"That's what people do, don't they ? Leave a note. Goodbye, John."
He threw the phone behind him, focused on making the precarious jump and avoid death while looking plausible. There was no time for John would not wait idle. Sherlock gathered his resolve and threw his body weight forward. That's when he heard it. A faint and derisive caught behind him. He twisted his upper body mid-course, just in time to catch the mild, bloodied, infuriatingly dubious smile of the criminal.
"Come on, nobody would fall for that Sherlock."
Moriarty lost sight of the detective as the later fell from the edge of the roof but heard both cursing and a sickening crush from bellow. What an excellent foresight, choosing the roof of a hospital for their little show. Jim could appreciate practicality sometimes… It had an elegance of its own.
...
He did not understand why Sherlock was playing dead. He was not dead of course, just playing dead. Gone from London it seemed. Disappeared from the radar. What about the flowers Jim sent him while he was in intensive care? Exquisite blood red roses with a get-well card. Not even a thank you. How rude.
When no thanks seemed to be coming from the detective (former detective -thank-you-Kitty-), Jim had one of the staffs of the hospital get the medical report for him. -Highly classified- of course but what is classified to a good bribe. It stated : Severe blow to the head. Impact with an edge of the façade during the fall. Fractured skull and internal bleeding. The patient interred intensive care while comatose but died from his injuries under the hour. Body collected. Bullshit.
Mycroft was getting sloppy, he had done better cover ups than that. All of this was frustrating the criminal out of his mind. And when frustration took him, he got restless.
...
The pain was atrocious. Hundreds of dull blades piercing his brain and dancing along to the agonising flash of bright light that aggressed his senses. What the hell… He tried to look at his surroundings but had to give up as a fresh wave of pain threatened to knock him out again. He settled his senses, allowing the pain to dull to an intense but constant buzz at the back of his head. He could almost faintly hear…
"…ths of planning, tens of agents … uttermost secrecy … serably fail the plan."
… Mycroft rambling about something or other. Well that could certainly wait.
"- Are you even listening to me Sherlock?
-I think he drifted to sleep again, sir." The man, a surgeon, looked uneasy before continuing. "He took a nasty blow to the head sir, one that was almost lethal. We limited the damages, but he won't be able to hold his attention focused for a few days. We won't be able to determine the extents of the damages until then."
Mycroft eyes that had been rived on the laying form of his brother snapped up to the surgeon.
"- What are you implying doctor?" The surgeon swallowed nervously.
"-Well sir with that kind of blow all kind of head trauma must be expected. From minor confusion to the reduction of mental capabilities." He stammered: "We won't know fore sure until he wakes up." Mycroft's glare on the surgeon could have melted ion. It definitely melted the poor man's nerve who decided he would onward cultivate tulips for a living.
Mycroft cursed silently : there was no time for an injured Sherlock in the equation.