Five minutes left.
He could see him, scanning the surroundings, taking in the area. He almost laughs at the thought. Wasn't it earlier that John had told him how friends would save him? How ironic then, was this situation? Friends weren't keeping him alive in this one. No. Not at all, in fact, far from it. A moment of vulnerability flashed in his eyes, but it was quickly gone. Perhaps he did give in to this weakness after all.
He could see the irony of the situation. How his greatest strength was, after all, his greatest weakness, just like another fairytale ending. Wasn't it a common story line, where the villain or hero's strength was his weakness?
They didn't understand. Even after all he had offered, all the cases solved and people rescued, what did he receive? Nothing. He scoffed. No one would understand. Moriarty had been right after all.
He picked up the ringing cell phone with a slight tremble to his hands.
Two minutes left.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" John's worried voice asked. What was this strange feeling? His fingers were almost numb.
"Turn around and walk back the way you came," he answered, his voice steady. He had to do this; there was no denying it. He glanced at the body of his nemesis discarded behind him.
"No, I'm coming in," the voice on the other side replied, oblivious to the situation. Sherlock took a deep breath, watching his partner in crime look around in confusion. What would happen to John when he was gone?
"Just do as I ask, please," Sherlock replied, his voice cracking slightly. John would never know, never expect what he was planning to do, would he? Though he continued to talk in a monotonous voice, his mind was far from home.
The moment John looked up, he knew. John knew exactly what he was going to do. He was always brighter than most people, knew more than the average person, and John knew him well enough. He stifled a humourless chuckle. He wasn't as clueless after all.
Didn't someone once say that wild animals had a sixth sense? How they could sense everything just through the eyes? Perhaps he shared this sixth sense as well. Sensing the confusion in John's eyes quickly turned into bewilderment, and sparked into fear, Sherlock took a deep breath.
One minute left.
He had to do it. The false confession would save his life, right? A lone tear rolled down his cheek. It was his willing sacrifice. John deserved it. He deserved so much more, and perhaps with this, he would finally receive his payment. After all, what was the use of his ego and pride if he had no one to share it with?
"Keep your eyes fixed on me, please. Will you do this for me?" he asked, his voice almost unrecognizable. He had to do this. He had to do this. Without his death, Moriarty would stop John's heart in a second. Without this, the one person who didn't deserve any of this-
"Do what?" the quizzical voice interrupted his thoughts. He clenched his teeth, bracing himself for the next blow. He could remember, years ago, when someone had said it to him.
"Thirty seconds before you die, you become the person you truly are, and you meet the person you truly want to be. So are you really going to wait until those last minutes?" a man at a strange teashop had asked.
He had scoffed. It was just an idealist's thoughts, someone who wanted to 'change for the better,' and after a few months, would go back to their usual self, back into their same old job, same old life, and nothing would change. He had laughed at the thought, claiming that in the last thirty seconds, he'd probably be having his last laugh or leaving some clue behind so his murderer would be found and brought to justice.
Now, in the final thirty seconds, he finally understood.
"This phone call, it's-," he hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" he muttered, holding his jacket closer to himself. His fingers were numb and a tingly premonition spread across his body.
"Leave a note when?" John's clueless voice became more frantic. Sherlock gazed down. He would memorize every detail about John's appearance before leaving. He wanted to remember why he was doing this. With every passing moment, he could recall memories. No. He wouldn't. Sentimentality wasn't good for suicide.
Ten seconds left.
"Goodbye, John," a lone tear fell to the abyss below his feet as he tossed the phone aside. Clutching onto his jacket, he braced himself for the fall. It was the final solution to the final problem, wasn't it?
Five seconds left.
"No, don't-" the voice on the other end replied. He could see the phone drop out of his hands and his partner race towards the building.
Two seconds left.
"I can stop John Watson. Stop his heart," Moriarty's threat; as he took his dive, he finally understood what he meant. The assassin wasn't need after all. He had fallen for it, for his greatest weakness. They didn't need a goon with a gun to stop the soldier.
He himself; Sherlock Holmes; the great detective, had stopped John Watson's heart.