The world looked dizzyingly small from up here. If Sherlock hadn't been staring death in the face, it would've been interesting to take it in for a few moments. He was out of options.

He'd burned through plans A through C since emerging onto the rooftop. Plan A had been to talk Moriarty down. Find a weakness and use it against him. Obviously, that one hadn't worked. Plan B had been to play up the fear angle and let Moriarty see him beg. Put on a big show of weakness and submission. It galled him, but if it ended this… disaster, so be it. Unfortunately, Moriarty wasn't about to let him out that easily. He wanted a big finale and he had the leverage he needed. There were already guns trained on the only three people Sherlock cared a damn about, ready to pull the trigger if he didn't play along.

The potential victims: Mrs. Hudson- the warm, maternal landlady of their flat, who loved him like a son even when he was difficult and childish… or when he shot holes in the wall and stored severed feet in the fridge. Lestrade- the police inspector who had always given him the benefit of the doubt- even as much as he was able in the last few days. Sherlock was aware Lestrade had intentionally gone easier on him than he had to in all of this. … And then there was John. Of course Moriarty would use John against him...

Sherlock had tried to force him to stop the game then. Tried to get into Moriarty's head and make him think he'd already been beaten. It had almost worked. And then Moriarty had put a bullet through his own brain to prevent it. The game, then, was on - just as Moriarty had wanted it.

Panic threatened to set in. Sherlock struggled to breathe. The rooftop spun around him but he fought down the vertigo. Had to think. Too much at stake. There was a plan D. It was a slap-dash plan and there was a chance it wouldn't work, but it was all there was left. It was that or nothing.

He stepped up onto the roof ledge and watched the expected cab pulling up on the street below as he dialed the number. John stepped out, phone to his ear, already running towards the hospital. Sherlock stopped him, begged him to turn around and go back to where he'd been. There was no way to know where the assassin was waiting. No way to know what they'd do…If the shooter saw his target getting away, he might get jumpy and just take the shot anyway. Sherlock couldn't risk it.

Moriarty wanted a show. He wanted Sherlock's reputation destroyed. He wanted Sherlock destroyed. When Moriarty had threatened to burn the heart out of him, Sherlock had been annoyed at the theatrical absurdity of the threat, but it made sense now. He had a choice between traumatizing his best friend… the man he loved, sacrificing the reputation he'd fought so hard to build, accepting the title of 'freak' and stepping into what could be certain death… or he could step down, save himself, probably restore his reputation… but he'd do it alone, haunted by the knowledge that everyone he cared for was dead. He had no doubt the gunmen were real. Moriarty wasn't THAT unpredictable.

He had to admit, it was an elegant trap. Bravo. Rot in hell you brilliant, evil little bastard. He glanced back at the slowly cooling corpse behind him. Not helpful. He turned away.

John was trying to talk him down, trying to convince him not to do what they both knew was coming. Sherlock's heart broke.

"Friends protect people." John had said this morning. Yes. They did. No matter what it took.

"I'm a fake." The words didn't hurt as much as he'd thought they would. Maybe they simply paled in comparison to the alternatives.

John didn't surprise him by not believing a word. John wasn't brilliant, but he wasn't stupid either. He thought he saw a desperate man at the end of his rope, and he was right about that. He just didn't know the real reason why.

"I made it all up." Tears started down his cheeks. Real tears. A rarity. He let them fall. It was easier than fighting them and it helped sell the scene for anyone watching with their finger on a trigger. He had to give them what they wanted. His voice felt thick and unwieldy in his throat.

"No one could be that clever."

"You could."

He half laughed, strangled with a mix of relief and back-breaking sadness. That was just like John. A tiny part of his brain smiled in spite of it all. To the very end, John believed in him.

He held the conversation out as long as he could, but it couldn't last forever. Gunmen would grow impatient. Someone might try to come up to stop him. John might…

"This phone call… it's my note. -That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?" He forced himself to keep his voice as steady as it could be. This was going to hurt John enough.

"Leave a note… when?"

"Goodbye John."

"No. Sherlock. No. No!" Sherlock hung up. And then, he stepped forward into thin air, and fell.