Chapter 4. It's a double edged sword.
As cliche as it may sound, he could remember it like it happened yesterday.
It was during one of their family parties. Four year old Sherlock Holmes was doing his best to look absorbed as he watched his father and mother "entertain" the guests. He had just been introduced to the Holmes' version of the world -'Oh the things he picks up from Mycroft' - but he was already very aware of what their parents were truly doing. His father is subtly dealing with business while his mother covers it under the guise of small talks. Looking back, he marveled at how his parents could talk about bringing down a business rival over a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and roasted beef.
'Mycroft certainly perfected that skill!'
In the middle of the gathering, he found himself and his brother squeezed in between their parents as the conversation turned into the future of the younger Holmeses. Naturally, Mycroft was first on the plank, and Sherlock couldn't help but be fascinated with the rigidity that quickly enveloped his brother when asked a very harmless question: What do you want to be when you grow up? It was an easy one, something he had asked his brother for a dozen times, each of which he got the same answer. So the young boy was confused with what happened next. Eleven year old Mycroft smiled politely, discreetly flicked his eyes to the left side - a gesture whose significance, Sherlock would only understand after a few years later - before saying with a steady voice that he wants to work for the government.
The declaration was followed with a pat in the head from mother and a chorus of affirmations from the crowd.
"Oh, it wouldn't be hard for a brilliant boy like you!"
"A Holmes boy in the government? Just what we need!"
"I'm sure you'll do great for the country, sweetie."
The brain of little Sherlock wasn't able to process the whole situation with the same astuteness that he now possess, so with a burst of innocence, the little boy raised his voice over the rumblings.
"But Mommy, Mycroft wants to be an animal trainer."
Contented with his honest statement, young Sherlock waited for acknowledgment from the crowd. To his further confusion though, the adults only fell into boisterous laughter and even Mycroft joined with a small chuckle.
"Oh silly little brother, why would I want to be an animal trainer?"
'Because that's what you said.' Sherlock only clamped his fist and his lips.
Later that night, as Mycroft accompanied him to bed, he asked his brother why he lied to the adults and for years to come, he'd remember Mycroft's solemn face as he answered.
"Because that's what they wanted to hear Sherlock."
Through the years, he became more and more acquainted with the complexities of lies and the troublesome web that each word creates. To Sherlock, it made the world more interesting. Each of his cases were built upon lies and the thicker they are the more complex the problem becomes and the more interesting it becomes for him. For that single reason, he held that human behavior in high regards. It made the truth harder to find and over time, the hunt for it provided him with the distraction that his ceaseless mind needs.
But that's where the irony sets in.
Because for a man who likes finding out the truth, Sherlock Holmes sure do lies a lot.
One year ago.
'Oh he's good. James Moriarty is good. Brilliant. Magnificent. Genius. Clever, clever, clever...'
First rule in lying: Tell the truth as if it's a lie
He made the world see him for what he really is. The world's only consulting criminal revealed himself with so much bravado. The Bank of England, the Pentonville outbreak and the Crown Jewels, all of it for one spectacular display of his capabilities. He wanted the whole world to look at him as he strut his way into prison. He wanted his face to be plastered in all media outlets and he wanted everyone to acknowledge his presence, his identity. The message is simple: a criminal with abilities such as his exists for real. James Moriarty is real.
Perhaps, too real.
Second rule in lying: Tell only half the truth.
Sherlock Holmes was the truth behind Moriarty's lies. Get Sherlock. If he claims to be the only consulting criminal, then it only follows that he would seek for the only consulting detective. The court proceedings was his way to establish Sherlock's role in their relationship. He can't exist if Sherlock doesn't, therefore he needs the world to see Sherlock too. The case of Hansel and Gretel - the ambassador's children - was a decoy to get the detective moving. Again, the message is simple: A detective with abilities such as Sherlock's exists for real. Sherlock Holmes is real.
Then he made the girl shout.
That was it. That was the beginning. The root of a lie embedded within the truth.
Third rule in lying: Use misdirection
There was no key. He only used it to get everyone's attention, including Sherlock's and sadly the detective got too caught up with it, before realizing it was all a ruse. Moriarty was right, it was his weakness: wanting everything to be clever.
"All it takes is some willing participant."
Sometimes, the easiest answer is the right one.
Fourth rule in lying: Keep it simple
James Moriarty makes the cases and Sherlock Holmes solves them. An utterly simple dynamic exists between these two persona moving at different sides. Sherlock was supposedly on the good side and Moriarty was on the bad side. Then, when everything was so clear and so distinct, he made a sponge out of Kitty Riley and proceeded to systematically blur the lines with two carefully inserted lies.
One: James Moriarty is a hired actor named Richard Brook.
Two: Richard Brook is hired by Sherlock Holmes.
In other words, James Moriarty never existed, and if there were no villains in the first place, there shouldn't be any heroes.
One is without the other
Simple.
'Yes, he's good. James Moriarty is good. Brilliant. Magnificent. Genius. Clever, clever, clever...'
But so is Sherlock Holmes.
Earlier
He is going to die. Rather, he has to die.
James Moriarty plans to kill him in order to finish this story and as it appears, there is no escaping it. Moriarty has cornered him in all possible ways: a case he can't quite solve, a ruined name and a "kill me" sign slapped in his forehead. The criminal has played him right into this trap and now, Moriarty is going to watch him fall.
"Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."
Well, if he needs to go down, he's prepared to go down. He is Sherlock Holmes after all. He'll go where no man would, but not without taking Moriarty with him. First though, he must prepare for the final act. If James Moriarty wants a show, then he'll make sure the theatrics won't fall short and for that, he needs help.
'I need help.'
A deep sigh reverberated through him as he contemplated on what he was about to do and what he was about to admit. He never liked asking for help because it entails depending on someone's abilities and as it goes, he can't put his full confidence on the results. Unless it comes from him, he can never be assured of the quality of the help he's getting. That doesn't mean he never asked for assistance, but he always made sure that he gets help from those he deems best - 'At least quality could somehow be ensured' - and that they would never make a big impact if the results were opposite of what he expected. Depending on someone lessens efficiency, that is why he prefers doing everything alone. It is all that he have.
'Lately though...'
Also, asking help signifies needing and Sherlock Holmes does not do needing, not in its truest form. That word should might as well be substituted with disappointment in his vocabulary. He had seen and heard enough to know that all he has is himself. The world had made him painfully aware of that. Doing things alone ensures that the result would mount to his expectations and that he won't be disappointed. It protects him.
Asking help implies lacking skills, weakness and owing. A crude smile slipped unto his face as the last word stretched in his mind. It reminded him of the reason why he is currently standing in that darkened room, hidden in the shadowy corner while clinks and bangs of metallic instruments float from the adjacent room. 'Cleaning up. It's almost time'. He never liked the baggage that comes with asking for assistance and now as he hear the scrapings of papers being neatly piled and the clanking of a file cabinet being shoved shut he was again hit with this dislike. This time however, the implications were not the usual. This time, he is asking for help not because he can't do it or he does not know how to do it, but because…
"I don't count."
That was how she saw herself. That's how everybody, including Moriarty, saw her. She thinks that's how he saw her. In light of the recent circumstances, he should be thankful for that opinion because it now appears to be the ace up his sleeves. A sharp-edged ace tearing through his skin. She thinks so lowly of herself, but somehow, what she said insulted him more than her.
Three words. Three simple, ordinary words but she made them mean so much more.
'How could she do that?'
The first thing he remembered when they first met was her name. It wasn't because she was some grand exception to his normal habit of dropping unimportant information. It was simply because he immediately realized that she was one of those people. The ones who seemed to be walking under perpetual sunshine with unfading smiles etched upon their faces. When he laid eyes on the petite woman, he immediately cringed upon the idea that he'll have to deal with her manner. Friendly manner. Overtly friendly manner. She's the kind who is immediately comfortable with first name basis and is uncharacteristically helpful to new acquaintances. Of course his observation was spot on. What he didn't expect was that he'll come to appreciate her friendliness.
John would argue that he did more than appreciate, that he actually abused her friendliness. He never understood where that accusation came from. She was the one willing to do all those things that he asked. It was her way of existing and she was merely playing her role. Being friendly and helpful was her way of identifying who she really is. It was her way of making the world know that she exists. That's the reason why he could never understand why John accuses him of being manipulative. At best, he thinks that Molly is also using him, that she continues to help him because it reaffirms her and the whole world that she is still the same Molly Hooper - the friendly, helpful woman that she's groomed to be. He was using her just as much as she was using him. He never saw where John's sentiment came from.
Until today.
Now he thinks a slap could have been better. A punch in the face could have worked too, something physical, anything that would leave a bruise in his body rather than this niggling feeling just beyond his ribs at the center of his chest.
"I…"
She was always there not because she wanted to but because she knows he needed her. It was never about her or her way of fulfilling her role, it was all him. For him, because of him. With three words, Molly Hooper had just told him how selfish he is .
"…don't..."
It had always been easy to make her say yes, to make her do the things he wants. She's the walking yes as far as he's concerned. Now with so much eloquence, Molly Hooper just told him he is a manipulative git.
"…count."
He could only work with a few people because he is either surrounded by idiots or incompetent ones. She was one of the few who's capabilities he actually believed in. He thought she knew that. Apparently not, because just a few hours ago and with a sentence that have completely different words, she just told him how arrogant he is.
Selfish, manipulative, arrogant. He was called worse but hearing it in a different way, hearing it from her actually made him listen. Maybe because he knows he'll never actually hear those words from her. It would have been better if they tumbled out of her mouth. But no, she'll never say those things because all she ever did was to be honest during that time. Too honest in fact, that her statement came back to him as a mirror. It wasn't enough that she could see right through him, she just had to make him really look at himself. He wondered why she can't just see him in the way other's did. It would make asking for her help easier.
'She's too good for that.'
Always too good. She never saw Moriarty for what he really is because she was too good to believe that someone would use her in the way the criminal did. As a flick of lights being turned off broke the silence of the room, he was gripped by an emotion he could only remember from Baskerville except this time, there was no betrayal from his body. At least not something visible. He never wanted to be equated with Moriarty, that's why he's doing this in the first place. but as light steps move behind him, he was stumped with one question.
'What if she's also too good to believe in him?'
But isn't that what he wanted? For someone to believe in him. For her to believe in him. Because right now, with Moriarty looming at his back and his eminent demise dangling in front of him, he can't seem to believe in himself anymore. At least she would believe in him and for him.
'Wouldn't she?'
When he heard the doorknob twist, he knew it was time to find out.
"If I wasn't everything that you think I am..."
'Because I'm not.'
"...everything that I think I am..."
'Because I can't'
"...would you still want to help me?"
She should say no. Commonsense dictates that she should say no. But even before he raised the question, they both already know the answer. Still, he braced himself as he waited to hear it fall from her mouth.
"What do you need?"
She answered him as if he didn't even ask the question. For he really didn't have to. Instead she skips right to the part where she asks him what she could do to help.
'Could she make asking for help even more painful?'
"You"
She left to do her part on his plan. After his admission, he rapidly fired a simple explanation of what he thinks is going to happen and how he plans to go along with it. He didn't give her any chance to interject, instead he immediately listed down the things he wanted her to do before sending her off. He needed her gone because he has more pressing matters to analyze. Later on, he'll refuse to even acknowledge that these thoughts crossed his mind, but as he's basically a dead man, he allowed himself some slack and his focus reverted back to her last question.
He could have answered her differently. He could have simply launched an explanation of what he needed her to do. He could have immediately dictated his plans and point out her part in it. But, had he opted to answer her in that manner, it would only prove that what he saw in the mirror was right and Sherlock could be rebellious even to himself. Instead, he chose to answer with one word first. It was the truth after all. Only, it's not the truth that she thinks as she scuttles to do his bidding.
She'll never realize it though, because Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant liar.
First rule: Tell the truth as if it's a lie
John is angry with him. If the doctor wasn't so distracted with the condition of Mrs. Hudson, he's sure that by now, he'd be sporting a bleeding nose. Fortunately the blonde man only left with a heated remark, one that weighted him down more than he wanted.
"Friends protect people"
John was right, but so was he.
"Alone is what I have, alone protects me"
He needs to be alone and he has to do everything alone from then on. Being alone had always protected him and he knows for sure that this time, it will continue being a protection from whatever Moriarty is planing. Only the umbrella might have increased five times its original size.
Yes, he needs to be alone.
Because John was right.
Second rule: Tell only half the truth.
The rush of air felt so cold but oddly comforting.
"It's all true."
The wetness in his face however, felt so foreign.
"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty"
His phone ended up broken a few feet away. He won't be needing that now.
"I'm a fake."
His arms somehow felt like lead.
"Tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes"
He raised them like the wings of a bird.
"Nobody could be that clever."
The action won't do much. However, it felt...liberating.
"It's a trick. Its just a magic trick."
The sky looks so grey, so bleak. Not much different with the awaiting pavement below.
"Don't move"
His right foot went first. There was no time to test how it feels.
"Please, will you do this for me?"
He dipped his whole body forward. His other foot left the ledge seconds later.
"That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note"
The rushing images were almost psychedelic. Except for the grey.
"Goodbye, John."
The rush of air felt so cold but oddly comforting.
Third rule: Use misdirection
She helped him wipe the blood off. In the confines of the morgue, he sat on top of the slab as she carefully dabbed a wet towel on his forehead. He watched in silence as she gently wiped across his face, her fingers nimbly touching him and barely making contact. He made no move to stop nor help her. Normally this would have disturbed him, but her close proximity and her gentle actions only brought ease. However, she wouldn't look at him in the eyes.
When the blood was cleared off, she reached to her side for a gauze and as he watched, he realized that even if he was seated and she was standing, he's still towering over her. As she started tending to his wounds, particularly the nasty gash on his left cheek, he noticed the diamond shaped black speck decorating her brown iris.
She still wouldn't look at him in the eyes.
Eventually she moved on from his face to his bloody arm. She continued to move around him, unknowingly enveloping him with the sweet scent he came to know so well. She first applied antiseptic in his wound but at one point, she applied to much pressure, making him flinch in pain and surprise. She immediately said sorry and briefly looked up.
But she still didn't look at him in the eyes.
When she had finished she handed him a change of clothes and his brand new phone. In the midst of the exchange, their fingers momentarily brushed but she neither flinched nor froze, she merely turned her back and marched to her office to give him some privacy.
She left without looking at him in the eyes.
When she came back, he was already dressed and his fingers were hovering above the keypad of his new phone. His plan was already set in motion. All he has to do is step out and start it. He let a sigh escape him before he turned to look at her. She was turning away from him as she started cleaning the slab and putting away the medicine kit. Slowly, he started approaching to stand behind her. She continued wiping the slab clean of his blood and if it weren't for the sudden stiffness of her shoulders, he would have thought that she was oblivious of his presence.
"Thank you." There was really nothing else to say. In fact, he doesn't know what else to say, so he stood watching as she stopped cleaning and slowly turned towards him. He could now see her: the shaky hands, the slightly opened mouth and the red-rimmed eyes, but she still wouldn't look at him. Her eyes remained trained to the floor.
"What are you going to do now?" It was barely a whisper but the deep silence of the morgue allowed him to hear her. She was fidgeting and from the floor, her gaze started to roam towards him, but she didn't lift her chin high enough to look at his face.
'She's really small. 5'3. Barely up my chin.'
He waited for her to lift her gaze higher but only when he saw that she already settled her gaze to his shoulders, did he decide to speak.
"I need to take down Moriarty's network, thread by thread." If the declaration did anything to her, he could not tell, because her face remained passive and her eyes went back to her laced fingers.
"So, that's it then?" Her pale hands were still pinkish with blood. His blood. Somehow, he felt an odd sense of relief with that information. Her colored fingers made him feel acknowledged, because her eyes don't. Not when he can't see the diamond black speck.
"Yes." He could tell her more. He could tell her how he plans to roam around London, possibly even the world, while following up leads about the various criminals and assassins connected to Moriarty but he decided not to. The less she knows, the safer it is for her. There's nothing more he could tell her and with the way she's acting, she doesn't have anything to say to him. Nevertheless, he remained in his position for a few more seconds, observing her, taking in every detail old or new, that he could find in her and generally just committing the memory in his mind palace. Maybe, in between chases, he could find the time to visit that room and he'd be able to find new things inside.
He allowed a few seconds more of the cutting silence, before he drew himself to his full height. "Goodbye Molly Hooper."
Her eyes traveled further upwards, not quite meeting his but close enough. "Goodbye Sherlock."
With a steady gait, he turned around and walked away while doing his best to ignore the heaviness that suddenly enveloped his legs. He was almost at the door when her shaky voice stopped him. "When are you coming back?"
He turned around only to be met with the intense gaze of two almond orbs. Finally. He searched for any sign of emotion on her face as he mulled over the question. Her eyes were redder and glazed and she's biting the inside of her lower lip but her hands weren't laced together anymore. Instead, they fell on her sides, hanging like dead weight on her small body.
His gaze went back to her eyes and a sudden urge to say a number or anything of value, seized him. But the thinker in him immediately quelled it and instead of answering, he only gave her a small smile before quickly moving out of the door.
His legs can't carry him any faster as he walked to increase the distance between him and the morgue. He knows that if he wants to win this battle, he'll need to keep up with his own tales.
He is dead.
Dead to the world. To Lestrade. To Mrs. Hudson.
To John.
...
...
To Molly.
Sherlock Holmes is dead.
Fourth rule: Keep it simple
For all his brilliance. Sherlock Holmes is certainly human in one aspect.
Lying comes as easy as breathing.
a/n Reichenbach feels...sorry not much palace scene!
Anyways, please feel free to leave a review! I know, Sherlock is OOC in this chapter but I just really had to let it out. Please tell me what you think :)
Thanks everyone!
