Once
Upon
A
Time
There was
A
Man.
The man stood on a street corner, in the night, leaning against a lamppost. The lamp was lit and the light played off his features, in turn illuminating his face and casting it in shadow. It made him look like an angel. Or maybe a devil.
His suit was exquisite. Westwood. And his shoes – no one could quite tell of what his shoes were made.
If they did tell you, you wouldn't believe them.
But this story isn't about that man.
This story is about another man.
This man was a king.
But he was not a king like you hear of in most fairytales, no, he was not cunning or regal or strong like the bold kings of legend. He was not a hero.
What this king was, was very very foolish.
There was a man on a street corner leaning against a lamppost. He wore a suit. The light from the lamp played off his features, in turn illuminating his face and casting it in shadow. It made him look like an angel. Or maybe a devil.
Greg Lestrade tightened his grip on his gun and reminded himself that this man was neither.
You might have called him brave, if you too, were very foolish. But the King's actions were not caused by bravery, not at all. It is easy to mistake foolishness and stupidity for courage. But it was just as easy to see that this king did not have courage. He was daft and stupid and foolish.
His footsteps were heavy on the pavement, the only sound in the silent street.
The man who leaned against the lamppost turned to look at him as Lestrade moved into his line of sight. The most minute of frowns creased his face. And for the briefest moment, Lestrade saw it.
Surprise.
He had surprised him.
"Expecting someone else?" Lestrade asked. Moriarty's head went to one side in a curiously reptilian fashion. He said nothing. Waited.
"I had his mobile." said Lestrade, holding up the phone that did not belong to him. A message flashed on the screen. "Got your text."
Come play.
Outside Bart's.
I'll be on the corner.
J.M.
But this king thought he was brave, thought he was clever, mistook his own remarkable daftness for something like courage. Thought he could play. He was arrogant, this King, you see. He wanted to make himself great and strong and clever. But really he just sought to make a fool of himself.
His first instinct, as Moriarty took a step toward him, was to shrink back. But he forced himself to stand his ground. He held out the gun.
Moriarty's head went to the other side. His expression was neutral. And then he frowned, again, just slightly. Something like the surprise of earlier flickered in his eyes. "You're not afraid." said Moriarty, a whisper, moving even closer. He circled Lestrade, examining him, pressing his face far too close to the DI's. His shoes clicked on the pavement, far too loud in the silence. Moriarty's hot breath was on Lestrade's neck and it was all he could do not to cringe away. He kept himself still, swallowing hard, his expression neutral. He followed the criminal mastermind with his eyes. Moriarty had completed his circle around Lestrade. He was in front of him again, but this time much closer. "Why aren't you afraid?" he breathed, the black eyes flashing in the light from the streetlamp.
"Because" said Lestrade aloud, his voice loud in the warm evening air. "Because I have nothing left to lose. And Because, Moriarty, because however much you like to pretend otherwise, you are just a man. I didn't come here alone. I have people behind me, and I have a gun, and no matter what you think you are, no matter how brilliant and dangerous that mind, one bullet can end you.
So the king went out, thinking he could make himself important, make himself clever. Because being king wasn't enough. The king wanted to make himself a god. Wanted to play with the big boys. And he thought that he could. Thought that he was brave enough, smart enough, strong enough.
But really he was just a foolish, foolish, man.
He held up the gun.
"You are not a god."
Moriarty's head oscillated once more from side to side. "Why don't you pull that trigger and find out?"
The king tried to play the game of the gods. Because he thought that he could.
But he was wrong.
So he lost.
Lestrade swallowed. His finger tightened on the trigger of the gun.
"You were wrong." said Moriarty.
Lestrade ignored him. He was aiming for a spot on that impeccable suit. The safety went off with a click that echoed in the quiet street.
"You said you had nothing to lose."
"What about it?" demanded Lestrade, a bit too quickly. He shifted nervously from foot to foot.
And the king learned a lesson. The king learned that he was a fool, and the king learned that he was only a king, that he was not, could never hope to be, fit to play with the gods.
Moriarty looks at him with his expression blank and his face is in shadow again and he looks as much the devil as anyone ever could on this earth.
And then he says two words that make Lestrade's blood freeze in his veins.
He says a name.
He says
"Molly Hooper."
And then the king learned what it meant to be afraid. The king learned how very very foolish he had been all along.
Lestrade's heart stops. His legs very nearly give out beneath him. He clutches the gun with both hands.
"How do you – How can you - ?"
His voice is high and desperate and terrified and he hates the sound of it. Moriarty revels in it. He seems to grow bigger under the streetlights, more menacing. He feeds off the fear.
"Because I understand, love, Detective Inspector. Your friend – Sherlock – he does not, perhaps you anticipated me to be equally... oblivious. Let me assure you, I am most certainly not. I recognize love, Greg Lestrade, and love is a weakness. You see that now, don't you? You can shoot me, yes, you can shoot me dead with that little gun of yours -"
And here he presses his face close to Lestrade's so that his warm breath is on the DI's skin and Moriarty fills every of Lestrade's senses at once -
"But what" he breathes "would happen...to her."
Lestrade is frozen to the spot, the gun still held out in front of him with shaking hands, the barrel pressing against Moriarty's suit as the man leans close to him.
"Sweet, unassuming Molly Hooper." he says, his voice loud now, echoing round the deserted street. "I dated her once, you know. Not my type. Too – clingy. "
He wrinkles his nose, as if they're old mates discussing this over a beer. "Not bad in bed, though." Drawling. "Although you wouldn't know about that, would you?"
Lestrade's breathing hard now, holding the gun out, his finger tight on the trigger. Any tighter and the gun would fire.
"Still, like I said, not my type. Very – compliant."
He's testing him, and Lestrade knows it's a test, but a white mist is gathering in front of his vision and he's still going to take this gun and shove it up his -
"So shoot me, if you like." he drawls, interrupting Lestrade's thoughts. "You go ahead. But there will be – shall I say – repercussions."
And that day the foolish king finally understood that he was nothing important at all. He understood that he was not powerful – he was very very weak. And he understood that he was not brave – he was very very foolish...
Lestrade's finger leaves the trigger. The gun drops uselessly to his side.
"A wise choice." says Moriarty. "But you didn't come here to kill me, did you?"
"No." says Lestrade. "I suppose I didn't." He's broken into a cold sweat. The night air makes him shiver.
"Why."
"I suppose -" says Lestrade, " That I came to give you a warning."
"Yes."
"To stay away from Sherlock."
"Yes."
"But -"
"But that didn't work out very well, did it?"
Lestrade swallowed and said nothing.
"I'll be seeing you, Greg Lestrade." says Moriarty.
And he walks away.
And then there's one man left standing in the darkness of the road.
And the king learned a valuable lesson, yes, and that is where this story ends, as all stories do.
But when one story ends another story begins. So THE END is never THE END, not truly.
Sometimes THE END is a beginning.
Sometimes it's just a smaller story inside a bigger one.
But it only ends once, in the place where all stories converge.
Only there can you find THE END.
"What happened?" demands Dimmock, appearing from out of the shadows.
"We're going home." says Lestrade.
"But what -"
"Goodnight, Officer."
And in that place, where all stories end, is a man. Standing in the darkness.
Maybe he leans against a lamppost, and maybe he is an angel and maybe he is a devil, and maybe he is neither of those things. But we cannot know until we get there.
Until the story ends.
Sherlock's at his desk when Lestrade walks in the door.
"Give me my phone back."
Lestrade hands it over without a word.
He's already deleted all traces of the message.
Most stories are just little stories inside a bigger story. But without those little stories, the big story wouldn't be complete. When the end finally came, you would be left with unanswered questions. That's why the little stories are just as important as the big ones.
He stops at the morgue, and watches her work for a bit. She has the night shift. Her back is to the door. When she turns, he's gone.
Remember that all endings are really beginnings.
And all beginnings are also endings.
But the story always goes on.
He drives home in the dark, alone. It starts to rain, and his headlights illuminate the individual droplets ahead of his car. He hits the wipers, and the familiar thwip-thwip sound is reassuring.
He drives past a wall where someone's spray-painted three 20-inch high letters in yellow.
An I, an O, and a U.
But Lestrade doesn't notice. It's raining too hard.
Just remember that it only ends once.
And at the end there is only one man left alive. And he is the winner.
Because when every story ends, he is still standing.
He is the hero.
He is the winner.
He is the end.
There's a man walking home in the rain.
He's wearing a suit. Westwood.
If there were anyone around to see it, they would find it unusual, to wear such a nice suit in the rain.
But no one is around.
The man is alone.