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Free-fall

I had really hoped it wouldn't come to this.

Of course, I knew I had to have a back-up plan, in case things didn't go quite as I planned (which isn't often), but I really thought I had this one sussed out. Sherlock Holmes sees through everyone and everything, right. But that psychopath had an ace-in-the-hole that most sane people wouldn't even consider. He'd been out to break me from the start, burn me, as he'd gloat, but I never thought for a moment he'd go this absurdly far.

The demented Irishman lay flat-out at my feet, arms open, face twisted in a most disturbingly haggard grin, a thick stream of blood pooling from the back of his head and staining the cold cement of the rooftop. It all happened so damn quickly after he took a hold of me in that bizarre handshake, and I barely had time to register what he was doing before he fell to the ground with that awful gunshot. The lunacy was still in his eyes as he lay there now, the pupils wide and unseeing amidst the deep brown irises.

I staggered backwards from the corpse, my hand flying involuntarily to my mouth in horror. Not for the death of the talented scumbag, but for the knowledge that plan B was going to have to proceed. I took a long, shaking breath and let it out again slowly as I approached the edge of the rooftop once again, surveying what lay below me.

I glanced quickly at my watch – if my timings were about right (why wouldn't they be) it wouldn't be a minute until John showed up, and this unpleasant business had to be underway. I ran a trembling hand through my thick hair, my eyes surveying the taller buildings the vicinity, looking for any signs of the lurker I knew was skulking somewhere close-by. As I weighed up the possibilities, the taxi I had been expecting pulled up some distance away, behind a small lot of garages, and my loyal friend exited hastily, throwing a note at the driver and jogging rather urgently towards my position. I quickly surveyed the ground beneath me again – yes, the placements seemed fine, and everything looked ready. I took a deep breath and speedily dialled John's number.

He instantly reached for his mobile and stopped to answer it as he saw the name on the screen.

"Sherlock, where are you?" He asks loudly, in a worried, demanding tone. I swallow.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," I say bluntly. I can't have him this close. He can't see this. It hurts to do this to him, but there's no other choice now. Aggravatingly, he starts forward again, always the stubborn one.

"No, I'm coming in," he states, in a hard, military fashion. I screw up my eyes and interrupt him, my voice softer and tinged with a hint of pleading.

"Just...do as I ask. Please." He pauses.

"Where?" he asks uncertainly, looking around him as he backs warily away. I wait until he is safely back behind the low set of garages, his view obscured.

"Stop there." I say.

"Sherlock..." he starts again, his voice low and questioning.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

He casts his gaze upwards, and I hear him inhale sharply when he sees me. "Oh, God." His tone is full of apprehension.

I feel a deep wave of early regret wash over me, and I start my next sentence with a weak stammer.

"I –I –I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

"...what's going on?"

I stare down at him. "An apology. It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me." I bite back my revulsion, "I invented Moriarty."

He is silent for a couple of moments, before replying, "Why are you saying this?" He sounds chastising. I know that even this most frank 'confession' would never convince him against me; he knows me better than I thought anyone ever could. But for his sake, I need him to hear this.

"I'm a fake." The three words are like a stab to my ego; an insult to my life work. My voice breaks slightly as I spit the words, and I feel tears of frustration welling at the back of my eyes. Solemnly, I blink them back, ashamed.

"Sherlock - " John starts again, but I can feel the pressure of the situation building on me, and I interrupt him again in my desperation to get these hideous words out.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes." I don't even need to fake the obvious upset in my tone. These slanderous words wound me deeply; knowing everyone I've ever managed to care about; everyone who takes me for who I am will think...no. John won't. And that's what matters to me.

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up," he scolds, voice raw with bottled emotion, "The first time we met; the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

My lips form a tired smile, "Nobody could be that clever."

He responds immediately, "You could."

I laugh breezily at his answer, but my smile droops to solemnity once again a moment later.

"I researched you. Before we met. I discovered everything I could to try and impress you." I clench my free hand, "It's a trick, it's just a magic trick."

"No," He states bluntly, tone rife with annoyance and frustration, "Just STOP it now." He starts walking forwards again, his shoulders back, head centred, always the soldier. I can't allow him to see the street below me, it would ruin everything.

"Stay exactly where you are!" I say, loudly and forcefully, "Don't move." He hears the intensity of my order, and backs away again, his right hand raised in surrender and reassurance. I reach out my hand in return, hoping to comfort and steady him. But my whole arm is shuddering, and I can't keep the stammers from seeping into my vocal chords. It's almost time.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!" I implore, "Please, can you do this for me?" He clearly hears the distress in my articulation, and he answers with a simple, constrained

"...do what?"

"This phone call, it's...it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

I see John stiffen, then hopelessly drop the phone from his ear before bringing it up again sharply.

"Leave a note when?" I can tell he knows what I'm about to do. His voice is riddled with impending panic. I just hope to hell he can do what I asked. He must stay. There. Or it's the end of everything. I leave my trust in him with my final words to my dear friend.

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't - " He looks so beseechingly up at me, his stance rigid and completely helpless.

I drop my phone away from my ear and throw it carelessly to the side with a clatter. I cast a last, fleeting glance below me as I hear John scream my name. I spread my arms wide and lean forwards, and let myself fall. The rushing air stings my eyes as blurred shapes pass me, my stomach lurching with this ghastly free-fall. It is only at the last minute do I feel the dreadful pang of panic. Something isn't right. No.

Where...that's...I...

Only blackness greets me.