One.

He's got one minute left to make his decision.

30 seconds.

72 heartbeats.

It's windy on top of the building and he can feel his wings swaying in time with the wind. In time with his heartbeat. In time with the pulse of blood coming from the dead man behind him. Everything is in perfect sync and everything is falling into place. Exactly as it should be. But Sherlock has always been one to go against order, now hasn't he?

Twenty-six

He's quickly running out of time and he knows it. If he doesn't get this exactly right he'll be lying on the concrete below. His brains dashed out, bright and pink, blood boring from a head wound, bones broken and crushed to a fine powder... Stop. He was distracting himself.

Thirty-nine.

He's always been aware of his wings. Others too, because in this strange world everyone has a set of them. It just comes down to whether or not you can see them. They're completely real. Solid, tangible, fully-functioning wings. The things is, if you can't see them you won't use them. So the existence of winged humans (which is really all humans) remains a secret. Except to those who can see them of course. Molly can see them. That's why she's helping him put this whole event together.

Forty-five.

Whether Moriarty wants to believe it or not, Sherlock has always known it would end like this. Fairy tales often ended in suicides; the original versions of every child's favorite bedtime story are doused with blood and suffering. Looking back at Moriarty's corpse, cradled in his dark blue wings, Sherlock vaguely recalls the story of the Little Mermaid who took her life to return to the foam of the sea. He's not sure why he remembers this. John would probably laugh and make a joke about that solar system again.

Fifty-eight.

He's only got a few seconds left, so he moves towards the ledge hoping Molly has heard the shot of Moriarty's gun. Hoping she's got the body in order on the ground below. Hoping she's ready to lie on the postmortem's. Ready to lie to the whole world as it is, because this will certainly go global.

Sixty-one.

He wonders, for a split second, what it would be like I actually die. Let this whole master plan of theirs die out and jump with no wings to slow his fall. To just let his body fall to earth. To have his wings, for once in his life, fail him and to let order overtake him and pull him closer to his doom. It would certainly be an awfully big adventure, dying would. But he doesn't have much time to ponder this.

Seventy-two.

He takes the plunge.