Although Sherlock had never asked the details, he knew his friend still had nightmares about Afghanistan. Not as many as at first, John would usually sleep through the night now. But he still had them. Although never after they had closed a stressful case. Those were the nights where John would sleep, long and deep, and peacefully.

Just as he had after that incident at the swimming pool. Lestrade had been convinced neither of them would sleep a wink, having been that close to destruction. But Sherlock had known otherwise, and John had confirmed it by eating dinner, then calling it a night, and going to bed. John had woken late the next morning, had his morning coffee, and asked what next. Sherlock hadn't enlightened him. He had spent the night trying to figure out why they were still alive, and what Moriarty had wanted with him in the first place. Other than to play a game that had obviously amused both of them.

Moriarty's threat that Sherlock wasn't to be allowed to continue was not one Sherlock took lightly. He didn't think John did either. As evinced by the fact that John's hands had showed signs of weapon's oil over the next few hours, as a result of John retreating to his room, to clean out his gun. John wasn't fooled by the calm following that storm.

And Sherlock knew there would be another confrontation. Maybe based on that call that had so fortuitously interrupted their execution.

Sherlock had also had to expend time and energy on analysing himself, something he was never comfortable doing. So the case they had been set on by Mycroft had proved a nice distraction. Except that had been Moriarty's plan as well, not leaving Sherlock the time to fully analyse his own reactions to seeing John by the swimming pool, where he had hoped to meet with Moriarty. His own reaction for that tiny fragment of time when he had thought that John was Moriarty. Now, it seemed inconceivable, and yet at the time he had thought what he had.

The elements were shortly all there, in his mind, stored in the mind-palace room that was labelled John Hamish Watson, which had threads and connections to so many other things. It had astonished him the first time he really looked at what he knew about John, how much of his mind palace had threads to John. How John's ability to see things differently, react differently, in a standard neurotypical way, and yet without prejudice, had laid out a spider-web pattern inside Sherlock's mind palace, that ran counter to much of it's logical structure.

Sherlock picked up the most precious commodities in the room he had set aside for the study of John Watson, and brought them to his own room, where he mentally rested for a long while, before determining that yes, it could be done, if it had to be done. His brother was right that caring was not an advantage. But now that Sherlock faced that he did care, he also knew that not to care would to be a huge step backwards for him. A step back to an existence without John in it, was something he no longer wanted.

He settled his understanding of John's friendship, John's willingness to believe in his own senses, John's trust in him and in Sherlock's abilities, and John's limited knowledge of how Sherlock thought, and what Sherlock was prepared to do if he deemed it necessary.

That naïvety was something Mycroft laughed about, but Sherlock had come to value. It wasn't stupidity, it was on the contrary a straightforward attempt to deal with things as presented, by the powers of mind and deduction that John Watson did possess. Powers that were expanding as he ran alongside Sherlock, as they danced with problems, and lately, with death.

Sherlock set the things he would need where he would need them, to continue to consider his problem, but he also recognized that the outcome was likely to require sacrifice. He just didn't know of how many or even whom.

The visit from a terrified young man brought them out of London, on a case that was startling and strange. But Sherlock wanted to do something unpredictable, and he needed to test John's trust in him. And this offered the perfect solution. Laboratory conditions he had joked, and John had just shaken his head and laughed. As if it was all an elaborate prank Sherlock had played him, rather than John having been used as a human lab rat, in an experiment that hadn't produced the expected answers after all.

Mycroft, of course, had been invaluable. Anything that got them out of London, and so much less likely to cross Moriarty or his minions, that had been a relief to the older Holmes. Sherlock has known as much, had figured as much, and having solved the case, returned to London and to the knowledge that his understanding of John was as complete as it needed to be. John could take it, if need be. And John probably would have to.

Sherlock returned to his reclining position against the lab counter and thought through everyone else. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly. Aye, Molly. He had known from the start that he would need her, and he wondered if she could be relied on. He had never encouraged her feelings for him, yet they had occurred. He walked through his back history with her, what he hadn't already deleted, leaving just the conclusions, not the evidence itself. Molly. And the homeless network. He would need to rely on them both when shove came to push. And he would need to make a last convincing phone call. He knew what Moriarty wanted now, and Sherlock would make his play, slowly, only 'discovering' the man's plan along the way. The main clue would be if Moriarty used the term 'boring'.

There was just one rub. He knew Moriarty had made people believe he had left the computer code in the Baker Street flat, but Sherlock knew he hadn't. He needed that final piece to his puzzle. He needed to see John one last time, to know where he was, to be able to direct him on the gaming board.

John obliged, showed up, and helped him solve the puzzle within minutes. Then he settled at one of the work benches and collapsed into a heap to sleep. Sherlock knew the time table for this, and so he simply waited. When the phone call came to John's phone that Mrs Hudson had been attacked, Sherlock knew it was time. He sent John away without letting him see that his own heart had flipped once, not so much at the thought that Mrs Hudson might be in danger, because he already knew that she was. Most likely one of he snipers had a bullet named for her, and a gun trained on her already. But John would return to Baker Street, and only come straight back when he found her okay, realising something was wrong, and that was all the time Sherlock needed. And all the confirmation too, that Moriarty wouldn't just kill them all out of hand.

Having received Moriarty's text Sherlock settled his coat around him with a last shrug, and went up to the roof to meet with him.

He played the man, letting him think Sherlock stupider than he was, but he was still genuinely shocked when Moriarty managed to use the gun on himself. The blood was convincing, and Sherlock had to play into it, knowing that someone, probably up in one of those cranes, was watching him, a gun kept on his head, in case he bent down to check on Moriarty. Who would never have come up here without back-up. And Moriarty would have installed recorders, just in case he wasn't still awake to listen to Sherlock's goodbye not directly.

Sherlock would have to play his part as cast by Moriarty. But he could leave a quaver in his voice to clue in John about when he was lying, and even, he hoped, mention the magician's trick. He hoped it would be enough. But Sherlock knew that for John the result of combining what he had seen with his own eyes with what he had heard with his own ears, would leave John prejudiced the same way as almost everyone else: in favour of what he had seen rather than what he had heard. But Sherlock also knew John's dogged resistance. John's knew his belief in Sherlock. And he hoped that Moriarty wouldn't catch the clues soon enough to actually be able to do something about them. Sherlock had to hope that his trick worked, and that his death and the destruction of his fame would be enough to satisfy Moriarty. He lifted his hands to his head in a sign of confusion and surrender as he walked to the edge of the building, knowing that right now those trained assassins were just waiting for one thing. That he jumped off the building's edge.

And there, right on time came a cab with John in it. He picked up his mobile phone and speed dialled him.

"Hello?"

"John." He said it neutrally.

"Hi Sherlock. Are you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

"I'm coming in."
"Just do as I ask." Sherlock let his emotion convey his urgency. He saw John slow to a halt, trusting him still, but not enough to move back where Sherlock needed him to be. He added an emotional "Please."

"Where?" John had marched back as he had come, as ordered.

"Stop there."
"Sherlock?"

"Okay, look up, I'm on the roof top."

"Oh god!"

"I – I – I can't come down we, we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock allowed a weary emotion to creep into his voice. He needed Moriarty to hear that, not John. Well, John too, obviously. But he had to trust John to know better. And only realise it eventually.

John was stress breathing now. "What's going on?"

"An apology." Sherlock had thought long about his words for this final call. "It's all true." He spaced his words to underscore the lie he was speaking.

"What?" The pure disbelief in John's voice was sweet, but irrelevant to the situation.

"Everything they said about me." Sherlock continued unabated, same tone of voice. But then he spaced his words again for the next bit. "I invented Moriarty." He spared a glance at the man still lying prone on the roof top, still either playing dead, or being dead. Sherlock didn't care either way. John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, those were his priorities now, and that Molly and the homeless network did their job.

He could tell from John's movement pattern that he was getting through to his emotional side now, that John was beginning to suspect. But loyal as ever, he was still seeking clarification.

"Why are you saying this?" John asked, and Sherlock turned away from his half smile at Moriarty to declare with as much play-acting in his voice and face as he could, "I'm a fake."

"Sherlock!" It was John's half frustrated half annoyed voice when he'd done something that irked the Doctor. Not yet something to alarm him, although there was a hint of that creeping through as well.

Sherlock needed to keep playing his role and made his voice even more tremulous: "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."

"Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up!" John told him, getting that there was duress involved, and yet not certain of it. He sought confirmation. "The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"
"Nobody could be that clever." Sherlock told him, lying with pride at his friend's belief in him and letting that warmth be heard in his voice.

"You could." John's unswerving faith startled a laugh from Sherlock. Once more John had astonished him. He had to take a moment to let it stand.

"I researched you." Sherlock lied. Although he had, of course, researched John Watson, found his empty blog and added that to his mind palace. One of the first items in there apart from his personal experience of the man. "Before we met I discovered – everything that I could to impress you." He had added the pause, and now added a snivel. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick." He let his voice slide down to his deeper level at that last bit, hoping it would stand out in John's mind, later, when he discounted the evidence of his eyes, in favour of that of his ears.

"No. Alright, stop it now!" John replied and marched forward again.

"No, stay exactly where you are!" Sherlock commanded with a slight sharp tone of voice to him again. John must be seen to believe this, the view from the crane provided enough of the street that they would see John. His reaction had to be authentic. "Don't move." Sherlock enforced it.

"Alright," John conceded as Sherlock had known he mostly would. By using the emotional tone of his voice, he had manipulated John to stand exactly where he wanted him.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!" Sherlock commanded, allowing that emotion to remain in his voice. After all, he was taking a gamble here. They might all still die. But he had to make the attempt! "Please, will you do this for me?" He asked, knowing his stress could be heard, but hoping that his words would be heard too, and the truthful apology in them for the pain he would cause his friend.

"Do what?" John was puzzled.

"This phone call, it's eh, it's my note." Sherlock told him then let his voice drop down again. "What people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"

He saw John nearly drop the connection. "Leave a note when?" He demanded.

"Goodbye John."
"No!" It was said with the utter certainly of conviction, "Don't."

Sherlock found it hard to end this conversation, but he had to. He had spoken his last line. He dropped the phone on the roof beside him, and John realised.

"SHERLOCK!" The name shouted out loud. John was about to move. There was no more time. Sherlock took a second to centre himself, then spread out his arms, and let himself topple off the building. Whatever happened now, must be what played out.