Chapter Fourteen: You Gotta Die Some Time

That night I hardly slept. Well, it was that kind of waking slumber where you're never quite sure if you're awake or asleep. I knew that just through that wall was information that would help hundreds of people, and free even more. I don't know why this information didn't put my mind at ease. I guess my plan was kind of risky and would pretty much mean the end of this part of my life, but I was doing it for the 'greater good'. If even such a thing existed. 

That morning, the sun burned my eyes as I dragged myself through my apartment. It was still barely furnished, the only signs of life around the kitchen, couch and my bedroom. A few empty mugs scattered around, paper strewn across the coffee table and my wall, a few dirty plates in the sink. I set about cleaning up for the next person. I couldn't help sneaking a look at my 'anti-Moriarty evidence board' as I had taken to calling it. His cold stare made me uncomfortable, along with the heavy feeling that had settled in my stomach. It felt like I had to throw up and had cramps at the same time. I hated it.

Eventually my apartment was in order and it was time. I pulled on a coat and scarf, making sure to leave my phone in a drawer, gave my apartment one last look, and then closed the door behind me quietly. I managed to sneak down the stairs (I honestly don't know how) and out into the bracing wind. Pulling my scarf tighter, I started walking. At this point, I knew where I was going but I needed to make sure that anyone tracking me thought that I was just going on a stroll. I called a taxi and got in, taking of my scarf and giving the driver a friendly nod. I have her the directions and then we were off.

John walked into the living room, heavily setting down his shopping bags. Sherlock was huddled up on the couch reading through some old files as usual. The air in the room felt like it hadn't moved in years, giving the room an old, boarded up feel. The curtains were drawn, but the weather outside wasn't anything worth marvelling at. He began to unpack the various items he had bought on his errands when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Lestrade burst into the room in his usual out-of-breath, urgent way. 

"I'm sorry, but I thought you should hear it from me before the news came on," he panted.

"Hear what?" I asked, putting down the last newspaper on my armchair. Sherlock hadn't lifted his head or shown any interest in the conversation until this point.

"Darcy. She....She was in a car crash this afternoon. A fatal crash." He looked apologetic, like he was apologising for not replying to a text, or apologising for forgetting to buy the milk. Not like he was apologising for Darcy's death.

The news took a while to sink in. We all had different ways of coping with the grief.

Sherlock went silent. It would later turn out that he would not talk for a whole month.

Mrs Hudson went into mothering mode. She offered us all tea and biscuits, relit the fire and made sure we were all ok.

I...I don't recall what I did. When someone dies, it goes by in the blink of an eye.

One day, they were telling us that she died and it was all over the news.

'DETECTIVE DIES IN FATAL CAR CRASH'

'LONDON MOURNS THE LOSS OF BRILLIANT MIND'

'DETECTIVE DEATH - MOTIVE FOR MURDER?'

Rumours spread like wildfire, and were only fuelled when the police released their findings from their search of her apartment. Apparently, they found it in immaculate shape as though no one had lived there, save for one wall that was covered in photographs, news clippings, CCTV screenshots, handwritten notes and post-its. They all linked back to one person - Moriarty. Using  the evidence that Darcy had gathered, Scotland Yard was able to arrest many people that had been part of Moriarty's crime ring, possibly saving hundreds of lives. Moriarty had disappeared from the picture as his regime came crumbling down.

Despite Sherlock's best efforts, there was enough evidence to show that in fact, Darcy was now buried in her final resting place and not, like we desperately hoped, alive and in hiding. It took us a long time to be able to live with this news. Of course, this set Sherlock on Moriarty's case in hopes of finding out if Darcy was just a victim of human error, or a victim of murder, and to give him something else to think about. 

Meanwhile, once Moriarty heard about Darcy's death, he knew that he was in trouble. He severed his ties and went into hiding, waiting to see what that genius had thought up to bring him down. As his crime ring slowly unravelled, his heart became set on vengeance. If not on Darcy, on those she had held dear. Sherlock would pay for this.

The only thing that had been left behind in the cloud of dust surrounding this case was Darcy's phone, tucked neatly into the corner of one of the drawers.