Meet me on the roof of St. Bart's. Immediately.

-SH

John pocketed his phone and hailed a taxi. He had been going out for milk, but if Sherlock needed him immediately, the milk could wait. With everything going on, John was especially sympathetic. He knew all the Moriarty stuff was messing with Sherlock's brain and emotions.

The taxi reached St. Bart's much faster than John thought it would have. He walked quickly through the hospital and ran up flights of stairs. Scanning the roof, he spotted Sherlock's dark form sitting on the edge.

"What was it you—" John stopped. Looked again. Sherlock was not Sherlock. His curly hair was straight and short. In fact, so was he. Barely taller than himself, John thought.

"Oh," said Sherlock-who-wasn't-Sherlock, still looking out toward the city. "Hello, John."

John froze. He knew that voice. "Where's Sherlock?" he growled.

Moriarty turned, his grin scarier than anything John had seen. "I don't know," he crooned. "That's actually why you're here."

"I don't know where he is."

The man giggled. "You really are stupid. How does he live with you?" Holding his laughter, Moriarty looked seriously at the doctor. "You're bait." And his laughter began again. Sick laughter, high and quick, that made John want to take him out.

"Now, John," the man said softly, coming closer, "you can't hurt me. I've got a sniper on Sherlock Holmes. You touch me and he dies." Moriarty laughed as he read the expressions on John's face. "Now. Text him."

"What?" John growled.

"Stupid, stupid," murmured Moriarty, waltzing away from John. Suddenly he zipped back to stare John in the face. "Tell him to come!"

"Why? What will you do?"

"Kill him." He giggled again.

John took a breath. "Then my answer is obvious."

"No surprise there. I'll do it the hard way, then." Moriarty yanked out his phone, and moved his thumbs furiously across the screen. How could he text from John's number? "He'll be here in moments. And then I'll kill him."

The doctor breathed heavily, a sweat beginning to break out on his forehead. "Can I stop it? Any bargains I can make for his life?" John stepped forward menacingly, causing Moriarty to raise his hands in mock surrender.

Moriarty put a finger to his chin, miming thought. "Now that you mention it, there is one thing."

John waited expectantly. When no answer came, he yelled, "What?"

Moriarty's grin returned. "All you've got to do is fly. Down to the pavement there."

John paled. "My life for his?" he squeaked. He cleared his throat and repeated the sentence.

"Precisely," confirmed Moriarty, and began to giggle again. "Of course, since I'm a benevolent god, you can give him your last words. You've got your phone, haven't you?"

John nodded. He stepped toward the edge and looked down. Bad choice. "I can't. Sherlock will stop you. He will."

"Snipers," he replied almost apologetically, as if there was nothing he could do.

John stepped up onto the raised platform on the edge. He dialed Sherlock's number. A cab stopped on the side of the street. A dark-haired man emerged on the sidewalk. He almost crossed the road, but stopped when his phone buzzed. He took out the phone and put it to his ear, waiting for cars to cease passing so he could cross.

"Sherlock?" asked John, his voice quivering.

"What did you need me for?" Sherlock's baritone answered.

"Stop right there. Do not cross the street. If you don't listen to me, I'll have your head."

Sherlock took a step back subconsciously. "What did you want me for?" he repeated.

"Look at the roof of the hospital."

John thought he could see Sherlock's eyes widen. "What the hell are you doing up there?" He stepped toward the edge of the sidewalk.

"Sherlock!" John hissed. "Don't."

Sherlock knew the tone in his voice. It wasn't the first time he'd made John mad, and the last time... well, he still had bruises from that time. "Why are you up there? What did I do? Is it the head? It's the head in the fridge, isn't it?"

"God, no, it's not you. Damn it, you didn't do anything. It's not—" John's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "It's not your fault."

"Why, then?" Sherlock demanded.

"That's not important. Just listen. You said you liked being alone. Alone protects you. Well, here is a friend. Protecting you."

"John Watson, if you are doing this for my sake, I swear—" He walked toward the street again.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you take another step, I will strangle you with your scarf!" John ignored Moriarty's muffled laughter behind him.

"John, please don't." John could barely notice Sherlock's eyes were gleaming a bit more than normal. This made John's tears come more freely.

"Sherlock, I don't care if you're real or a fake or whatever. I believe in you, and no matter what they say, I will always believe in you. You're the best friend I've ever had, the most human... human I've ever known. And... don't beat yourself up about this. It's my choice, and..."

"John..." John could hear his friend's throat close. "Please."

"Sherlock, I—" He stopped. He threw the phone behind him and put his arms out. Shutting his eyes tight, he leaned forward.

And flew.

Sherlock ran forward. He watched, the events unfolding before him in slow-motion. John's arms flailed and his eyes were closed tightly.

Soon after, Sherlock could hear a thud. Suddenly his mind swam, and his emotions took over. Rarely did this happen to the detective. His heart pounded in his ears as he fell to his knees before John.

Blood ran from a wound in his head. Sherlock leaned over his friend to check a pulse. Nothing. He yelled, but he couldn't hear himself. His world was surreal, colors swirling in toward the center of his vision.

A crowd of people moved around the two as Sherlock cradled his best—no, his only—friend in his arms.

"Get help," he sobbed. "Help."

After what seemed like only seconds, paramedics wrested John from his arms.

"What will happen to him?" Sherlock asked no one in particular, his voice echoing in his ears.

"He'll be fine," said a woman, grabbing the gurney. "We'll save him."

This was a lie. Sherlock knew this was a lie. He looked up at the spot from which John had fallen to see a grinning face he knew.

Sherlock went to the funeral, but his mind had blurred like it had when John fell. Mycroft had gone. So had Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He was pretty sure Sally had gone; he hadn't paid attention. She thought John was stupid as hell for sticking around Sherlock, but she liked him. Harry was there. She avoided Sherlock.

He rejected any physical contact except that from his brother. All Mycroft did was place a firm hand on his shoulder before leaving the cemetery. Sherlock didn't leave. He knelt before the shiny black gravestone and waited. For what? He wasn't sure. But he waited.

"Nice day, isn't it?"

"You killed him," Sherlock stated without turning.

Moriarty grinned. "Nope. I talked to him, and he killed himself."

He stiffened at the reference. "Why not me? You said you'd owed me a fall. Me. Why—" Sherlock's voice cracked.

Moriarty shrugged as if being asked a casual question. "I had intended to give you the fall. Master plan and all. But then I thought of your little pet. I thought that just by killing one man, I could bring you to your knees." He waited for a response. Receiving none, he continued. "I knew I could make you fall before me and beg me to kill you just so you could see him. Two birds with one stone, hm?" Moriarty chuckled darkly. "I've brought my gun. Ready to beg?"

Sherlock did not respond.

"Sentiment. A chemical defect found in the losing side. And here it is. Sentiment for your little stupid doctor."

"Don't ever call him stupid," Sherlock said softly, his tone level. His face, however, had he been facing Moriarty, would have told him everything.

"Or I could give the gun to you. Suicide might be a better course of action. Take your own life to see your doctor instead of giving me the satisfaction. Both are fine."

Sherlock took a shuddery breath and held out his hand expectantly.

Moriarty put the gun in his hand.