A bouncing ball.
A tapped-out Partita.
A signed text to a supervillain.
Sherlock often had a penchant for the dramatic, but Moriarty's own affinity for it allowed him to slip so seamlessly into the title. He begged for the recognition.
"Alone is what I have, Alone protects me."
Alone was what he was, for his entire life- these past eighteen months have been a dream, a gift he did nothing to deserve, nothing more. Alone as a child, setting up chemistry sets in the attic of a house too big for two children. Alone at university, the last place where he'd allowed himself to try and make friends and fail miserably. Alone was what he had been before a discharged army doctor met up with an old friend on accident.
And Alone was what he will be- he had worked on this plan for months, longer than anyone would have been able to guess, and reveled in the idea that it was going to work so well. So many facets of the situation brought together, so many ways for it to go wrong addressed and made into secondary, tertiary plans. So many huge parts left until the very end for him to figure out with a tiny ohh...
He felt like he should be overjoyed. This was the best game he'd ever played, the strongest player he'd ever played against, and he knew that he'd never get a chance like this again. He should be riding the high of a lifetime.
And after he'd beaten Moriarty, he'd have three to seven years to play his own game, traveling the world to unravel his web. Three to seven years in which boredom will be the faintest notion. Three years if his act was convincing enough to get Jim to kill himself on the roof- closer to seven if he had to find another way, another time to kill the man. Seven years was a long time away from home. The idea should excite him.
Alone had always been what he had. It had always protected him. It had always made it easier for him to keep other people- ordinary people, messy and stupid, stumbling from day to day with no single clue as to which way was up and which was down- out of the picture. When all he had to worry about was himself, he had less variables to clutter his head with. He should have done well to remember that.
"Nope. Friends protect people."
And he had been right. It didn't hurt to hear John say it because he was agreeing with Sherlock- even if he wasn't yet aware of it. It didn't hurt to hear him say it.
Sherlock allowed himself three seconds to close his eyes and take a singlular inhale as the door closed behind John, a three-second moment that was intercepted roughly forty percent of the way through by the soft beep of his phone.
I'm waiting...
JM
He'd always tucked his scarf underneath his coat when he draped it over a chair or left it on a counter, but it was necessary to snake the deep blue fabric around his neck first- he should have decided on a more efficient way to place his things, considering the staggering amount of times he's had to jump up on less than a moment's notice and leave. He should have figured out a way to put his scarf and jacket on at the same time while he was running out the door. He could even have figured out a way to make it look graceful.
The last wishes of a man standing at the steps of the gallows.
He took the stairs instead of the elevator- less chance he would come into contact with someone, he was technically still a fugitive- and felt the roughness of the handrail as he grasped it loosely, taking his time up each flight of stairs. It would give him more time-
More time to think through the plan once more.
Check for any holes.
Scheduling was running a little early, he would have to account for that.
Why did Molly have to catch John's attention so early? And with something so dire? He'd thought he'd told her a time six minutes after the one that John had stormed out of the hospital in search of a fictional emergency. It would have to do, though. He would have to readjust his plan by six minutes.
He was pretty sure he could do that.
He just wished he had a little more time.
He wasn't scared.
He had planned this for months.
He longed for the look of defeat on Moriarty's face, but he knew that wasn't in the plan- play against him, he knew. Bore him to death, he knew- Literally. It was the only way.
The only way to beat this game was to make the other player know they'd won.
It was boring.
It was cheating.
There was just too much at stake to play by the rules anymore.
He didn't take a moment to himself before he opened the door to the top of the roof- that would be fear, that would be regret, that would be weakness- but he stopped in the doorway as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the light, the familiar sound of Jim's ringtone from the edge of the roof.
"All my life, I've been searching for distractions."
He knew how that felt- he knew the static feeling of hopping from one case to another, the lows between each high, the knowledge that even the highest high, the greatest game, at some point has to end. It gives him no sympathy for Moriarty, the man who has played his life like a game of checkers. It does, however, give him a loose feeling of kinship.
"You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."
That's right, Sherlock. Look surprised. Play into his hand. This is the hard part- he's had to play a lot of things in his career, but wrong was never one of them. [i]Out of his wits[/i] is not a mode that Sherlock can run on.
But he'll learn. In a split second he'll decide on just the right muscles to pull in his face to give him a look that spells confusion.
It's not a good look for him. It doesn't sit right on his shoulders.
It's painful to talk about the key code without bountiful amounts of sarcasm, but he'll play.
"… I can kill Rich Brook and I can bring back Jim Moriarty."
That seemed to catch his attention. Good, good, Jim. Take the bait. Take a look at how easy the game was. How useless.
The fake code.
The simple break-ins.
"Sherlock, Sherlock… You're making it too easy. You were supposed to be fun! You were supposed to distract me."
His eyes jumped up for a quick second, somewhere on the skyline before the settled back on Sherlock. Before he could follow, Moriarty continued.
"No, I'm not done playing with you yet, I don't think. Now shall we continue with the game? Glad you picked a tall building, nice way to do it,"
Ah, yes.
"My suicide."
He stepped closer to the edge of the roof, just as Moriarty stepped back- looked over the edge. Everything was in place- the bus, the people; Sherlock could even see the cyclist in the distance, waiting for John. The only thing they were waiting on now was his big jump.
Any fear in his eyes was purely for effect.
The trick had been set up- he just needed to perform it. He had twelve minutes- no, six minutes. Six minutes. Six minutes to try and kill Moriarty with his own hand or consign himself to seven years of the most interesting game he's ever played.
Alone.
Jim Moriarty looked disappointed.
"Tsk, now. Not everything is about you, Sherlock. I know you're not quite used to hearing that, but it's true…"
Jim took three more steps backward, Sherlock turning away from the edge to follow him.
A phone rang.
His phone.
The ringtone was unfamiliar to him- hardly anyone called him, as they became fast aware that he wouldn't respond unless texted- but it buzzed in his coat pocket, insistent.
Carefully, he pulled the phone out of his pocket, glanced at the screen.
John Watson
Calling…
He wasn't supposed to call. He wasn't supposed to take any time out of getting here as fast as he could, paying close attention to the taxi driver lest he take a detour to up the fare.
And yet.
"Go on, Sherlock, Answer."
Sherlock's gaze snapped back up to Moriarty, who was leaning against the brick wall behind him now, smiling.
"Take the call. It's only fair- I owe you one."
Sherlock pressed his thumb to the touch screen, then the phone to his ear.
"Hello."
"… Sherlock-"
"John, are- "
"Turn around, Sherlock."
Slowly, he pivoted on his heels. His eyes searched for a speck of John on the sidewalk, on the asphalt, by the parked cars- nothing.
"Look up. I'm on the rooftop."
To his left, two stories higher- Sherlock allowed himself a single exhale, emptying his lungs as he caught up with the scenario he hadn't have even thought of.
"John."
Sherlock stepped up on to the ledge of his own rooftop, half of his brain trained on John, the other whirring up secondary plans, tertiary plans- none of them applied anymore. He had been so certain.
"This wasn't how it was supposed to happen."
From the other side of the road, through the phone, John gave a soft laugh.
"When does it ever go the way it's supposed to?"
"John, stay where you are, whatever you do, just don't-"
He stopped. He had three plans as of right now, but all of them required taking his eyes off of John, which wasn't something he was willing to do.
The voice on the other line was hard and determined as ever, sure as if he was the one holding the gun to the back of the man about to jump to his death for a friend.
"Sherlock."
"-Don't do what they you do to, just- just wait there, I'll think of something-"
"Sherlock, listen to me-."
"-I've got about four plans right now that could possibly work depending on the make of the gun behind your back and the history of the man holding it, I'm too far away, I can't see much more than the obvious military training-"
"Sherlock."
Sherlock stopped, mouth slightly open but silent. There was a soft insistence in John's voice, both comforting and authoritative.
"It's going to be okay."
He heard a deeper man's voice in the background- counting down from three.
"Listen- I- I have to go-"
"-John-"
"-It's going to be okay. Okay?"
"-John, don't-"
"Goodbye, Sherlock."
"John-"
The line was dead, he didn't know why he was still talking into the speaker-
"John, no-"
His hand dropped from his ear slowly, an arm reaching out almost instinctively as the shorter man stepped up onto the ledge of the building across from him-
"JOHN!"
The people on the street stopped, looked up to him in alarm- some were people he'd hired, others, visitors of the hospital that bustled beneath his feet-
John had an arm out as well, his left arm, but with his palm raised; stay right where you are-
And he jumped.
There was a ringing in Sherlock's ears as he watched the body tilt off the edge of the building, allowing gravity to pull it with a regular force of 9.807 metres per second squared to crash right down to the-
His eyes shut themselves, and it took all of his willpower to keep from turning away visibly to Moriarty.
He took a breath. In three seconds, he'd open his eyes.
Two seconds, and he'd flood his mind with data and information on what his next step should be.
One second, and he'd force himself to-
Two seconds more, and then maybe he'd start thinking about what to do next.
He pulled his eyes open, stepped off of the ledge- people were pointing up at him, maybe expecting him to jump, too. Moriarty was long gone from the rooftop- off to exact the next stage of the plan.
Sherlock could hear sirens in the distance. The road below was bustling with people around-
Around-
He took two steps back. The scene was just in veiw from over the edge, barely visible from behind a car- he could see one leg. A right leg and- and blood.
The sirens were getting closer, two police cars speeding down Hosier Lane. He became vaguely aware that they were probably for him, either because someone on the street had recognised him or that they thought he was another jumper. He was gripping his phone with enough force to turn his knuckles marble white. There was a ball tied to the inside of his right arm to make his pulse stop and it was making him uncomfortable. Every time he exhaled, he could hear his heartbeat.
Somewhere in the depths of the Hospital below him, Molly Hooper was running through the hallways, trying to find John Watson so she could tell him there had been an accident, he needed to get to Baker Street as fast as he could.
At the foot of St. Bart's, four policemen got out of their cars, yelling at Sherlock to step farther away from the edge. Another car pulled up and two more policemen entered the Hospital, coming to collect Sherlock Holmes, the fake genius, the culprit to all of the crimes.
And on the opposite sidewalk, the body of Dr. John H. Watson was being hoisted onto a geurney.