James Moriarty had one fatal flaw. He thought he could beat Sherlock Holmes. He thought he had beaten Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't about who lived or who died. It was about who won. That was the game. So when he put the gun in his mouth, leaving Sherlock with no option but to jump to save his "friends" the last word that ran through his head before the bullet chased it out was Checkmate.
Sherlock was surprised. He really didn't think Moriarty would have had the guts to do that. And he was a little disappointed. Disappointed that James Moriarty had underestimated him so very much. Of course there was no "Magic Code" the computer equivalent of open sesame. How stupid did he think everyone was? But Sherlock was very sure that the gunmen were real. The sniper sites trained on John, and on Mrs Hudson, and on Greg LeStrade. And that had to be stopped for Sherlock to have truly won.
The phone line went dead. John Watson saw the body fall. Sherlock's coat and scarf billowing out like wings. John went bowling into the cyclist in his futile attempt to catch Sherlock as he fell.. Smacking his head on the pavement. Everything in slow motion, like he was underwater. The body, lying on the pavement. Head smashed in, limbs twisted. Blood everywhere. Eyes staring. Lifeless.
"Let me through. I'm a doctor." He sounded pathetic. The body was surrounded by Doctors, nurses. They were at St Bart's for God's sake. The body hauled on to a gurney. Over in a few heartbeats. Game over.
On the roof of the Hospital Sherlock crouched behind the parapet. He knew down below what he had done to John Watson. Okay this time he hadn't locked him in a lab and pretended that there was a giant dog on the loose. But it was the same principal. John had seen what Sherlock had wanted him to see. John believed. Even though Sherlock could hear John screaming "No it's not all right." But it was better for John to be upset for a while than dead forever. Sherlock pulled the phone from the pocket of the coat he was now wearing, found the gun-site icon –how terribly original- and texted the code to call off the assassins. 1895. Moriarty was so egotistically boring some times. And then he waited. No one was interested in the rooftop. There was too much fun going on downstairs.
Molly Hooper. God bless Molly Hooper. She really had meant it when she said she would do anything for him. Even breaking in to the United Kingdom DNA Database. God bless Irene Adler as well really, after all, it had been her idea first. A simple switch of DNA. James Moriarty's for Sherlock's. Just in case. Moriarty really shouldn't have left that half eaten apple in 221b. But then Moriarty shouldn't have started on Sherlock and his friends.
It was Mycroft that they called to identify the body. Next of kin. Of course it had been difficult. With the face smashed in, no teeth left for dental records. Just a slim, pale body with messy dark hair. It could have been his little brother. Then again it could have been anyone. Mycroft asked for them to check the DNA, just to make sure. And when they confirmed it was Sherlock, he hadn't cried. To his eternal shame the overwhelming emotion was one of relief.
And once again Molly had come up trumps. Cause of death was recorded as major head trauma from falling from a hundred feet. She had omitted to mention about the gunshot wound. But then again, everyone saw what they wanted to see. A disgraced genius who had taken his own life. Sherlock Holmes was dead.
And Sherlock knew that whilst he was dead, his friends stayed alive. No one went looking for Moriarty thanks to that lovely little story in the tabloids. No one went looking for Richard Brook either. Everyone assumed that the third rate actor Holmes had hired to play Bond Villain had scurried off back to doing Rep in the provinces.
Sherlock was a little disappointed that Mycroft hadn't chosen a more elaborate stone, but then he'd always been a tight-walleted git. He watched John from the trees. The small figure, head bent over the gravestone, the shoulders slumped. Broken. Sherlock had broken John Watson, more completely than he had been when they had met. And Sherlock felt bad about that. Really bad. He had a strange feeling in his chest, like his skin was too tight and his ribs were squashing his insides. And then he realised what it was. It was his heart. It was burning. Burning with pain and remorse.
"I will burn the heart out of you." Is that what this was? Somewhere in the back of his head he could hear James Moriarty laughing at him. It seemed the game wasn't over yet.