I found yet another British television series that I think is absolutely brilliant and I am completely and totally hooked on it.
Of course at the end of the second season or series as they are called over there the audience is left with a big fat puzzle. It's not really a cliff hanger, that was the end of series one.
So the big question is how did he do it, and how can he prove to everyone else that Moriarty set the whole damned thing up? The puzzle must be resolved if there is to be a third series.
This is my answer to that challenge. Obviously when series three comes out my storyline will not be in the episode, BUT I still believe I have hit the major points of how it was pulled off, who orchestrated it, and how the hero will be proved innocent to those who need to know.
Let me know what you think of my solution.

To my readers in Merlin and else where - forgive me but this show just swept me up. It's out of my system now until series three so I am dutifully going back to Square Peg. Thank you
Alice I

The Science of Deduction's 1st Student

Chapter One

"Why today?"

"You want to hear me say it?"

"Eighteen months since our last appointment."

"You read the papers?"


"And you watch telly...
you know why I'm here."


"I'm here beca..."

"What happened, John?"




"You need to get it out."

"My best friend..."

WHISPERED "Sherlock Holmes...
is dead."

"You were there, you saw it happen?"


"You tried to stop him?"

"I wanted to go up to him... he wouldn't let me, he made me go back."

"Go back? Where?"

"Across the road. He begged me to keep my eyes fixed on him. There were things I could have said..."


"Things I should have said, that I... that I needed..."


"What did you need, John?"

"There was stuff I needed to say; that he needed to hear."


"I... I was frozen, I... I couldn't think. God, help me; I failed him."


WHISPERED "I failed,"

VOICE CRACKS "...and now he's gone."

"The stuff you wanted to say, but didn't say it,"


"Say it now."

"No... I'm sorry, I can't."

Mycroft read the transcript of John Watson's therapy session and shook his head. "Oh my dear, John. Who would have ever imagined that my little brother could have made such an impact on someone else's life?" the government official murmured to himself.

That was the only transcript for that session. Apparently Dr. Watson truly could not continue. Mycroft stepped out of his office and moved to the desk of a pretty young brunette who was busy typing, her fingers flying like lightning across the keyboard, as she listened to a feed from an ear piece.

"Is that today's session?" he asked quietly.

"Just finishing, Sir." she replied, as she punched a button causing pages to print out on the machine next to her desk.

"Thank you. Please be sure that the surveillance team knows to keep a close eye on Dr. Watson. I want to be informed if he beaks his routine."

"Yes, Sir."

Mycroft moved back to his office and closed the door behind him. Taking a seat at his desk he began to read the transcript of the therapy session that had just been transcribed.

"It's been nearly a fortnight since the funeral. Are you ready to talk now?"

"I don't know where to begin."

"Tell me what you are feeling right now."

"Angry... Desperate... Lost."

"That's perfectly normal when we lose someone we love."

"I know, and look just for the record, I want to have it written down somewhere that I am not gay."

"Ok, John. Why is that so important?"

"It isn't, I mean if I were that would be fine; it's just that, I'm not."

"I see. Was Sherlock?"


"Honestly; I don't know. I don't think he's ever had a relationship with anyone, well not a normal relationship in any case, not even Irene Adler."

"Who is Irene Adler?"

"She was probably the closest thing Sherlock ever had to a love interest, at least that I ever knew of."


"Ah, yes, well she's dead now, although Sherlock never knew that. He thinks..."


WHISPERED "Damn it."



"He thought that she was in America; under some sort of witness protection."

"Who was she, John?"

"The woman."

"The woman?"

"That is how she was known professionally. She was a rather infamous woman who specialized in... well, in providing particular and specialized services to wealthy and powerful people who also required a certain degree of digression. Apparently she preferred the term 'Dominatrix'."

"Oh, I see. And Sherlock used her services?"

"No. God, no! No, not at all. He was hired to get some photographs back from her. She was different; smart, sophisticated, shameless, and dangerous. She confused him, I think. That would be enough to make him take an interest. Sherlock needs..."


"...needed to understand everything and everyone around him. She faked her own death to avoid some trouble and it nearly crushed him."

"Were you jealous?"

"What? No, of course not. Why does everyone seem to think that we are...


"We are not... Christ! We were not a couple! What the hell is the matter with people? Why the bloody hell can't two blokes have a close and completely platonic relationship? Yes I cared for Sherlock, I would even say more than anyone else I have ever known, but that does not mean that I ever wanted to snog him. Not that there would be anything wrong with that if I did, but I didn't, I don't... Damn it!"


"You want me to say it? Fine I will. I loved Sherlock Holmes as I would my own family, a brother if I ever had one. I loved him with all of my heart; he was my best friend and I hate him for this; I hate him and I miss him desperately. -
Are you happy now?"

"Why do hate him?"

"Why? What do you think?"

"I want to know what you think John. It's your hour."


"He saved me you know, in more ways than one. When I came back from the war, I was... I was lost, I was so very alone. Meeting him was... well it changed my life. He's the most maddening, infuriatingly arrogant, brilliant, and exciting person I have ever met. My life suddenly had purpose, it meant something if, at first, only to try and figure out this insane man and how his mind works..."


WHISPERED "...worked."

"And now?"

"Now? Let me tell you what my life is now, shall I?"

"Go on."

"Every time I fall asleep I am transported back to that day. It's almost like some macabre reel playing on an endless loop in my mind."

"Can you tell me about it? Can you describe what happened that day?"

"I could tell you in minute detail, but what's the point? It won't change anything."

"I think it will."

"How so?"

"Have you spoken to anyone about the details of Sherlock's suicide?"

"I gave my statement to the police."

"You need to get it out in the open. If you can't talk about it, then write it down. Write it in your blog or on a piece of paper. Let everyone see it or no one, that doesn't matter. If you write it all down then maybe you will be able to sleep without it invading your dreams."


"I don't understand why he did this. Before he... before he jumped he told me that it was all true, what the papers were saying about him. He said that he was a fake, that he lied to me all along."


"He knew things about me when we first met; things he couldn't have known. He said he'd researched me, found out everything he could, so he could impress me. That was the lie! The things he knew they were... you can't just google that kind of thing!"


"You look angry."


"Your hands are balled into fists. Why are you angry?"

"How could he do this? That phone call to me, he said it was his note, because that's what people do; they leave notes. I...
God damn that selfish son-of-a-bitch; I was his bloody note!"


"What happened next?"

"You know what happened."

"You need to tell me. You need to say it out loud, John."

"He said goodbye, opened his arms wide, and then just leaned forward. I watched him fall, I heard the thud when he hit the ground."

"John, this is important. What were you feeling?"

"Excuse me? What kind of question is that?
Jesus... Jesus! What the bloody hell do you think I was feeling? I just watched my best friend plummet to his death!"

"So you admit that he is dead."


"Of course I do. I saw it happen."

"It's just that you have referred to Sherlock in the present tense a half dozen times in the last several minutes. That leads me to believe that some part of you is still refusing to believe him to be dead even though you saw him fall to his death with your own eyes."

"I know what I saw, but..."

"What is it, John?"

"In truth I didn't actually see his body hit the ground. I was across the street and the ambulance intake building obscured my view."

"I see. What did you do next?"

"I started walking toward the building, but I was knocked down, by a bloke on a bicycle I think. It took me a minute to regain my feet. I must have hit my head on the pavement because I felt dizzy and disoriented. To be completely honest I felt as though the whole thing was just a bad dream. As I came around the end of the building, I saw him lying on the ground. His eyes were open; he had blood covering his face. It didn't seem real, it still doesn't."

"You dream about this every time you sleep?"

"Every time. Its always the same, so sleeping is just rubbish."

"How much sleep are you getting, John?"

"I don't really know. Most nights it's the wee hours of the morning before I succumb."

"What time do you get up in the mornings?"

"When I work, I have to be at the clinic by 8:00."

"John, you need to sleep. This can't go on for much longer."

"Can't it?
Yes, well I suppose you're right."


"Maybe it won't."

"What do you mean by that, John?"


"How long can this continue? Every time I wake up... I feel as I did that day. The pain and the anger, it's suffocating."

"How do you deal with that?"

"You won't like it."


"You must try to understand, what I do, it's more ritual than intent. I'm not really sure why, but by doing this, I can lock those feelings away, if only for a while."

"What do you do, John?"

"I stare down the barrel of my pistol. It's like looking into a great nothingness where pain and fear and anger don't exist, but..."


"Neither does anything else. No joy, or love, friendship, or hope."

"Do you want to die when you look at your pistol?"

"I am a soldier, Miss Thompson, I do not look for the easy way out. I would not pull the trigger."


"Because there are people out there who it would matter to. I'm so angry with Sherlock for making me go through this; how could I do the same to someone else, to Mrs. Hudson, to Sarah?"

"What about your sister?"

"Harry? Yes, I suppose she would be upset if I were to...
She would most certainly start drinking again, if she ever really stopped. At least it would give her an excuse. No, the only people who would really care are Mrs. Hudson, possibly Sarah, and maybe Greg Lestrade, maybe."


"My God, I'm as hopeless as Sherlock. Is that really all I have to show for friends? God, that really is depressing."

"You described this as a ritual. Tell me the rest."

"Not much to tell really. I put the pistol away and get dressed. I go to work if there is work. I come home, I watch telly, or read the daily, but my mind always wanders back to that day. I can't help it, I'm fixated on it, as though there was some trick; somehow if I just think hard enough I can figure out how to make it all not be true."

"What if you don't have work? What do you do then?"

"Sometimes I go back to that spot at St. Bart's outside the ambulance entrance; staring up at the roof. I even went up there one time and looked down trying to find some..."


"There must be something I am missing. Sarah once said that we solve puzzles for a living, Sherlock and me, but I can't figure this one out."

"John, you have to stop this. Come over here I want to show you something."


"Look in the mirror, John."


"What do you see?"

"What do you want me to say, Miss. Thompson?"

"I want you to really look at the reflection. Your clothes..."

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

"They're hanging off of you. You've dropped at least ten pounds since I saw you after the funeral. Look at yourself, really look. Dark circles under hollow eyes in a sunken face. Is that the reflection of a man who is healthy?"

"It's been a bad couple of weeks, you know."

"John, you're in denial. This is a normal stage of grief, but if you don't get past that stage you can never move on. Sherlock is gone, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can begin to find some peace."

"Find peace? I'm not looking for peace. I want answers. I want to know why he did this."

"He confessed to you that he was a fake, that he lied to you. People who feel overwhelming guilt will often confess their wrongdoing to someone important to them before committing suicide."

"You're wrong. I don't care what the papers say, I don't care what he told me that day; nothing will ever convince me that he lied."

"That stubborn belief is why your reflection looks like this. You need to face reality, John, you need to accept the truth."

"No. No, you don't understand. I watched him deduce the most amazing things from just a look. I lived with him; I know him; I saw how his mind worked; I know that Moriarty..."


"Look, I am completely sound of mind. Hear me when I say this.
I. Know."

"What do you know, John? That Sherlock's confession was false? Okay, let's just say that it was, and everything the papers said was wrong, how does that change anything? You saw him jump from that building. You saw him fall, and you saw him lying on the ground, dead. That is what you need to come to grips with."

"I know, I'm just not sure I can."

"How much sleep are you getting really?"

"I'm awake until exhaustion takes over. I eventually fall asleep and then the whole thing starts all over again."

"When do you eat?"

"I don't know. I guess I eat; maybe a sandwich at the deli next door or some chips. I don't pay much attention to that. Since Sherlock...
Normal everyday things in life just don't have much meaning."

"John, I'm concerned. You have admitted contemplating suicide on a daily basis..."

"I did not."

"You spend the bulk of your time trying to work out a fantasy where your friend is still somehow alive. You continue to refer to him in the present tense. You are not eating or sleeping, and you feel that without him, your life has no meaning."

"That is, quite frankly, a gross over-exaggeration."

"I want to prescribe anti-depressants. Will you take them?"



"Sure, yes, quite right, I'll take them."

"Are you just telling me what I want to hear?"

"Give me the script. I said I'd fill it."

"I want you to ring me when you wake up tomorrow. Can you do that for me?"


"Will you?"

"I don't know."

"John, I need you to promise that you'll ring me. You're a doctor; you know how this works. I don't want to have to send you for a mandatory psych eval."

"Fine, I'll phone you in the morning."

Mycroft put the pages down and moved over to his desk. This was more serious than he had realized and was grateful that he had decided to keep the surveillance on John Watson at grade three active. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.

"Anthea, I need the footage from the Watson cam sent to my station."