To say that they had underestimated Moriarty was a masterpiece of understatement. It had taken the man less than 24 hours to execute a plan that was elegant in its simplicity, and seemingly irreversible. Mycroft's countermeasures, carefully worked out to cover every eventuality, looked like the clumsy fumblings of an amateur by comparison. Moriarty had identified every trap they'd set for him and turned each one against them. Events were coming together with what looked to be unstoppable momentum.

Destroying his reputation was a fait accompli. In the morning, the article that Rich Brook had given to the reporter would be published. The truths Mycroft had provided to Moriarty as bait would prove the lie. The final blow had come when Moriarty walked into the reporter's flat as Rich Brook, and Sherlock saw doubt in John's eyes for the first time.

"There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that's to-" Images flash and overlap in his mind, and he sees it all as if it's already happened. In a way, it has.

Moriarty had promised this ending the first time they met.

"Sherlock?"

"There's something I need to do."

"What? Can I help?"

"No, on my own." He leaves John standing in front of the reporter's flat with Moriarty's 'proof' in his hands.

Nowhere in Mycroft's elaborate scheme had the name Molly Hooper come up. It's ironic that she may now be his only hope of surviving the next 24 hours.

Molly comes through the darkened outer lab on her way home. He sees her from the corner of his eye, and waits until she has her hand on the doorknob. "You were wrong, you know."

She gasps and spins toward the sound.

"You do count. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you." He turns and begins to walk toward her. "But you were right. I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

"What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

Tears begin to fill her eyes. "What do you need?"

He stops directly in front of her. Close enough to touch. "You."

Even in the low light, he recognizes the look that flashes briefly in her eyes. He seems to inspire this same expression whenever he talks to her, and it's mildly frustrating that he's never been able to categorize it, not even to identify it as pleasure or distress. A hybrid, perhaps, but he has no idea why it's there at all.

"What do you need me to do?"

"I need a body that I hope you have in your morgue."

"What body? I don't understand."

"The body would have many physical features in common with me, and should have been brought in within the past 24 hours."

Her eyes widen. "A man was brought in just this morning. Drugs overdose. When I saw him, I..." He can read this expression easily. Pain. "For just an instant, I thought it was you."

He takes her gently by the shoulders and feels her tension vibrate beneath his fingertips. "Do you trust me enough to do exactly as I ask without question? Lives depend upon your answer."

"Please tell me what's wrong. You're scaring me."

"I can't tell you why, but I need to disappear, and I need everyone to believe that I'm dead."

She studies him for a long moment. "Sherlock," she begins softly, "I've heard the rumors. No one who really knows you will believe what Sergeant Donovan is saying about you. No one who counts."

He releases her shoulders and breaks eye contact to hide his exasperation. He doesn't have time for this. "That's just a small part of it, Molly, and I can't tell you any more than that. Please, can you promise to help me do what I have to do?"

"You know that I will."

"Tomorrow morning, I need you to bring the body to the first floor window facing the ambulance station, then wait for my signal and throw it down to the pavement. I will send two men with clothing for you to dress the body in, and I need you to provide them with a pint of blood."

She's staring at him. "I don't understand."

"And unfortunately, there's no time to correct that. There will be others on the ground who will orchestrate the rest, but none of it will work without you. Moriarty needs to believe that I've killed myself. I need him to see me do it."

She frowns. "See you do what?" And then her eyes widen with realization. "You're going to make him think you jumped from the roof?"

"Actually, I am going to jump, in full view of Moriarty and anyone he might have keeping an eye on us. I just don't plan to die, if I can help it." He smiles, then adds as an afterthought. "And John will witness it from the ground."

She straightens a bit and looks around as if she's just realized Sherlock is alone. "Where *is* John?"

"Not sure. I'll get him here on time, but obviously not until everything is in place."

Her eyes narrow. "He *does* know what you're planning."

"No, of course not."

She looks up at him, and then does something that seems to surprise her as much as it does him. She takes his hands in hers and looks directly into his eyes. "You can't." Her voice is low and urgent. "Don't you know what it would do to him? Watching you kill yourself?"

Her reaction is a surprise, and her touch is distracting. "He's going to wish he had tossed me off the roof personally," he states the obvious, quirking one corner of his mouth up at the thought. "I'm going to confess that the rumors are all true, and that I've been taking advantage of his trust throughout our entire association."

She lets go of him and takes a step backward. She's looking at him as if she's never seen him before in her life.

He adds quickly, "I'm not actually a fraud, Molly. I'm just going to tell him that so..." He trails off at her horrified stare. Ironically, this is the very situation he always relies on John to untangle. Human expectations are largely a mystery to him. He needs John to interpret the cues he misses and supply the appropriate response. Without John, he feels disconnected, never more so than at this moment.

"You are going to tell him you lied to him, and then you're going to throw yourself from the roof while he watches." She says it slowly, in disbelief. "I know you're missing some of the parts the rest of us have, but you can't possibly think that this is okay. How would you feel if he killed himself in front of you?"

It literally takes his breath away with an emotional punch that he actually feels land in the center of his chest. He looks away quickly to hide his reaction, grateful for the dim lighting. It takes a moment to trust his voice. "I expected more of you, Molly. Don't romanticize a business relationship. Leave that to the tabloids and the office rumor mill. He'll be fine. I've seen to it, in fact."

"Unless you plan to tell him you're not really dead, nothing else will matter. Why can't you just tell him what you're going to do and let him help?"

"Because the people I need to deceive will be watching him closely, and he's too easy to read. He needs to believe I'm dead in order to make them believe it, too."

She looks at him for a long moment, and he reads disappointment and sadness in her eyes. "You really don't feel anything, do you? We're all just tools, even John."

"No, Molly, that's not true. If this weren't so important..." She turns her face away from him, looking down at the floor. He cups her chin with his fingertips and gently raises it so she's looking at him again. "I told you that lives depend on your answer. Molly, if any part of this fails, John will almost certainly be killed right along with me. I have to do this. There is no alternative."

"How can you be sure I won't give anything away? Why can you trust me but not John?"

She's surprised him again. "Why would anyone expect you to have any special reaction to my death?"

She looks away quickly and takes a long breath. "So," she says softly, face still averted, "you're trusting me with your life and with John's life because I'm not important."

He turns her chin up to face him again. "No, Molly. I'm trusting you with our lives because *they* think you're not important."

She holds his gaze, trying to read him. "I'll do whatever you need me to do, for as long as you need me to do it. And I'll keep your secret. But you're making a terrible mistake with John, and I'm afraid of what it's going to do to both of you when you realize I'm right." She turns toward the morgue doors. "Come with me."

She unlocks the door and flips on the lights, heading for the wall of drawers where the new arrivals are kept waiting for autopsy. She walks to the far end and pulls out the drawer on the bottom tier, then stands back.

He walks over to the opposite side of the body and pulls back the sheet. The resemblance is enough to fool a frightened child, and apparently enough to startle Molly at first glance, but it won't fool John if he's allowed to see it for very long, even from a distance. "The clothes will help," he says, more to himself than to her.

"Sherlock, I am begging you," she says softly. "John would die before he'd tell them anything. Please don't do this to him."

He sees tears in her eyes and wishes again that John were here to explain her reactions. "It's not a question of what he would say, Molly. It's everything else, and I can't take the time to convince you. You have to believe what I'm saying. John will die if you don't help make this happen." It's not strictly true, but she needs a reason that counterbalances her concern for John's feelings.

She pushes the drawer closed without replacing the sheet. "Rigor will be gone in the next few hours. I'll keep the body at room temperature in the morning to make the impact more believable." She looks up at him. "Who will be coming with the clothes?"

He's relieved that her demeanor has returned to the business-like efficiency he needs for this. "I'll text you the information when I have it. I need to get in touch with my network, but I needed you first. Nothing works without you." He smiles.

Her expression is unreadable. "I'll be back by six in the morning. Have them come here."

She walks away from him, goes to the door, and leaves without a backward glance.

No one understands, and it's largely John's doing. The stories he posts on his blog have apparently become reality to everyone, embellished and romanticized fiction based on a few facts that have somehow turned the two of them into folk heroes. How it has also made them appear to be soul mates, or lovers, depending on whom you ask, is a mystery. John Watson is an empathetic man by nature. He exudes concern for his fellow man, and it's apparently been interpreted by everyone, including Molly Hooper, as some special affection for him personally. It's true that John has killed to protect him, but he would have done the same for anyone. They'd known each other less than 48 hours when John had killed the cab driver to stop Sherlock taking the poison pill. It wasn't personal. John is simply a good man doing good work, and he knows Sherlock too well to feel anything more than respect for Sherlock's abilities. He's too decent a human being to accept the rest of the package, but he does an admirable job of tolerating it in the name of helping the clients Sherlock chooses to take on. He'll be shocked by what he's going to see in the morning, but no more than he would be for anyone.

He needs to bring Mycroft up to date, and the phone is too risky to use for more than arranging where to meet.

"Come to my home," Mycroft insists. "I'm on my way there now."

It's thirty minutes farther from Bart's than the Diogenes club would have been, and it's time he can't afford to waste. He uses his phone in the cab to reach a few key players from his network who will gather the rest. He doesn't give specifics, just tells them where to be and what to bring. They know not to ask for more detail than he offers.

He finds Mycroft in his study sitting in one of the leather chairs that bracket the fireplace. The fire burning on the hearth and the green-shaded banker's lamp on his desk are the only light sources in the room.

"Please sit down," Mycroft gestures to the other chair with a half-filled glass of dark golden liquid. It sloshes in the glass from the movement, catching the firelight. "Would you like a Scotch?"

He drops into the chair. Mycroft knows he doesn't drink, so he ignores the question. "Moriarty expects me to kill myself, and I've worked out how to do it. He's Rich Brook, by the way. So much for your intel." He sits back to enjoy the reaction.

Mycroft sets his drink on the table next to his chair with deliberate care, then sits back and folds his hands in his lap. "Kill yourself, how?"

"I'm going to meet Moriarty tomorrow morning on the roof of Bart's Hospital for our final showdown. On a pre-arranged signal, your men will arrest him and hold him at a safe distance while I jump from the roof in disgrace. He won't know that I've landed on an airbag. He'll believe I'm dead, obviously, and I can go after him and his network with impunity." A thought occurs. "Why don't you seem surprised about Rich Brook?"

Mycroft shifts his gaze to the fire. "John Watson came to see me a little while ago at the club."

"You *didn't* tell him."

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," he snaps, then turns back to him with the familiar penetrating gaze. "He was quite...worked up. I half-expected him to attack me for betraying you. He's extremely devoted."

"You make him sound like a pet."

Mycroft shrugs. "Not an altogether outrageous metaphor."

"I'm going to arrange it so he's there to see me jump without actually seeing me hit the ground. His transparency will help to confirm that I'm dead."

This earns him a disapproving frown. "Is that actually necessary?"

"Of course, it's necessary. We've talked about not letting him know where I've gone and how to keep him from looking for me. This is the perfect solution."

Mycroft's gaze turns thoughtful and unfocused. "I wonder if we might be giving too little weight to his...affection for you. Actually making him witness your suicide may prove to-"

"Now who's being ridiculous?" he cuts in, suddenly angry without knowing precisely why. "I expected you, of all people, to see this for what it is."

Mycroft is unruffled by his outburst. "I think for the first time, I actually do."

"Do what?"

"What was your one and only requirement for accepting this assignment, even beyond any guarantee that you would come back alive? Please, refresh my memory."

"I asked you to watch out for John while I'm gone. What is your point?"

"No, Sherlock. You made me take an oath on my life that I would keep him safe, and you promised to collect on that oath with your bare hands if anything happened to him." Mycroft smiles faintly. "Not quite the same thing, is it?"

"What is your point?" he repeats it slowly, enunciating each word.

"My point, brother dear, is that you're too close to the situation to judge it accurately. John's openness may be a potential liability, but you're overlooking the danger he may pose to himself if he feels guilt over failing to prevent your death."

He closes his eyes and reviews what he knows of John's overdeveloped need to save the world. "I am forced to concede that you may have a point. I will make certain that John has no chance of stopping me, and that he knows he did everything he could do. There will be no reason for blame or regret. I'm also going to tell him that I'm a fraud and that I've deceived him the entire time we've known each other. He will feel foolish for having believed me, and he'll despise me."

"You think just telling him so will make him believe it? He's very loyal."

The memory of John's reaction to Rich Brook being Moriarty flashes in his mind. John's doubt was perfectly rational, but the hurt he feels now just remembering it is not. "I think he's halfway to believing it already."

"I think you may be overlooking one other point," Mycroft says as he lifts his glass for a long sip.

"And what is that?"

"Guilt doesn't require a rational basis."

Sherlock lifts his hands from the arms of the chair, then drops them. "If you have an alternate plan, I'm listening."

Mycroft drains his glass and places it back on the table. "Give me the details."

John has been texting him and leaving messages on voice mail for the past two hours, all of which have been ignored in favor of using every remaining moment to cement the plans. Mycroft's driver dropped him off at Bart's in time to meet with his network. The most difficult requirement had been the airbag, and the one they found was dangerously small. It would have to do. Overlooking the fact that he had never in his life made a jump of five stories, the airbag itself would probably be fine. Probably. On the plus side, the smaller size would make it easier to both inflate and deflate.

Molly answers his text with a terse "ok" when he sends her the names of the two men who will be helping her with the body in a few hours.

It's time to bring John back into the picture.

John answers his text immediately. He's on his way to Bart's and will be here in twenty minutes. Nothing to do now but wait and try not to second guess himself. There is still a significant possibility that Moriarty has something entirely unexpected in mind. He may refuse Sherlock's invitation. He may refuse to disclose who else has the computer key, if he's sold it, no matter what they're willing to do now to make him tell them. Given their spectacular lack of success in anticipating him to this point, anything is possible.

He's sitting on the floor, back braced against the steel cabinets, bouncing the squash ball he'll be using in a few hours to stop the pulse in his wrist. More proof for John. He closes his eyes, and waits.

The pre-arranged call rings on John's mobile at exactly 8:00 in the morning. John has dozed off sitting on a stool, his head resting on his arms, the phone next to him on the counter. He answers it, still groggy. A moment later, he's wide awake and moving. "Oh, my God. Right. Yes, I'm coming."

Here we go. "What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson. She's been shot."

"What? How?"

"Probably one of the killers you manage to attract. Jesus. Jesus, she's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." John turns to the door and puts his hand on the knob.

He keeps his voice and his face absolutely neutral. "You go. I'm busy."

John turns back to him, clearly stunned. "Busy?"

He needs to appall John sufficiently to make him leave. "Thinking. I need to think."

"You need to... Doesn't she mean *anything* to you? You once half-killed a man for laying a finger on her!"

He shrugs. "She's my landlady."

John stares at him. "She's dying, you *machine*!"

He's surprised by how hard this is becoming.

"Sod this. Sod this," John seems to be talking to himself as he shakes his head in disbelief. "You stay here, if you want. On your own." He turns back to the door and yanks it open.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." It's the first thing he's said in the past few minutes that's actually true. He's a little surprised that John is buying this so readily, but it reinforces what he told Mycroft. John will believe his confession.

John is halfway out the door. "No, *friends* protect people." The door slams behind him.

A moment later, his mobile chimes a text notification. Moriarty is waiting for him on the roof. He picks up his coat, puts the squash ball in the pocket, and walks out of the room.

End of Chapter one

Author's Notes 2: Even the briefest of comments will be appreciated. Each one is worth its weight in gold.