Dawn was breaking. Hours passed since Sherlock Holmes texted James Moriarty, but there was no reply from him. The consulting criminal was taking more time than the sleuth had expected. There was something more. John had fallen asleep after three o'clock. Sherlock could hear light snoring. Being a fugitive had taken its toll, exhausting his blogger. The detective spent a couple of hours pondering over what Moriarty was up to.
I owe you a fall.
Sherlock realized its meaning after he saw "Richard Brook" at the Riley's flat. He could draw a basic plot of Moriarty; the master criminal was cleverer beyond his expectation. A scandalous fall, distrust from the public, and his "suicide" in disgrace. ..A dead body always had to be listened to, but not a suicide. How clever Moriarty was!
Since the cabbie choked out the name, Moriarty, the Holmes brothers had worked together to find out more about the consulting criminal. According to Irene Addler, Moriarty's obsession to the brothers had started long ago. Mycroft had locked away Moriarty in person and interrogated him for weeks to no avail. What was obvious was that the criminal was so eager to catch attention from the Holmes yet he had revealed so little. It was an unexpected move that Moriarty exposed his existence to public after breaking into the Tower of London. He wasn't a mysterious whisper anymore. Sherlock knew the final moment for a closure was approaching fast, but didn't know the details of Moriarty's plan until he met Richard Brook a few hours earlier.
The sleuth did pull whatever he could, visiting Molly, contacting Mycroft, and arranging his homeless network. The key was "where" he would meet Moriarty. He had secretly sent a text ambiguous enough to mislead Moriarty. The alleged magical keycode was the bait. The ball was in Moriarty's court. If only the criminal would accept his proposal to meet at Bart's rooftop… Then everything would be fine.
John groaned, changed his position, and fell asleep again, which made the detective turn his attention to his friend. His only friend, John Watson, who had saved his life with an excellent marksmanship. Sentiment was what Sherlock usually despised yet he couldn't help but to stare at the doctor, remembering everything about their adventure. Since the pink lady case, they had done everything together and John was more than what the detective could wish for as a flatmate.
What had made this ex-soldier so special to him? Up to now, Sherlock had restrained himself from being attached to something or someone with little difficulties. Almost everybody had detested him. "Alone" didn't bother the sleuth; it helped him to focus on matters of importance. Sentiment was something he believed he despised. And his belief started to shatter when he came across John Watson. The doctor missed the war and battlefield, which Sherlock could provide with. However, it wasn't only the adrenaline that the doctor craved for. And the detective knew it.
John's mobile rang, waking its owner up. Who could it be? Moriarty's man? Still groggy, the doctor answered the phone. He got to his feet in alarm, with all the sleepiness forgotten. Mrs. Hudson being shot? Someone wanted John to be away from him briefly, half an hour on tops(two way from Bart's to their flat). Moriarty would want to meet him without a sidesick. When Sherlock said Mrs. Hudson was no more than his landlady, John's face turned into the rare-but-not-new one of disappointment and anger.
"Sod this! You machine!"
It might have been overkill: Sherlock should not have said, "Alone protects me." John stomped out. For a very brief moment, Sherlock was so tempted to run after his friend. It took a lot of efforts not to. He repeated to himself: it would be fine because he would be able to explain and make up later. Up to that moment, Sherlock believed that he could outwit Moriarty, and his life would return to the previous low-key one soon enough. Almost instantly Sherlock's mobile alerted the incoming text from Moriarty. The criminal took the bait: he was waiting on the rooftop. It was the time for a closure. The detective picked up his jacket and left the room.
"Your three friends will die if you don't."
It was Moriarty's checkmate. Sherlock stared into the madman's eyes. A mixture of elation and disappointment... The detective didn't expect this: three snipers and three friends. It was odd that his brother was not in the list. However, he soon realized that Mycroft's heart would be burnt with his fall. Catching two birds with a stone. An elegant move for the consulting criminal... Moriarty stepped away, looking disappointed at his request for privacy. Too mundane and ordinary…Then it hit the detective. There was still a way out for him. He might not have to jump.
The relief was too short. He still remembered the last handshake with Moriarty. That maniac just took his own life. The ground swirled. The sun hid behind dark clouds. The smell of gunpowder still lingered. He stared at the pool of blood from Moriarty's head. The blood started to thicken. The lifeless face was sneering. Moriarty's final checkmate was his own death. Did the consulting criminal want the closure so badly? Sherlock had no choice. He had to step off the edge. Somewhere on the ground was a sniper ready to watch the detective's fall.
Sherlock's breathing became shallow and ragged. It wasn't jumping that made him afraid. Death was equally unavoidable to all people. He had always assumed that he would die at a young age given his career, but not a suicide forced upon him by a criminal. In addition, he had a plan to save his life: his homeless network, Molly and Mycroft were coordinating to save his life at this moment.
Sherlock's distress came from the realization that his life as a private detective of the Baker Street had ended with Moriarty's demise. He wouldn't be able to see John or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade for a long time. His "friends" would have to believe in his death as long as the three snipers were set on the loose. There might be more out there. Moriarty's web might be more gigantic and resilient.
His head worked fervently: would it possible for John to be in the game? No, John Watson had to believe his death. Everybody else would have their eyes on the doctor for the time being. He glanced at his watch; John would be here any moment. He felt pain…a totally new disconcerting experience. His friend, John Watson… His blogger and doctor... John had to witness his fall because the mysterious sniper had to be close to Bart's, in a place that he or she could watch both the doctor and the detective.
It was a cruel thing to do: Sherlock wouldn't dare to do so if his blogger had been of weak mind. He believed in John Watson's resilience. Throwing a last glance at the Moriarty's lifeless body, the detective took a deep breath and stepped onto the ledge of the roof. His eyes searched the ground for a glimpse of his friend. There he was, hurrying out of a cab. Sherlock punched John's number.