Something is off. A shirt and coat replace his immaculate, perfectly cut suits; scuffed black loafers instead of pristine Italian leather oxfords; and, most shockingly, a gun. Boss never carries a gun, claimed he didn't like to get his hands dirty. That's my job.
He takes a few steps towards, walking to where I'm perched by the window. I have a clear view of Bart's Hospital and the surrounding street, just as he planned. The corner, upon which John Watson will soon find himself, is perfectly aligned with my rifle. And luckily, I can still see the rooftop of the hospital. I can keep an eye on the Boss, although I am not to interfere with him or Sherlock.
"Don't ruin this, Seb" his smile barely conceals the danger of his words. There's a maniacal glint in his eyes, one that fills me with dread and fear. Both are emotions I hadn't felt in a while. "If Sherlock doesn't meet the pavement, you shoot John Watson in his tracks. And if he does…," the chuckle sounds so strange coming from a psychopath, "Kill him anyway. Or don't, it really doesn't matter to me. With Sherlock gone, he might as well be dead."
I nod, though it's not necessary. I take his silence as a sign that I can speak. "And what's the plan for afterwards?"
Jim's smile grows wider as he feints an inquisitive look. "Well, Seb, that's a very good question. Let's just see how things end up, shall we?" I have no idea what he means (I very rarely do), and before I can ask, he's disappeared.
There's nothing left to do but wait. Minutes slip by like hours, but soon I can make out Jim on the rooftop. A few moments later, Sherlock joins him. They dance around each other; I can tell the Boss is pulling out all the theatrics. Everything about them is a matter of wit, of who can best who. There can only be one winner, and I know who it will be. Sherlock will die, and Boss will win.
Bang.
I blink as an unexpected shot rings out. That was not the plan. I scour the rooftop, looking for that distinctive gelled back hair, but see nothing. I'm holding my breath, fingers clutching onto my rifle for support. And then I see it: a figure comes into view, with curly black hair and a long, dark blue coat. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes has not yet died.
It didn't hit me as fast as I should of. But after a few minutes, when Boss fails to materialize next to him, it sinks in. James Moriarty is gone. All at once, I'm struck with anguish. He lied to me. Lied by omission. Never once did he mention his own death. Not once did he confide in me, the closest thing he had to a friend. He left me in the dark, and that only makes the pain worse.
Pull yourself together, Seb. You still have a job to do.
I pull my eyes from the rooftop and look down, delighted to see John Watson standing in the perfect position. The raw horror on his face tells me to look up again. I do just in time to see Sherlock fall from the rooftop. He floats in the air before dropping like a stone, hitting the ground with a satisfying smack. As he hits the ground, I look back at John. There's no reason to kill him now, but I feel the need for revenge. His… boyfriend, that prick who guys by Sherlock Holmes, effectively killed my Boss. I want John to suffer even more. It takes more than Sherlock's death to make up for Jim's. He deserves to die. Boss would have wanted him to die.
But that's not what I want. I want him to suffer for the rest of his life, like I will. A bullet through his brains might bring instant pain, but a slow, long life without Sherlock? You can't beat that kind of suffering. I know, because I'll be feeling the same.
I take one more look out the window before stepping back and disassembling my set up. Once it's packed, and all the evidence is gone, I pull a small handgun from where it was tucked against my waist. It feels cold and heavy in my hand, sleek metal shining in the faint sunlight. It was the first weapon Boss ever gave me. I've never used it, before now.
I close my eyes, and place the gun gently on my tongue. Calling on all my sniper training, I barely flinch when I finally pull the trigger.