A/N: Extreme spoilers for the end of "Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows". Continue reading at your own risk.
It was disheartening to Holmes to learn that even the most clever of criminals was still, at heart, a rambling bore, never more content than when they were expounding, ad nausea, the depth and breadth of their master plan for world domination. It made the years stretch out in terrifying number, this instance on being predictable and known.
He focused instead on the chess game at hand. Possible moves, counter moves, and rebuttals splintered off in his mind until they became too numerous and tedious to measure. With careful lack of deliberation, he pushed Moriarty away from the sidelines where he malingered and into the center of the board. The man had clearly spent too long in hiding. His skills had rusted from lack of a proper opponent. Sherlock spent a moment considering what Moriarty might have become with a Mycroft to contend with, a John to applaud him, or an Irene to challenge him. It was not a terrible leap to do the reverse maths and deconstruct his own meteoric rise. Although, Sherlock considered, he would have been a criminal with more style. Moriarty lacked all sense of showmanship, which brought Holmes back to the matter of Moriarty languishing in the shadows.
Sherlock beat back another attempt to slip past his defenses and sniped at Moriarty with his rook. With satisfaction, he heard John's success over the would-be assassin.
The ensuing scuffle signaling the subsequent death of the assassin he also had predicted, but the anticipation of Moriarty's face when he finished with the red cheque book was something to be savored. He had to bite his tongue not to give the game away too soon. Now, he need only wait for John to find him and marvel at his victory.
And wait. The game built to its inevitable, but gratifying conclusion. The man behind the mathematics mask was revealed for the inferior logician that he was, and yet there was no Watson. His friend was late. It took a few moments more to realize that his friend was not coming. The gypsy woman. Of course. Sherlock had failed to account for John's pathological need to comfort and protect the female sex. There must have been tears; they would have required the use of a sturdy cotton handkerchief.
Sherlock wanted to laugh at the absurdity of things, even as another part of his mind calculated the odds of his survival. They were not good. It was as he had feared; Moriarty was vicious enough to require certain demise. His attack on John and Mary, a fairly able and hardy couple, told Holmes as much. What if he had chosen Mycroft, a man with no sense of self-preservation, as the target? No, as much as Sherlock enjoyed the game, Moriarty could no longer be allowed to play. Had Sherlock been in good health, he might have succeeded without any sacrifice necessary. But he was not in good health and John was off being chivalric. Too bad.
With precision aforethought, he moved them both closer to the rail. A careful sweep of the foot and a thrust of the hip and they were on the railing, perched over the falls. It was in that teetering moment that he focused on John's wide blue eyes. "For want of a pen…" came to mind and Sherlock closed his eyes. Mary would take care of him now.
With a rush, they were over the rail and falling and Sherlock relaxed to know there was nothing now that required his attention.