Everybody has a game. Everybody has their own agenda. Everybody has winners, losers, cheaters and liars. Everybody has their own set of rules and pitfalls.
In the end, it's truly a win if no one gets hurt, and people very seldom win.
This is what comes to John Watson's mind as he looks, open-mouthed, disbelieving, at the roof of St. Bart's Memorial.
So what makes them so special?
It's in the way that John is a bit like a Jack-in-the-box: boring at first, but lively, engaging, even frightening (he has bad days) when you wind him up.
Sherlock has always been a fan of those, in his own subdued and analytical way; has always found their temperament fascinating. So simple, yet so…
As if for the first time, Sherlock Holmes is lost for words.
"You do know that you're playing with a children's toy?"
"Science, John. It comes in all forms, you know."
It's also in the way that Sherlock is a bit like a well played game of Jenga.
He's tall and wobbly and puzzling, made of a bunch of little pieces, each more vital than the last, and sometimes John has to stare for a good while just to figure out his next move.
Even if his next move happens to be to do nothing.
"This is my note, I guess. People leave notes, don't they?"
"What?"
Sometimes they're games within games, living pawns in a grand intricate scheme created by…
Whom?
The Player. The Joker. The King of Hearts.
Some people call him Jim.
"No one could be that clever," Sherlock says.
"You could," is the well-timed response.
Jim is long gone and still controlling them. A man called Sebastian is the King of Spades.
Cheater.
It's in the way that John is always there to pick up Sherlock's pieces when he falls; when a three-patch problem turns into a near relapse, when an unsolved case turns into something else "bit not good". John is always there, a dogged determination shadowing his every move as he works to reassemble his friend.
"Goodbye, John."
It's always been said that Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a heart. Correction: Sherlock Holmes does indeed have a heart, it is simply difficult to locate, as it is hidden within the confines of a stubborn jack-in-the-box.
Or maybe, in that moment, Sherlock is more of the story of humpty-dumpty.
"Not everything can be related back to a children's story."
"I'd like to see you prove me wrong."
Smack.
John hears what he doesn't see, and what he hears can easily suffice for all of the badly drawn pictures in the world.
But where is a man when he loses his favorite game?
The pieces of Sherlock are jagged and bloody and the raggedy detective, what does he do, does he accept defeat? No, says his heart with a tenacious sense of fear, but yes, says everything else.
The more pieces you add to him, the taller he gets, the harder he becomes to sustain.
"You can never convince me that you told a lie."
And now his friend is scattered all over the pavement, loose shards of Sherlock scurrying all over London, bits of him seeping between the cobblestone and underneath John's protective exterior.
But John is not a quitter. John cannot give up and John cannot lose.
"Please just stop this. Please, don't be…" A small choke, and then,
John cannot lose because Sherlock cannot be
"Dead."
And he's damn well willing to prove it.