If there's one thing I've learned over the course of all this, it's not to blame Sherlock for what he does. It's not something he can help, no matter how much he may bluster otherwise. I don't blame him, so please don't let yourself. I've seen the way you light up when he's in the room, I've seen you finally happy, and I swear, if you let me ruin that I'll come back just to kick your ass. If you have to blame someone at all, blame me. Thank you so much John, for everything, for all the things you don't even know you did.
You'll need to take care of him. Another unsolved puzzle won't be good for him. And don't let him think he killed me. Because in the end, I'll be the one who's responsible. As it should be.
I love you. But you knew that.
It was wonderful, you know. To never be the smartest person in the room anymore. Did that confuse you? The way I never resented you, seemed pleased with the insults, with the venom, was delighted when you ignored me? No, probably not. Because you see through everything.
Or should I say, almost anything? You never guessed correctly. Not once. And so you kept pressing, wanting to see how far you could go, wanting to know me as easily as you know everybody else, more and more and more pressure. I'm sorry to disappoint, but you'll never get to find out. You were expecting a last confession, I'm sure. But instead, I'm saying this.
Psychopath and sociopath are the same thing, did you know that? There is a generally accepted nuance, this is true, but both are terms for what's known as Anti-social Personality Disorder.
I love you. But you'll never have to deal with it.
John Watson unclenches his hand, letting the note fall to the floor before whirling on the other man in the room, startling Sherlock enough that the taller man actually begins backing away.
"Where is she, Sherlock! Don't you dare try to tell me there aren't theories whizzing through that brilliant mind of yours! You know exactly where she's gone and how she's going to do it, and how to stop her and you are going to tell me right now or I'll-"
He breaks off as Sherlock shimmies under his arm and roughly grabs his coat from where it had been flung across the couch, pulling it on without breaking stride.
"Well? Are you coming or not?"
John's still stuck on how easy this was. Is it possible that Sherlock had, despite his protests, started to care about their reluctant flatmate?
"Come on John! There's a puzzle to be solved, and time is limited!"
Every once in a while, even John is surprised by how callous Sherlock Holmes can be
As they run out the door, Devon Brannel steps out from the closet where she had been hiding. She knows she doesn't have much time before Sherlock figures out her ploy and returns to 221B, with John in tow. And she's also all too sure that she wouldn't be able to do what she's about to do with both of them in the room. With shaking hands, she raises the gun to her head. The sound of the door slamming open is lost in the cacophony of a gunshot.
I always think a story is so much more enjoyable when you think you know the ending, don't you? Sometimes you're right and sometimes you're wrong, but every twist and turn seems so much more important when you think you know where they lead. But like every story, this one has to return to the beginning before the end can really be explained. And the beginning was something so very unremarkable. The beginning of this story, was an phone call.