUS SPOILERS FOR THE REICHENBACH FALL AHEAD! CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN RISK!
You have been warned.

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His eyes are closed. He can feel the wind blowing around him, leeching the warmth from his bones.
He couldn’t resist sparing a moment to think how impressive he must look, his coat blowing around him, silhouetted against the sky.
Funny, he thought, how the mind betrays you.
It doesn’t want to face the facts. The data. The all-important and incredibly obvious truth...
In the end, the mind betrays you.
Is this what it’s like to be normal? Your mind constantly, almost purposely, oblivious of what is directly before you.
But he was Sherlock Holmes. He was not normal.
And he knew what was in front of him.
What had always been in front of him, ever since Moriarty had first noticed him, since they had first started playing the Great Game.
The Fall.
He wonders if Mycroft will mourn him.
John will. John will be torn apart.
Will Mrs. Hudson?
Lestrade? Or will Lestrade just bid him good riddance like the rest of them? Like Donovan and Anderson? Will he just miss the praise he received for all the cases that Sherlock solved for him?
Molly will. Molly will mourn me. She loved me, I think.
Or she thought she did.
Sometimes admiration can be mistaken for love and she was alone and desperate for someone to be near.
I suppose we’ll never know.
He could feel the space before him, the emptiness. There was a void in front of his feet. A void that was more than capable of swallowing him whole, leaving no trace of the man who had called himself “the world’s only consulting detective.” Even his famous brain couldn’t save him now.
Will anyone else mourn him? The fallen genius? The fake detective? Will there still be those who refuse to believe? Who are so stubborn and loyal that they still believe in him, despite everything?
What will they do with the skull that had been his silent friend all those years? What would they do with his chemistry equipment?
The mind, in the end, betrays you.
A black London cab turned down the road far beneath him. It was John. John, finally coming back. Finally realizing that the call was a fake and now running back to save his friend.
What would this do to him?
Sentiment, Sherlock?
A voice in his head.
First sign of madness.
Funny. He couldn’t tell whether it was Moriarty or Mycroft.
And if that didn’t say something about his family life...
What would this do to John?
Maybe...
Oh, but Moriarty had been clever. No way out. Clever, clever.
He had to tell John. Tell him something, at least. He owed him that much. He had to tell him something.
He could only hope that John would understand.
At the same time, he knew that his friend wouldn’t. He likely never would.
But he had to try.
He owed him that much. His only friend.
Say perhaps, the only one he could put up with and the only one who would put up with him.
What a strange life we lead...
His shoes are on the edge now, the very edge. The border of the emptiness.
Sherlock Holmes reached slowly into his pocket. He had to tell John. Tell him something. He had to make him understand. He had to try.
He pressed a single button and held his phone to his ear.
John’s number dialed out. One of four numbers he had on his mobile.
Mycroft.
Moriarty.
Lestrade.
John.
Two of them were enemies. His brother and the man who was bent on destroying him completely.
The other was nothing more than necessity. Lestrade needed him.
And as much as he hated to admit it, he needed Lestrade. Without Lestrade and his bumbling police force, the boredom that haunted him would have destroyed his life long ago.
And then there was John, his only friend. He realised, maybe for the first time, how lonely that sounded.
“Hello?” John was climbing out of the cab now. He sounded harassed, as if he were wondering what sort of idiot was calling him while he was trying to save his friend.
“John.” He almost winced at how dull and hopeless his voice sounded.
Far below him, John starts to run.
He can almost read John’s mind... .Sherlock is calling me. He never calls anyone.
Something’s wrong.
“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”
He’s worried about me.
That’s a new experience, having someone worried about me.
But John is coming closer. He can’t let him come closer.
“Turn around. And walk back the way you came.”
“No! I’m coming in!”
“Just do as I ask.”
For once, he didn’t have to fake the emotion in his voice. He could feel it inside him, trying to get out. Emotions. Sentiment. Not such a perfect logic machine, after all.
“Please,” he says, almost forcing the word out. He doesn’t want to beg. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t be. But this is John. His one friend.
John, far below, backs up.
“Where?” he asks. John, always wanting to help, always so loyal.
“Stop there.”
“Sherlock...” There’s irritation in John’s voice, but he could hear the question behind it. The beginning of concern.
“Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.”
The image he must make, his coat flapping behind him like the wings of a predatory bird, silhouetted against the grey sky...
“Oh, God.”
The worry is growing... It’s starting to dawn on him.
“I—I...I can’t come down. So we’ll—we’ll just have to do it like this.”
A stammer? Not Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant detective, whose sharp tongue cowed the brightest and the best of Scotland Yard...
Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant detective, struggling for words.
“Wh—What’s going on?”
You can hear the worry growing in his voice. John had always lacked the ability to hide his emotions.
“An apology.”
He can almost see the look of surprise and the darkening worry on John’s face.
Sherlock is apologizing. The world is ending.
At least for me.
Ah, the black humour of the condemned.
“It’s all true.”
“What?”
Oh, the tone of shock.
“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”
He glances down at the body of the man who had been his greatest enemy. The man who had sworn to destroy him. The one man who had ever outsmarted him. Who, even in death, had defeated him.
He thought he saw the trace of a gloating smile on the now stiff and waxy face.
And Sherlock was glad, for once, that he couldn’t see John’s expression. The inevitable look of betrayal.
Not such a cold, unemotional machine after all, are we, Mr. Holmes?
But he could imagine—he could almost see John’s face.
“Why are you saying this?”
Oh, the faith of a loyal friend. He still trusts me. He doesn’t want to believe it.
“I’m a fake.”
The anguish, the pain. That wasn’t fake. He was barely acting any more. It was ripping through his heart. His heart that he thought had long since shrivelled and turned to dust. The heart that Moriarty had said he would burn.
“Sherlock—”
The impatience, the disbelief.
“The newspapers were right all along.” – How could he do this to John? To the others who had believed in him? – “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.”
“Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up.” – He’s angry. He doesn’t want to believe me. – “The first time we met. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”
“Nobody could be that clever.”
“You could.”
He laughed. A choking sob of a laugh that ripped through him. It felt like it was tearing him apart.
The faith. It hurt almost more than the betrayed anger he’d been expecting.
“I researched you.” – He realises he’s crying. The great Sherlock Holmes. The logic machine. The inhuman reasoning automaton. The great Sherlock Holmes was crying. When was the last time he had cried? Had he ever cried? – “Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you.” – He was almost close enough to see the anger, the disbelief in John’s face. – “It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick.”
I’m a magician. And this is my final act. My final curtain call. My last bow.
“No.” – The desperate denial. – “All right, stop it now!”
He’s beginning to believe. He doesn’t want to. But he’s finally starting to believe.
He notices John. Striding angrily toward the hospital.
“No, stay exactly where you are!” – He stretches out his hand, as if to hold John there. He notices, almost abstractedly, that it’s shaking. He can’t come any closer. I can’t let him... – “Don’t move!”
John backs up again. Still so faithful. So loyal. What did I ever do to deserve a friend like that?
“All right.”
He can hear how badly John wants to tell him to calm down, to come down.
He’s almost gasping for breath now. It’s harder and harder to hold these raging emotions inside. Is this what normal people feel like? If so, he’s glad he’s not normal. It hurts. It hurts more than anything he’s ever felt before.
“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”
The great Sherlock Holmes begging for one last favour.
How the mighty have fallen...
“Do what?”
Poor, obtuse John. He still doesn’t realise.
“This phone call, it’s, um...it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”
“Leave a note when?”
He can hear the pain in his friend’s voice. He’s starting to realise. He doesn’t want to realise.
“Goodbye, John,” he says quietly.
“No. Don’t—”
He can hear the fear. The sudden panic. In that moment, he’s as close to losing his calm as he’s ever been before. But he can’t delay this any longer. He can’t put it off. He can’t even say that he’s sorry. He’s already lingered far too long.
The time has come.
He closes the phone and throws it behind him.
“SHERLOCK!” He hears John yelling his name.
It’s time. Time for the Fall.
In the end, it’s simple. More simple than he would have believed. He closes his eyes.
His mind is empty.
For once, he has no brilliant thoughts, no clever plans
He spreads his arms.
If only they were the wings he saw them as in his mind’s eye.
And leans out.
And embraces the emptiness.