Chapter Seven

Sherlock stepped out onto the roof as the upbeat strains of the Bee Gees echoed in the air. He had gotten rid of John by having one of his homeless network call him and pretend to be a paramedic, telling him Mrs. Hudson had been shot. It had been a necessary lie.

Sherlock had worked out how much time it would take to get a cab to Baker Street, see Mrs. Hudson was okay, and get a cab back to Bart's. It would be just enough time for John to witness Sherlock's supposed death. Because that was where this whole thing was leading: Moriarty wanted Sherlock dead. So, Sherlock would fake his death to hunt down Moriarty and his crew in anonymity. But he needed a witness to confirm his death. That was where John came in.

Now, if he could just get through his confrontation with Moriarty.

"Here we are at last," called Moriarty from his seat on the edge of the roof. "You and me, Sherlock, and our problem—the final problem." He held his mobile higher, which was where the music was coming from. "Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" Angrily, he switched the phone off.

Sadistic personality disorder indeed, thought Sherlock.

"It's just…" Moriarty held his hand out flat with the palm down and skimmed it slowly through the air, "staying." He pulled his hand back and sunk his head into it briefly.

Sherlock paced around the roof, eyes scanning for any hidden people the criminal mastermind might have stashed around.

"All my life, I've been searching for distractions," said Moriarty. "You were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."

Sherlock's head turned sharply towards him as he paced. Well, he sure seems confident, doesn't he?

"And you know what?" said Moriarty. "In the end, it was easy."

Sherlock stopped and folded his hands behind his back.

"It was easy," said Moriarty quietly, disappointed. "Now, I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary, just like all of them." He lowered his head again and rubbed his face before looking up at Sherlock. "Ah, well." He stood up and walked closer, starting to pace slowly around the detective. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

"Richard Brook," said Sherlock.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do," said Moriarty.

"Of course."

"Attaboy."

"Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach—the case that made my name."

"Just tryin' to have some fun," said Moriarty in a fake American accent. Continuing to pace around him, he looked down to Sherlock's hands and saw that he was tapping out a rhythm with his fingers. "Good. You got that, too."

"Beats like digits. Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head—a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."

"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy."

Sherlock gestured to his own head. "Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty."

Moriarty gazed at him for a moment and then turned away with a disappointed look on his face. "No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy." He buried his head in his hands. "This is too easy." Lowering his hands, he turned back to Sherlock. "There is no key, DOOFUS!" He screamed the last word into Sherlock's face. "Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless."

Sherlock couldn't hide the confusion on his face.

"You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears?" said Moriarty. "I'm disappointed." He turned away and lumbered across the roof, making his voice sound moronic as he continued speaking. "I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."

"But the rhythm—" began Sherlock.

"'Partita number one.' Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach."

"But then how did—"

"Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?" Moriarty turned and spread his arms wide. "Daylight robbery! All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness—you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building—nice way to do it."

Sherlock had been staring blankly into the distance, and he frowned in bewilderment. "Do it? Do—do what?" He blinked as it became clearer to him, and he turned towards Moriarty. "Yes, of course. My suicide."

"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales."

Sherlock walked to the edge of the roof and leaned forward, looking over the side to the ground below.

Moriarty walked to stand beside him and looked over the side as well. "And pretty Grimm ones, too." He turned his head and looked ominously at Sherlock.

Sherlock turned towards Moriarty. "I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."

"Oh, just kill yourself," said Moriarty, exasperated. "It's a lot less effort."

Sherlock turned away, pacing distractedly.

"Go on," said Moriarty. "For me." He made his voice into a high-pitched squeal for the next word. "Pleeeeease!"

In a sudden movement, Sherlock grabbed him by the collar of his coat with both hands and spun him around so that Moriarty's back was to the drop. He stared into his face and then shoved him back one step nearer the edge. Moriarty looked at him with interest.

"You're insane," said Sherlock.

Moriarty blinked. "You're just getting that now?"

Sherlock shoved him further back, now holding him over the edge.

Moriarty whooped almost triumphantly and gazed back at him with no fear in his eyes, holding his hands out wide and committing himself to Sherlock's grasp. "Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."

Sherlock frowned.

"Your friends will die if you don't," said Moriarty savagely.

Fear began to creep into Sherlock's eyes. "John…"

"Not just John," said Moriarty, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Everyone."

"Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock.

Moriarty smiled delightedly, voice still a whisper. "Everyone."

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now."

Furiously, Sherlock pulled him back upwards to safety.

Moriarty stared into his face. "Unless my people see you jump."

Sherlock gazed past him, breathing heavily and lost in horror.

Moriarty shook himself free of his grasp and smiled triumphantly. "You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die…unless—"

"Unless I kill myself…complete your story," said Sherlock, staring down towards the pavement.

Moriarty nodded and smiled ecstatically. "You've gotta admit that's sexier."

Sherlock allowed his gaze to become distant and lost, trying to sell the despair. "And I die in disgrace."

"Of course," said Moriarty in a matter-of-fact tone. "That's the point of this."

Sherlock continued to stare at the ground, feigning shock while plotting out exactly where they would put the airbag and where he would have to plant John.

"It won't work, you know."

Shocked by the abrupt change in topic and tone, Sherlock frowned as he looked up at the man, who was smiling. "What won't work?"

"Yours and 'Big Brother's' plan to fake your death and then hunt me and my people down in secrecy," Moriarty told him with a very sober face.

Sherlock could not stop the surprised blink of his eyes as his jaw twitched slightly before he could school his features.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," grumbled Moriarty. "We're better than that, and you know it. Of course I figured out your little plan, pathetic and boring as it was." He gave a smug smirk. "It won't work."

Sherlock hesitated a moment before gritting his teeth together. "And why is that?"

Moriarty reached into his pocket and withdrew a small device with a screen on it, almost like a PDA. The screen showed a blood pressure of 124/81, a body temperature of 36.3 degrees Celsius, O2 saturation of 98%, lung respirations of 14, and a pulse (with an actual EKG readout) of 94. Sherlock stared at it, realizing the monitor was beating at the same time his own heart was.

"Biometric scanner," Moriarty told him. "My own design." He lowered the monitor in front of him and looked down at it. "Quite genius, if I do say so myself." He looked back up at Sherlock. "See, the genius of it is, the thing swims through the bloodstream and burrows into the spinal column. Attaches right to the brainstem and won't release until its host is dead."

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "How?"

"Your flat, day of the verdict," Moriarty answered. He smiled. "The key code wasn't the only thing I planted."

Sherlock's gaze fell to the roof as he brought up his memory of that visit. Moriarty hadn't touched anything but the apple. How did…? Then, it came to him.

Sherlock swept the bow of his violin towards John's armchair, but Moriarty stepped past it to Sherlock's chair. Moriarty had passed by the tea, his hand hovering over the cup of milk on the tray.

Sherlock's eyes closed as the truth of his situation hit him. "The tea."

"Very good," praised Moriarty. "So, you see, there is no cheating this. Each of those snipers has a transponder just like this, and if your heart does not stop, they will kill your only three friends." He smiled. "Seems as though you are well and truly—" he put on a British accent for the next word, "buggered."

Sherlock sighed, hanging his head in defeat. No…no…

Moriarty looked over the side and saw that someone had stopped at the benches near the bus stop below them and several other people were in the vicinity. "Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop." He rolled his head from side to side on his neck. "Go on."

Sherlock slowly stepped past him and up onto the ledge, staring down at the pavement below.

"I told you how this ends," said Moriarty.

Sherlock's breathing became shaky as he looked down.

"Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers," said Moriarty. "I'm certainly not gonna do it." He turned his head and looked up at his enemy expectantly.

Sherlock blinked anxiously as he glanced down at him. "Would you give me…one moment, please? One moment of privacy? Please?"

Moriarty looked away, slightly disappointed. "Of course." He moved away across the roof.

Sherlock stared around at the surrounding buildings. Oh, my God, this is it…

He took a breath to prepare himself for the plunge when suddenly, Moriarty's words came back to him.

"Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."

Sherlock lifted his gaze as the world brightened around him. This was it: his way out. He wouldn't have to abandon John after all. He would be able to stay in London and not have to give his life. Oh, it's Christmas!

A smile slowly spread across his face, and he started to chuckle, the chuckles rising into delighted laughter.

"What?" Moriarty exclaimed behind him.

Sherlock only continued to laugh at Moriarty's ignorance of his slip-up.

"What is it?" asked Moriarty angrily.

Sherlock half-turned on the ledge, smiling towards him as the man glared back.

"What did I miss?" demanded Moriarty, seemingly infuriated at Sherlock's continued glee.

Sherlock hopped down off the ledge and walked closer to him. "'You're not going to do it'? So, the killers can be called off, then; there's a recall code or a word or a number." He circled around his prey as Moriarty stared at the roof, not quite getting it yet. "I don't have to die…" his voice became sing-song as he allowed some of his rare enjoyment to come out, "if I've got you."

"Oh!" The pieces clicked as Moriarty laughed in relieved delight. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes. So do you."

"Sherlock, Mycroft and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

Sherlock stopped and got into his face. "Yes, but I'm not Mycroft, remember? I am you—prepared to do anything, prepared to burn, prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

Moriarty shook his head slowly. "Nah. You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary—you're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock's voice became more ominous. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels…but don't think for one second…that I am one of them."

The two of them locked eyes for a long moment while Moriarty tried to deduce how far Sherlock would go.

Moriarty's calculating stare morphed into a wide-eyed one. "No…you're not." He blinked, closing his eyes briefly.

Sherlock did likewise in relief.

Moriarty smiled and opened his eyes again. "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." He hissed out a delighted laugh, and his voice became more high-pitched. "You're me! Thank you!" He lifted his right hand as if to embrace Sherlock, but then lowered it and offered it to him to shake instead. "Sherlock Holmes."

They both looked down at the offered hand, and then Sherlock slowly raised his own right hand and took it.

Moriarty nodded almost frenetically, although his voice stayed soft. "Thank you. Bless you." He blinked and lowered his gaze as if blinking back tears. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out." He continued to blink with his gaze lowered. "Well, good luck with that."

In rapid succession, Moriarty raised his eyes to Sherlock's, grinned manically, opened his mouth wide and pulled Sherlock closer while he reached into his waistband with his other hand and pulled out a pistol, raising it towards his own mouth. As Sherlock instinctively pulled back, crying out in alarm, Moriarty stuck the muzzle into his own mouth and pulled the trigger, dropping to the roof instantly. Sherlock stared in horror as blood began to trickle across the roof underneath Moriarty's head.

No… Sherlock thought as he stared at the body. No, no, no…

Not that he would keep Moriarty alive if he had a choice, but to lose his last hope of sparing John any pain in his passing, of saving his own life…

Moriarty's eyes were fixed and open, and there was a smile of victory upon his face. Sherlock spun away from him, his breathing noisy and frantic as he raised his hands to his head in horror. Holding his sleeve up over his mouth in horror, he turned to look again at Moriarty's fixed grin. Moriarty's coat had opened upon his face, and laying half-out of an inside pocket was the monitor.

Sherlock stepped forward and snatched it from the ground, holding it up in front of him. The blood pressure had risen to 140/96, the body temperature had gone up a half degree, the respirations were 28, and the pulse had risen to a frantic 132. The snipers…They knew he was still alive. What time limit had Moriarty given them before they acted? How long did he have before his friends were killed?

Sherlock slowly turned towards the edge of the building. His breathing began to slow as he stepped up onto the ledge, blowing out another breath and looking down towards the ground. In the street below, a taxi pulled up, one that Sherlock knew John would be in. Sherlock dropped the monitor to the roof and pulled out his phone, speed dialing and putting the phone to his ear.

The answering phone began to ring on the other line as the taxi's rear door opened and John got out, raising a phone to his ear as he trotted towards the hospital. "Hello?"

"John," said Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now," said Sherlock firmly.

"No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask," said Sherlock frantically. "Please."

John came to a stop and turned around, looking around in bewilderment. "Where?"

Sherlock paused as he waited for John to reach a spot almost directly across from him on the pavement. Finally, John had reached his position, the position originally meant to provide cover behind the ambulance station so John wouldn't see the airbag. "Stop there."

John came to a stop, looking around. "Sherlock?"

"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

John turned and looked up, and Sherlock didn't need to see his face to know that he was staring at him in horror. "Oh, God…"

"I…I…I can't come down, so we'll…we'll just have to do it like this," said Sherlock vaguely, not yet able to bring himself to spell it out for him.

"What's going on?" John asked anxiously.

"An apology," said Sherlock, pausing for a moment. "It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." Sherlock looked around briefly at his enemy's grinning body lying behind him.

John was silent for a long moment. "Why are you saying this?"

Sherlock turned back to look down at him, his voice surprisingly breaking. "I'm a fake."

"Sherlock—"

"The newspapers were right all along," said Sherlock tearfully. "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. The first time we met—the first time we met—you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

Sherlock laughed and gazed down at his friend, a tear dripping from his chin. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you." He sniffed quietly. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

He could see John shaking his head repeatedly. "No. All right, stop it now." He started to walk towards the hospital entrance.

"No, stay exactly where you are!" Sherlock told him urgently. He had to stay there! "Don't move."

John stopped and backed up, holding up his hand towards Sherlock in capitulation. "All right."

Breathing rapidly and knowing this was the last time Sherlock would ever see his friend, he stretched out a hand towards his friend. "Keep your eyes fixed on me." His voice became frantic. How much time was left? "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call—it's, er…" Sherlock hesitated, knowing that once he made his intentions clear that that would be it. It would be time to go. "It's my note." He paused again, letting that sink in. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

John shook his head, momentarily taking his phone from his ear before raising it again, his voice shaky. "Leave a note when? Sherlock—"

"John, listen to me." Sherlock paused, making sure he had John's attention. And, apparently, his tone of voice worked, as John stopped talking. "I am and always shall be…your friend."

"Sherlock—"

"Goodbye, John."

John shook his head. "No. Don't."

Sherlock gazed down at his friend for several seconds and then lowered his arm and dropped the phone onto the roof, gazing ahead of himself.

John lowered his own phone and screamed upwards. "No—SHERLOCK!"

"I'm sorry, John…" Sherlock whispered as he spread his arms and took the final step forward.


Yes, I actually did it. Sherlock is dead. But, hey, this is Sherlock we're talking about here! You don't think I would leave it that way, would you? Hint: "Search for Spock"