SHERLOCK

AFTERMATH:

MORIARTY'S STORY ~ AFOOT

My AFTERMATH series centers on the main characters and events surrounding The Reichenbach Fall.

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Moriarty was savoring this—the ultimate strike to his foe.

Sherlock Holmes had him gripped by the coat lapels, balanced backward over the parapet of St. Bartholomew's roof with none-too-subtle promises of hauling him over the edge.

If Sherlock thought this would intimidate me, he was wrong.

"Okay . . . let me give you a little extra incentive—your friends will die if you don't," announced Jim, without pity or compassion.

The confidence drained from Holmes' face. "John?"

"Not just John. Everyone," Jim whispered with gleeful emphasis.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Everyone."

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no STOPPING them now."

Moriarty watched delighted as Sherlock's expression morphed from "I'm-taking-back-control" enragement to stunned, "what-choice-do-I-have?" bewilderment.

Holmes suddenly jerked him forward to his feet, away from danger.

"Unless my people see you jump," Jim hammered.

Holmes stood frozen beyond movement, his empty, fixated stare cast downward to the street four stories below.

Moriarty could see his brain scrambling for a solution while contemplating the impending, messy end. To see the ingenious detective blind-sided, his plethoric ego stripped away, shell-shocked, and lost was glorious! He felt almost giddy, but nooo; they weren't at the End Game yet.

Jim grinned widely. "You can have me arrested . . . you can torture me . . . you can do anything you like with me . . . but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless. . . ."

"—unless I kill myself. Complete your story," Holmes muttered.

"You've gotta admit that's sexier," quipped Jim.

"And I die in disgrace."

"Of course, that's the point of this," Jim mocked. He followed his enemy's gaze over the side. "Oh. You've got an audience now. Off you pop." Ordering "Go on," when Holmes ambled to the parapet. "I told you how this ends," he taunted upon Holmes taking the final step onto the ledge.

"YES!" Moriarty wooted. Good pill, bad pill, the once mighty Sherlock Holmes has fallen! Or, at least, is about to.

"Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."

"No, no, NO!" James Moriarty screamed into the mic piece at his double. "Don't tell him THAT!" He shouldered aside the window's lacy curtain, re-framing the binoculars at St. Bart's roof and the two men on it, pressing the earbud in tight. "Sherlock is BRILLIANT. He'll catch that!"

"Would you give me . . . one moment, please?" The broken Holmes begged. "One moment of privacy . . . please?"

"Of course," Jim-double said, strolling away.

Moriarty went rigid. Sherlock doesn't say please. He's up to something. He let the binoculars fall, dangling about his chest by its strap, fervidly pacing the barren room. He had confiscated the abandoned flat on the upper floor of the Gothic-styled, brick building for its prime location across from the hospital. Serving as a temporary place for business meetings, it also afforded him full aspect to the roof happenings. Plus, it gave him plenty of room to destroy things.

Sherlock is up to some THING. But WHAT? The noise in the earbud stopped him cold, and what he thought was soft sobbing became hearty, baritone chuckling. He dropped his head to his chest. SHERLOCK KNOWS.

What?" Jim demanded, about-facing in agitated panic. "What is it?!"

"What NOTHING—Sherlock has figured it out, DOOFUS!" He sprinted to the window just as Sherlock hopped off the ledge, sauntering toward the stand-in. He could see the knowing smile and smug expression on his pale, arrogant face even without using the field glasses.

"What did I miss?!"

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Oh for evil's sake, get ahold of yourself. We STILL retain the upper hand, remember?" He shoved his fist into his mouth to keep calm. It could all go wrong. It had before. The dying cabbie, the smugglers, the four Gamers. This stand-in was walking a thin, mental tightrope, and always had been. Moriarty bit down hard.

"You're not going to do it?" reiterated Holmes, his superior attitude blatant. "So the killers can be called off then—there's a recall code, or a word, or a number."

He bit down harder. As his Jim-double had earlier circled Holmes—a lion stalking its prey—Sherlock encircled his decoy. HE was now the hunter.

"I don't have to die . . . if I've got you," Holmes' finished in jolly song.

"Oh!" Jim snickered. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Good, good! You're taking charge."

"Yes," assured Holmes, orbiting. "So do you."

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes, but—" Holmes wheeled into his face, "—I'm not my brother, remember?" he glared. "I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

"Don't let him intimidate you."

"Nooo," Jim shook his head, relaxed, unimpressed, refusing to back down. "You talk big. Nooo . . . . You're ordinary. You're ordinary—you're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one SECOND," Holmes snarled, "that I am one of them."

"WTF," Moriarty murmured, shifting on his feet, his irritation and nervousness rising as the silence drew out, the two locked in their fierce staring contest. A chess piece was about to move, but which one?

"Nooo . . . you're not," Jim finally said. He then sprouted an exuberant grin, his face gleaming with maniacal admiration.

The decoy sounded awe-struck! Terror gripped him. "Jimmm, where you going with this?"

"I see . . . ," Jim nodded. "You're not ordinary . . . nooo . . . you're me."

Bloody hell, Moriarty sighed as Jim-double giggled then squealed elated: "You're meee."

"No, he's not, he's SMARTER!"

"Thank you . . ."

"Jimmm, come back to The End Game . . . ," he cajoled with perky friendliness.

". . . Sherlock Holmes." Jim offered Holmes his hand.

Moriarty's mind raced ahead, calculating the new elements into the equation as Sherlock looked at the gesture—baffled, hesitate, suspicious—then at Jim, and complied.

"Jimbo, we have it all outlined. Play the trump card now, OR, BROTHER, SO HELP ME I WILL MAKE YOU THE NEXT MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE!"

"Thank you," Jim nodded with fanatical enthusiasm. "Bless you."

"Bless you?" he gawked.

"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out."

Yes! Back on track.

"Well, good luck with that."

The action blurred in sudden rapid movement, the sharp explosion deafening. Stunned, disorientated, Moriarty stumbled into the room; his head pounding like a sledge hammer had hit it.

"What . . . ?" he gasped, barely hearing his voice through the ringing. He staggered back to the window, falling against its frame for support, raising the binoculars. Across the chasm, only one man stood: Sherlock. And he was whirling in shocked, distraught horror.

"No, NO! All these years of—I groomed you, taught you! Everything I know! And you fall for Sherlock Holmes?! Stupid! Stupid!" He ripped the mic and earbud off, stomping on them despite his thundering brain. "The tranquilizer! You were supposed to take the tranquilizer!"

He stopped dead, dropping his arms to his side, and became like a statue. Fixating on the wall's tiny imperfection, he commanded his brain to switch gears. Dumping all restrictive human defects and resuming apathetic balance, he strategized ten steps ahead of the rest of the world. Seconds later, James Moriarty rolled his head.

"Well, little brother, you were always the cliché noose around my neck." He felt no sympathy, regret, or grief. "Following me everywhere, imitating me, pretending you were me . . . . Too bad your genius factor was polluted, otherwise, we could have controlled it all. I won't miss you, nooo. And consider this your eulogy."

Moriarty returned to window stoically staring at Sherlock, now poised on the ledge, the mobile against his ear. "I told you at the swimming pool, Sherlock, 'I don't like getting my hands dirty'; 'Someone else is holding the rifle'. I trusted you would have learned that by now. 'I'm sooo changeable' . . . ."

He could see Sherlock talking, but had no way to hear him. Peering through the binoculars, his mouth dropped wide. "Could this be true? The renowned, cocky detective is crying? I'm glad I was alive to see that!" he grinned. Holmes kept his gaze trained on the street. "What has you captivated, Sherlock?" He swiveled the lens down, sweeping the area between the two buildings. John Watson stood in the middle of the bricked throughway, transfixed and afraid.

"Well, the good doctor has arrived just in time. Such a loyal puppy. What ever will he do without you? Maybe I should hire him?" Sudden fury and loathing consumed him for all he had lost to Sherlock and Watson. Money: after all, one needed to pay their workers. Time: because of Holmes' interference, he had to redesign plans that had been set up years in advance. Opportunities: when creating new endeavors, he had to specifically include and work around, the SH obstruction. Most important: people. Once Sherlock gained prominence, and his own minions realized Holmes was gunning for him, they deserted him in droves.

"How do you like The End Game now, boys? What was that you said at my trial, Sherlock? 'A spider with a thousand criminal threats and he knows precisely how to pull each and every one of them?' I'm paraphrasing, of course, but that's a moot point except to my 999,999 threads still out there. Now, shall we finish The Game? One final act," he parroted his stand-in from earlier, "so I can bask in your dramatic conclusion."

The grim Sherlock threw away his mobile.

A touch of sadness and regret invaded him. Grief even. His extreme, most eminent adversary would be dead soon due to his inspired design. Life was going to be sooo empty—boring—without Sherlock Holmes. But the biggest tragedy was not having the satisfaction of Sherlock knowing that his number one rival, James Moriarty, had stayed alive.

"'No one ever gets to me,'" he frowned, watching Sherlock Holmes' noble plunge. "'And no one ever will'."

To SHERLOCK'S cast and crew, my upmost thanks, appreciation, and admiration. The Reichenbach Fall is a phenomenally written, directed, and produced episode, the acting on all levels amazing. When I need intelligent, witty character(s) development and plot, I watched the series. When I need push-the-envelope emotional inspiration for my characters, this is the show I go to.

I also want to thank Ariane DeVere (aka Callie Sullivan) for her wonderful transcription of The Reichenbach Fall. It was a valuable resource and made this story so much easier to compose. All Ariane's SHERLOCK transcriptions, as well as the show's commentary transcripts, can be found at her website: arianedevere. livejournal. 36505

DISCLAIMER: I don't own any rights to the SHERLOCK series or any of its material, and that's okay, because it's wonderful to be able to sit back and enjoy the wonderfully, emotional episode.

(I was worried I'd never get this story posted. FFN and I were having an argument and it was winning. After uploading the story, it wouldn't save my changes afterwards and even added a few of its own. Hopefully, I've managed to catch all the stuff I did NOT want to post.)