Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I also, sadly, don't own John, nor Molly or any of the characters portrayed either in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's works or in Moffat / Gatiss's amazing adaptation of Sherlock for the BBC, which, by the way, this fic is based on. This is the result of too much free time and addiction to sadness.

For a richer experience, I advise you to listen to the songs which the chapters will be named after, preferably at the time when the lyrics are shown.

Also, this is my first fanfiction ever of any kind. I also am not a native english speaker, so forgive me if I make any mistakes and feel free to correct me at any time. Your attention and consideration is deeply appreciated.

Music for a dead man

Chapter 1: Goodbye

Sherlock woke up to a strange place. The first sense he felt coming back to him was his hearing. There was absolute silence. Next, he tried his sense of touch. He could sense he was lying on something big and soft, with fabric covering its surface. A mattress then, he deduced. There was a 99% probability he was lying in a bed. Not HIS bed, obviously, so whose bed is this, he thought. Next, he tried inhaling. He almost regretted it, as he felt a painful stab in his chest. He also felt his mouth and throat so dry that if he didn't know better, he could have sworn he chewed and swallowed sand. This doesn't feel good at all, he thought. Next, he tried opening his eyes. He opened them slowly, adjusting his eyesight to the dim, warm light coming from the window. Twilight, he decided. Without moving his head, he checked his surroundings. The window just before him was closed and the curtains were just two inches opened. He could see its light purple fabric and white color of the wall. He looked up. Ceiling was also white, with a vintage looking ceiling fan that carried a light bulb at its center. Looking to his left, he saw a simple but well-designed wardrobe. It occupied all of the area of wall and Sherlock could tell this room was considerably small. Looking to his right, he saw a light blue colored wall and a simple white door at the center of it. There was also a big framed photograph of a man hanging on the wall. Late fifties, judging by his expression lines and a bit of hair that is missing, he thought. He also saw a nightstand next to the right side of the bed. It had a single drawer and on the top were both a lampshade and a book.

Sherlock started assessing his findings. Light purple curtain, light blue wall, a big, well designed wardrobe and a pink lampshade on the nightstand. A framed photograph of a man hanging on the wall. He is clearly someone respected by whoever owns this place, and judging by the overall appearance of the room, that someone is an organized person of simple habits. Whoever it is, he or she keeps the room clean. I believe there is about 90% chance this room belongs to a woman, he decided. The room was strange to him, and yet, somehow, familiar.

Sherlock tried to move. He twitched his fingers slowly and then he moved his right hand slightly. He decided to try to raise his arms and immediately gave up. It hurt so much that it felt like he was run over by a train, in the unlikely chance one could survive such a thing. He tried twitching his toes and then he tried folding his legs slowly. It hurt just was bad, but at least he managed to move enough to feel his bare feet on the sheet, gripping it with his toes. About three seconds later, he managed to move his arms enough to spread them on the bed, with palms facing up. He was staring at the ceiling now, and he started to think.

Whose is this place? What time is it exactly of what day and date? Wait, why am I here in the first place?

He started forcing his memory in what seemed like a thousand miles per hour speed. He was remembering now, and the memories came in a rush. He closed his eyes tightly.

"I'm waiting – JM."

And then, at Bart's rooftop, James Moriarty was waiting for me.

"I may be on the side of the angels but don't think for a second that I am one of them."

Gunshot.

Moriarty dead.

Calling John…and then…throwing myself off the roof. Sherlock cringed internally at the memory.

John, jogging in my direction, then legs all around me, and then…everything was black.

"Sherlock? It worked. You'll be all right, I promise. You'll be just fine…"

Wait, he thought. What…who…

"You are wrong, you know. You do count. You have always counted and I have always trusted you. But you were right. I am not ok."

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

"What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

"What do you need?"

"…You."

Sherlock opened his eyes abruptly and stared at the ceiling fan wide eyed.

Oh, he thought. Molly. Of course. This must be her flat. She helped me faking my death.

Suddenly, Sherlock had the urge to sit up. He rolled on his right side and, propping himself on his right elbow, collected all the strength he had and made a move to sit up. When he did, he felt his head spin like he was in an insanely fast merry-go-round and ache like some Mongolian gong player decided to make his head the gong.

"Arg!"

Sherlock grunted in pain and shut his eyes tightly and instinctively put his two hands on his head, as if that could minimize the pain. He started to take long, slow breaths and after a few minutes the pain was bearable enough for him to open his eyes again. He found his eyesight slightly blurred and tried to force his focus. He decided to focus on the framed photograph on the wall that was directly in front of him.

Must be her father, then, he thought.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead…no, sorry."

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation, it's really not your area."

"When he was dying he was always cheerful, he was lovely, except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked…sad."

"Molly."

"You look sad, when you think he can't see you."

"You're ok? And don't say that you are because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"You can see me."

"I don't count."

"You do count, Molly. You do count."

Sherlock was taken aback when he realized he said that out loud. He swallowed, briefly forgetting how dry and rough his throat felt. He grunted internally and made a pained face, gritting his teeth.

I need water, he thought.

Slowly, he reached for the nightstand as support and tried to stand up. Again, he collected all the strength he had to make the attempt with a single move. Just like he expected, he felt his head spinning and pounding again, but it was not as bad as before. Sherlock released his grip on the nightstand and stumbled forward, tripped once and almost fell on his face but managed to recover his balance and slowly walked forward, concentrating on getting his feet to the kitchen.

As Sherlock stepped forward he felt a familiar lump in his throat, an unnamed anxiety, a feeling of desperation when he realized John wouldn't be waiting for him in the living room. Every step was like a little bit of hell.

Goodbye (by Stabbing Westward)

So this is where I say goodbye

This is where my story ends

And if there's one thing I've learned from life

It's that it gets you in the end

So goodbye my friend

Goodbye

So goodbye my friend

Goodbye