Sherlock is climbing the stairs to the rooftop of St. Bart's. It's time for the last play in the game. Whether he lives or dies is irrelevant so long as the snipers are called off of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, John.
Obviously, the first option is far preferable.
The detective doesn't notice the man standing in the shadows on the rooftop. Instead, he's focused completely on Moriarty.
The tall man has ginger hair and he is ethereally gorgeous. He is watching Sherlock and Jim without making a sound or motion, abiding his time, he can wait and let this play out, to a point. Abruptly, he comes to attention, the time to act has almost arrived.
Sherlock and Jim are standing face to face, almost toe to toe and the consulting criminal is talking. "Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels."
Sherlock snarls and growls out a threatening response. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."
Time freezes and the third person on the rooftop steps out of the shadows.
The detective is trying to lock eyes with Moriarty when he becomes aware of what is happening around him. He turns around, eyes wide, and spies the man with the ginger hair. It's almost possible to hear his mind working as he tries to process the incoming data. It's not long before he develops a theory. "Psychotic break. Obviously."
The ginger haired man's lips part and an impossibly beautiful voice issues forth. "Wrong."
Sherlock shakes his head. "An apparent stoppage of time. A mysterious figure appears from nowhere. Only explainable as the creation of a fractured mind. So again I say, a psychotic break."
"Clearly we won't be able to proceed until you've cleared this from your system. So by all means, deduce."
The detective determines that the figure standing before him is a product of his mind, created solely to lead him back to sanity. There must be some benefit to it, so he deduces everything that he can. "There are two possibilities: either I am experiencing the beginning of a psychotic break or it has already occurred at some point in the past. If it is happening now, then Moriarty will most likely trigger the snipers." He shivers at the thought. "If it happened in the past then there are again two possibilities. I failed at my task and John is dead, hence the break, or..." Sherlock abruptly stalls in his monologue. He thinks that the next possibility may be even more horrifying. "Or none of this ever happened and the break is a result of my drug use. John never existed." He thinks he may be physically ill. "You. Why are you here? Why did I create you?"
"You don't get it. You are. So. Wrong." The smile on the man's face is strangely at odds with his harsh words. "Call me Mike, by the way."
Sherlock's reasoning processes are shutting down one by one. He finds himself engaging Mike as if he were real. "I don't understand."
Mike grins. "I know that was hard for you to admit. It always is. Don't worry, these assignments are always a bit disorienting."
The word "assignment" triggers something inside of him and Sherlock thinks "Baskerville." They've been mucking about with his mind. He's sure that is the answer.
"Sherlock, you don't even have to say what you are thinking. Wrong. Again. The answer is far more simple. You touched on it with your little speech back there."
Mike's meaning is devastatingly obvious and Sherlock laughs. Whatever the reason for his madness, be it a break or some experiment gone wrong, why would he image this. An angel. It's so absurd that he thinks he may never stop laughing.
"Stop it." Mike grabs Sherlock by the arms and shakes him until his teeth rattle and his hysterical laughter dies. "I have information that you need so listen."
The detective can't help himself. Words of sarcasm pierce the air. "Certainly. An angel descends from oh high with information for a sociopathic human being. The vagaries of my mind astound me." The crack in the air is sharp as Mike's hand impacts Sherlock's cheek. The detective rubs at the blooming pain. "Interesting. Your actions are not very angelic."
Mike's expression clearly shows his frustration. "Sometimes I hate this job." He sighs and paces a few steps. "You may be one of us, but you are a complete arse. This is reality not some stylised religion. We are warriors, you and I."
The scenario that he thinks his mind has created is so far beyond his imagining that he can't comprehend it. "Now I'm an angel. Naturally, all of my memories are implanted and the memories of my friends have been modified." Sherlock thinks briefly that he's watched one too many episodes of Doctor Who with John. He flinches, he's still not sure if his friend even exists.
"Of course not. This assignment required an actual birth and childhood, as messy as that is. You were even gifted with emotions though you seem to be doing your best to repress them." Mike cocks his head to the side in contemplation. "You really have no idea how fortunate you are. Not many of us ever get to experience them."
"I assure you, emotions are highly overrated." Sherlock's snark is robbed of it's force by the fact that he is still completely dazed by the situation.
"Back to the point then." Mike eyes are filled with warning. "You were about to make a mistake." Sherlock scoffs. "He was going to force your hand. You would have had to jump."
"I have contingencies in place for such an event." Sherlock's lip is curled in contempt. He's fully engaged in the conversation as if it's reality.
"I know all about your plans." Mike steps into Sherlock's space, closer than Jim had before him. "It would have broken him."
"Of course, that was my... Oh!" There's a spark, a bright flash of insight, and he understands. Mike is talking about John not Moriarty. "No. You're wrong. Even if I did break him I would fix him. As soon as Moriarty's network was taken down..."
Mike interrupts him. "It would have been too late. Just three months from now and, poof, no more John Watson. Your soulmate would have been gone."
Sherlock is so stunned by the declaration that he misses the obvious for sixteen full seconds. What Mike had said was absurd. "Angels don't have souls."
"You were born. You had to have a soul. Consider it another gift." Mike gives him a crooked smile. "We seem to keep diverging from the main topic. Four of us are on assignment, not as deep cover as you, just temporary placements. They're members of Mycroft's organisation. You will find that three of them have neutralised the snipers. There's no reason for you to jump." He pats Sherlock on the arm briskly. "You should be able to work with that." Mike begins backing away. He's gesturing towards Jim. "Back to it then. And, Sherlock, there will be a file on Mycroft's desk. It's contents will help clear your name." He winks. "Do tell Anthea I said hello."
Everything goes somehow wrong. Time dilates, his memory blurs. Sherlock tries to clear his head and remember... something. He closes his eyes oh so briefly.
Jim looks deeply into his eyes, searching. "No, you're not."
The detective interrupts whatever Jim is about to say. "My brother has taken out your snipers, Moriarty." Sherlock's voice is cold and self-satisfied. "The game is over."
"Oh, Shirley, all I wanted was to play our little game." Jim's voice goes sing-song. "But you broke my toys. Where's the fun in that?" His hand comes up and he grins widely, maniacally. He pulls Sherlock ever so close. Before the detective can jerk away, Jim swallows the muzzle of his own gun and pulls the trigger.
Sherlock stumbles back and simply stares. He remains frozen in position until police officers begin pouring onto the rooftop of St Bart's. He raises both hands in the air as he searches for Lestrade. Sherlock sees him and their eyes meet.
The look on the DI's face is a mixture of horror and resignation. "Donovan, stand down." She's already moving to cuff Sherlock but halts a protest ready on her lips. "It's a suicide! Use your eyes. And Sherlock's not going anywhere." He moves to the detective's side and asks, his voice confidential, "You're not, right?"
Ignoring the bustling activity of those around him, Sherlock cranes his neck, searching, but he doesn't see his friend. "Where is John?" It's a demand for information, not a request.
Greg ducks his head and peers down. He scuffs his shoe against the rooftop. "He's safe. In the morgue." The DI clears his throat. "We had to cuff him to a pipe to make him stay there."
With a long stride, Sherlock is off, his intentions clear.
"Sherlock. You promised." Greg sounds completely exasperated.
"I'm not running away, Lestrade, but I will talk to John." He doesn't break stride.
With a growl of frustration, Greg follows him. He calls out behind him, "Donovan, wrap it up here. We'll meet you at The Yard." He decides that it's best to ignore the stream of invective that is issuing from Sally's mouth.
Just outside of the morgue, Greg grabs Sherlock's arm. "I wouldn't get too close. He's very pissed right now."
The detective can tell that the other man is not joking and gives a nod of understanding before walking through the doors to face John.
Greg doesn't follow, he doesn't want to be injured in the crossfire.
John is standing there, handcuffed to a pipe. The chair that was clearly meant for him to sit in is laying broken several feet away where it landed when he threw it.
The young officer on guard looks, frankly, petrified to be there. When Sherlock glares at him, the officer glances through the door's window. Greg gives him a nod and he rapidly flees.
The brief smile that spreads across Sherlock's face dies rapidly under John's angry glare. He steps closer to his friend but halts just beyond reach of fist or foot.
"What the bloody hell were you thinking!" In record time, John is shouting at him. His words are a mixture of expletives, chastisements, and insults to Sherlock's intelligence. John's right arm is extended behind him as he strains against the handcuffs that are holding him in place, his left hand is raised in a fist. He's so angry and relieved and he really, really wants to punch Sherlock.
The detective stands and let's John vent. He doesn't hear his words, just the sentiment and relief behind them. John is wonderful and here and so very alive. He grins idiotically. "We're soulmates." Sherlock is completely horrified with himself and claps his hand over his mouth. He wonders where he came up with such drivel.
"What. The fuck!? You say that now?" John falls silent.
Sherlock turns to flee. He actually makes it a few steps before being stopped in his tracks by the doctor's voice.
"So help me Sherlock, if you walk out that door after saying that, Mycroft will never find the pieces!"
Sherlock slinks back, head ducked in embarrassment.
"Come closer."
The detective inches forward slightly, ever mindful of the compact danger that is John Watson.
The doctor growls in frustration. "I'm not going to hurt you." He extends his left hand in invitation.
Sherlock shuffles within John's reach.
The doctor cups the back of Sherlock's head with his hand and he studies the detective's grey eyes. He can see beneath Sherlock's embarrassment to the love that is beneath. John pulls him in for a deep kiss. The two men become lost in one another.
In the hallway, Greg notes the sudden silence. Christ. John's killed him. He rushes to the door to the morgue and sees them through the slim windowpane. The DI smiles. He can give them five more minutes.
Two weeks later, the paperwork has been completed, Sherlock's name has been cleared, and he and John are safely ensconced in Baker Street.
They are cuddled together watching a documentary about the place of art in religion. A painting of the Archangel Michael is on the telly.
Sherlock shakes his head which is resting on John's shoulder. "Mike looks absolutely nothing like that."
The doctor gives him a strange look. "What? Who is Mike?"
"I've no idea."