It was perfect. Of course it was. It had been from the moment that Sherlock had met him at the pool, gun in hand, feeling oh so clever. Sherlock had danced, oh how he'd danced for him. He'd played all his games to the letter, never failing to perform, never giving it anything but his very best and then at the final moment he had done exactly what Jim had hoped for.
Jim had relished the brief flash of uncertainty on Sherlock's face as John entered the pool, his split-second doubt whether the enemy had been living under his roof all along. He'd revelled in Sherlock's confusion when he revealed himself – oh yes, he'd been there from the very beginning, only a phone call away, and Sherlock had been blind to it, too busy dancing. And Sherlock, dear Sherlock, couldn't conceal his admiration. It was perfect.
The stalemate was a thing of beauty to Jim. It held promises; a promise of future games from Sherlock, a promise of a fall from Jim; the promise of uncertain outcomes. That the Woman had called at that moment he didn't mind at all. It only served to extend the game.
That she herself were to become such an integral part of the game had not, initially, been part of his plan. But oh, how he had underestimated Sherlock's capacity to become infatuated with this gorgeous creature. The dance had changed then, altered its pitch, developed a certain piquancy that had not been there before.
It worried Jim only momentarily. Adler, of course, was dispensable. Once she had been wing-clipped she would no longer hold Sherlock's interest; he was sure of that. And in the unlikely event that she won her game she herself would have ensured that her and Sherlock's paths never crossed again, lest he bring her down after the fact. No, the Woman was not a negative factor in his scheme at all. He thoroughly enjoyed watching Sherlock make a fool of himself on her account.
Fools. Ah yes, fools. And what greater fool that the Ice Man, the pompous older brother, the British Government. Mycroft Holmes, so very concerned with the non-existent risk to state security that Jim pretended to represent that he was willing to give him everything he'd ever needed to bring Sherlock down. No sordid detail was left uncovered; only during his incarceration did Jim get to fully understand the disdain in which the two brothers held each other. Mycroft Holmes was far too eager to relinquish the family secrets. He was the perfect pawn, perfect, and never realised the flow of the interrogations was reversed until it was much, so much too late.
He'd enjoyed that part, the playing insane. He hadn't found it very difficult either, not hard at all. It surprised him a little when Mycroft let him go like that; his carefully crafted plan for a breakout remained unexecuted, shelved for another occasion as the opening of his cell door gave him final confirmation of the man's arrogance. He had grinned then, bowed to the bleak walls of the anonymous building as he left the gates, and skipped off, leaving Mycroft wondering.
Putting the camera in the bookcase had seemed a good idea at the time. He'd been a fly on the wall then, able to observe life at Baker Street. And you know, the mundanity of it nearly drove him to tears. They watched telly together, for goodness sake. John didn't just make Sherlock tea, Sherlock actually returned the favour. They played board games. In the end the soppy sentimentality of it all became too much. In a fit of jealousy he'd thrown the laptop he was using against the wall and had not returned to the footage. It had taken a few days to calm down, to refocus. In the end it only improved his edge.
What remained was simple and only required the most basic of Jim's skills to execute – blackmail, coercion, extortion, bribery. It only took a few carefully selected individuals at the Tower, the Bank and the Prison. In fact he was surprised at the eagerness of some of them. And oh, how the press loved him. It was beautiful, it was perfect. The jury, so easily coerced; the papers, whipped up into a froth. But nothing, nothing was as perfect as Sherlock's performance in the court room. He was magnificent in his arrogance, the perfect endorsement of Jim's persona, the final validation, there for all to see. Meanwhile, John Watson hovered in the background as a special bonus, his feet firmly on the ground, knowing, understanding that something was very wrong indeed but without the mental agility to grasp its meaning.
It was perfect. Jim had had to blink away a tear or two that day.
Afterwards, tea at Baker Street had been exquisite. Sherlock was on his analytical best, missing nothing, not a single hint or gesture. So elegant, and so wrong, still so clueless about where this was going. Jim had loved it, loved him. And Sherlock had danced.
And now the game was on again. The kidnapping had been easy to arrange and he had been absolutely sure – and right, of course – that it wouldn't take Sherlock very long to find the children. He'd enjoyed doing his story-telling routine with those two; so impressionable, so easily scared into believing in the bogeyman in the long coat who would come and get them. He hoped they'd put on a good show. From Sally Donovan's reaction it appeared they had delivered everything and more. But more than anything Sherlock's face at the window, watching his IOU briefly flash up in the opposite building, still only barely grasping what was to come, was worth a fortune.
He took particular delight in Lestrade's ordeal, the loyal dog sent to fetch his master for punishment. It was, again, perfect.
Kitty Riley had been a stroke of good luck. Embittered by only a single meeting with Sherlock she had provided him with the perfect canvas for the next stage of his plan. She didn't need much convincing, either. Too keen, too desperate for a good story she had accepted Richard Brook at face value and had played her part better than he could ever have hoped. Dear Sherlock, leaving a trail of bruised egos wherever he went, ready for the taking. Perfection.
It was a rare delight to see Sherlock losing it. Firstly in the taxi, at the moment when it dawned on him just what was on the cards, and next, spectacularly next, at Kitty's place. It was magnificent. With his military training John Watson was boringly, predictably restrained. But Sherlock flew. And Jim, Jim loved him for it even as he jumped out of the window and escaped.
And now here they were. As Jim surveyed London from the rooftop of Bart's hospital he contemplated his plan, all the parts in place, the pawns moving towards their individual destinies, his defences safe. He felt the reassuring weight of the gun in the pocket of his jacket, although he had only brought it as a last resort. Sherlock would think it an inelegant solution and Jim had no intention to disappoint. Besides, he owed Sherlock a fall, and Sherlock's fortunate choice of location was far too tempting to pass by. A fall it would be. He sent the text. "I am waiting. JM."
Staying alive was still blaring from his phone when Sherlock stepped onto the rooftop. He ranted then, a brief Jim-rant, about the tedium of it all, the incessancy of it, staying alive. The ordinariness of Sherlock. And Sherlock, dear Sherlock, was so shaken. He tried to hide it well, Jim thought, but the signs were all there; his emotions too close to the surface, his reactions erratic, even his thoughts were out, slow, random, mundane. Jim found it hard to believe that Sherlock had really fallen for the computer code ruse. The shout of "doofus" was heartfelt; he had expected more. In the end, Sherlock was too easy to break.
An end to it, then, even though Jim couldn't see what he was going to do next, with Sherlock gone. It had its own type of perfection though, ordering Sherlock to jump, seeing the desperation in the other man's eyes. Too easy, still perfect. He was more than happy to give Sherlock his sentimental moment of privacy. It gave him time to find a better place from which to watch the action.
And then everything changed. It was magical, magical, the way Sherlock turned the whole thing on its head. And of course, at first he was convinced that Sherlock was bluffing. Sherlock was ordinary, boring. He'd just proved it to him with his stumbling words, his stupid questions, his naïve acceptance of Jim's web of lies. How could he dream to make Jim talk, achieve in a few moments what Mycroft Holmes had failed to do in weeks? "Nah, you talk big. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels." Even at that moment he could not believe it.
But then there was Sherlock's response, calm, icy, confident. So surprisingly confident. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."
It made Jim look, it made him really take notice of Sherlock for the first time since he stepped onto the rooftop. And then it dawned on him. He'd mistaken it for nerves, for defeat, the pallor of Sherlock's face, the uncertainty of his speech and actions. Now he noticed the pinprick pupils, suddenly saw the lens of the buttonhole camera, his camera, in Sherlock's coat.
Oh, it was perfect. It was perfect even though it was all the wrong way round. Sherlock was ahead, so far ahead that Jim could never catch him. He really did have all avenues covered; he was already halfway there with faking his own death, the drug in his system would make it easy. He'd beautifully orchestrated Jim's confession with his bumbling theories, and there would no doubt be an audio recording device, probably his phone, to go with the visual. And he was not bluffing when he said he was prepared to burn to extract the code to call off the snipers from Jim. That was what he would do first. The rest was merely an insurance policy. It sent a delicious shiver down Jim's spine. Beaten. Finally.
Jim smiled. It was perfect. All that remained was for Sherlock to carry out his part of the plan, choose from his two options, and Jim could look forward to life behind bars as his empire crumbled around him. Oh, he'd looked good in a crown. But it had been nothing compared to this. To finally taste defeat, this total and utter, failsafe defeat felt as good as any drug he'd ever taken.
For a moment Jim hesitated, briefly considering letting Sherlock have his way, to let him torture the information out of him, to see if Sherlock could physically and mentally break him, weather he would talk or die first. It was tempting, certainly. But he owed Sherlock a fall, and a fall it would be. Besides, it would be a waste of all Sherlock's preparations, wouldn't it, his precious homeless network all in place, his carefully arranged landing.
He shook Sherlock's hand, just to confirm it to himself. Barely a heartbeat, and what there was was shallow and uneven. Yes, it was perfect. Oh, how he had underestimated this man, so much like himself, but good, and not just by-the-rulebook good like his brother, but devastatingly, prepared-to-do-anything, prepared to burn, good. He thanked Sherlock then, blessed him even, for his perfect defeat. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out. Well, good luck with that."
Oh, he was quick, Sherlock Holmes. Jim savoured it, that final moment as he put the gun in his mouth, the horror on Sherlock's face. Not the horror of someone who's never seen a gun, or death. But the horror of someone who sees his worst nightmare confirmed: the immediate realisation in Sherlock's eyes that with Jim dead he'd have no choice but to jump after all. Then, in a state of pure bliss and intense satisfaction, Jim Moriarty pulled the trigger.