Author's Note: You guys are too good to me. Seriously. Thank you, the-art-of-escape, The Science of Deduction-SH, hubblybubbly, EmJoy789, Madeline Khill, The Gift of Insanity, Bunnyrabbit100, and bnd26 for reviewing, favoriting, or following my story! You make it worth writing :)
the-art-of-escape: Well, I hope I'm able to show my perspective of Sherlock's perspective of the "I Don't Count" scene (which was super monumental for Molly in the show). And you touched on what is going to be a big part of coming chapters . . . the Molly-Moriarty connection. I'm afraid you'll just have to wait and see :) (Oh, and I usually keep my PM off. Sorry)
The Science of Deduction-SH: Oh, okay, I see what you mean . . . sorry, everyone! Fanfiction was being weird with my formatting . . . Thanks for pointing that out! I went back and fixed it. Let me know if that happens again! :)
I am SOOOO sorry about the long wait. Next chapter will come super quickly! 3
Chapter Eight
Sherlock
"I . . . owe . . . you . . ." I mutter, unable to get Moriarty's words out of my head, his sneering tone, his almost cheerful mocking. He owes me. He owes me a fall. But a fall can be so many different things. Which type does he mean?
Molly works quietly beside me, just like always when I come into Barts to use the microscope. And for a moment, everything is right, everything is normal. I have Molly by my side and John covering my back, and together we can rule the world.
I . . . owe . . . you . . .
"Glycerol molecule," I say to myself, squinting at it as though it were being rather rude for not revealing to me what it is. "What are you?"
Silence, for a moment, blessed silence. Then: "What did you mean, "I owe you"?" She looks at me. "You said "I owe you"." Ugh. Molly. Stop talking.
Though it was a nice change, I'll admit, from yelling and screaming and being mad. A strange change—making me wonder what caused it—but I make the snap decision to put on my blinders and appreciate it, rather than question it like I so often do.
I ignore her, hoping she'll give up, but she persists. "You were muttering while you were working."
"Nothing," I tell her quickly, studying the microscope. "Mental note."
She hesitates, and for a second I almost think I've won and the silence will endure, but then she says, "You're a bit like my dad. He's dead."
I'm not looking at her, but it's like I can hear her wince. "Oh, sorry."
Really? Is this what normal people do in their spare time? Make small talk about useless, stupid things?
"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation, it's really not your area." My words are cold and harsh, but I want to hurt her, want to make her feel pain so she'll stop. She's teetering on the edge, and I can't let her know I'm going to—
"When he was . . . dying, he was always cheerful, he was lovely." Molly gazes at me, my insults bouncing off her like photons bounce off light surfaces. I can feel my heart speed up, and I'm scared of her next words. Because she knows me, she knows I'm being my own version of cheerful, so she must know I'm a dead man walking.
"Except when he thought no one could see," she continues, an ominous edge to her tone. Her face changes, and I can tell she's remembering a stolen moment from so long ago. "I saw him once. He looked . . . sad."
"Molly . . ." I warn her, my voice dangerously calm. She can't find out, she can't find out, she can't find out. It would hurt her too much, and it would hurt me to see her hurt.
She persists, recklessly throwing away danger. "You look sad. When you think he can't see you." I glance over at John, caring John, John my best friend, John the greatest man ever put on this Earth, John who doesn't understand at all.
"Are you okay?" I open my mouth, about to reassure her that I am, but she beats me to it. "And don't just say that you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."
There is a little flaw in her explanation, and I know why it's there. I look sad around her because I don't need not be sad. Molly is there for me when John is leaving me for his sister, Molly is there for me when I need to get away and use the microscope and sit in complete and utter silence, Molly is there for me when I need to make horrible deductions about someone, and Molly is there for me when I need to let my shields down and look sad.
But I'm suddenly realizing that she doesn't know that.
"You can see me," I remind her, and she gives an awkward half-smile, as though the answer were obvious. "I don't count."
For the first time in my life, I am thoroughly and utterly shocked. If someone were to poke me, I would fall over. Staring at Molly, at her brown hair with the wispy fly-aways, at her imperfect face and her deep understanding eyes, I can't possibly comprehend why she would think a thing like that. She is so, so wrong. So entirely wrong.
She is truly the only one I can wholly and completely trust. With others, I play little games—insulting them, deducing them, ignoring them. With Molly, I just be who I am, with no shields or barriers, no nothing, because I know that, no matter what, she will accept me. She will take me in with open arms and love me, and give me a shoulder to cry on and a tissue to wipe my eyes.
Am I really that bad? Have I really acted so disinterested and so indifferent that I have distanced her, ruined her, made her think that I don't care about her? If being myself is that bad, then . . . well, maybe I do deserve to die.
Molly's talking, and I make myself focus on her. I have to win her back. I have to show her that she does count. "What I'm trying to say is if there's anything I can do, anything you need—anything at all—you can have me."
Molly pauses, almost smiling at her awkward mistake, but, inside, I feel . . . wanted, needed. I feel like maybe it would matter if I died—to someone other than myself, I mean.
No.
No, I cannot let this happen. I cannot let her start to care about me again, just to have me die. It would hurt her too much, and that's not fair. Because while Molly understands about looking sad when you're alone, I understand loving someone who's dead, and how painful that is.
Molly corrects herself hurriedly, "No, I just mean . . ." She takes a breath, and I restrain my impulse to interrupt her. "I mean . . ."
And suddenly the wind goes out of her and she gives up, as if anticipating my next words. "It's fine."
Here it is. Here's my chance. I have to fulfill her every worst expectation, make her hate me, so that when I die—when I die—maybe it won't hurt as bad.
"But what could I need from you?" I ask, trying to sound perplexed.
"Nothing." She shakes her head, as genuinely perplexed as I was trying to be. "I don't know."
Does she really think that? Does she really think that she means so little? How can she think that? What drove her to this level of insecurity?
I don't know. And I hate not knowing.
She purses her lips, as if waiting, but I have no idea what for. So I wait with her, and she eventually gives up. "You could probably say "Thank you", actually."
Yes. Finally, some exertion. She needs to gain confidence. I can't shut her down.
So I humor her. I open my mouth, about to say it—but something stops me. How do I say it, those all-important, seemingly harmless two little words? I have never said them before, as I recall. So how do I phrase it? Not sarcastic—certainly not. Maybe . . . apologetic? No, that wouldn't work either. Frowning with effort, I try to make it as clean and simple as possible. "Thank you."
No, no, no, that was terrible. That came out all wrong. But I can get this. I just need to practice.
Practice . . . wait, what? When would I ever need to say that again?
Moving past me, Molly says, "I'm just going to get some crisps, do you want anything?" Before I can say "no", she answers for me, "That's okay, I know you don't."
Whoa . . . hold up! Since when can you deduce me quicker than I can deduce you?
This entire conversation has been incredibly puzzling. Molly acting so strangely, saying the oddest, most unpredictable, un-Molly-like things, her apparent knowledge of what I'm going to say before I say it, my deduction powers evidently not working. It's quite frustrating.
Nope, I'm not going to let you win this time, you little brown-haired fox. "Well, actually I'll—"
She doesn't even turn around. "I know you don't."
I sit back in my chair. Okay, maybe you won this time.
But that doesn't mean it isn't extremely attractive.
Barts is cold tonight, filling me with a sense of foreboding. I wait in the dark, staring at nothing, letting my thoughts swirl around me.
She said she would help. She asked if there was anything she could do. And it's true—she's the only one, the only one who could possibly help me now.
Footsteps on tile floor and the sound of light switches being flipped off—accompanied by the following darkness—greet me, and Molly Hooper walks into the lab, not even noticing me. I let her get to the door—even grasp the handle—before saying, "You're wrong, you know."
She gasps and whirls around, her hand at her heart, but I take no notice of her fright. I'm too aware of my own pain, the pain that comes with putting one you love in danger.
Because I do love Molly Hooper. She's my friend. She's always there for me. She, and John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade—they're all my friends. They're all there for me.
But if they're all there for me—why am I choosing Molly?
Maybe it's because she dated Moriarty, and dumped him. Maybe it's because Moriarty will overlook her. Maybe it's because I believe she's as strong—if not stronger, somehow—than the rest.
My words are bordered with thickness, the closest I've ever come to crying. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." This time, I'm not trying to get a favor. This time, I'm not trying to make up for some cruel deduction. This is the truth, pure and simple. "But you were right," I say, this time looking at her, at her pale, shocked face, at her simple, modest clothes, at everything that makes her . . . her, Molly. "I'm not okay."
"Tell me what's wrong." Her face, her eyes, her body—I soak it up, beholding it, enjoying it, memorizing it, just in case this doesn't work out. Just in case she can't help me. Just in case I fall.
Because let's face it.
She's my last hope.
"Molly," I say, approaching her, the slight quiver in my voice betraying my fear and desperation, "I think I'm going to die."
I search her face and—yes! Yes, there it is! That helpful, encouraging, love-look—I've found it. It's there. I'm not alone anymore.
And something about the way she was looking at me made me . . . well, it made me not want to die.
"What do you need?"
"If I wasn't everything you think I am," I tell her, advancing, warning her with my eyes, "everything that I think I am . . ." I come to rest only a couple feet away from her, and I can read everything about her expression, every little twitch, every tiny flicker.
And the scary thing is, I think she can read me just the same.
My eyes beg her, my expression implores her. " . . . would you still want to help me?"
She gives me that set, determined Molly-look I do believe I have fallen in love with. "What do you need?"
I take another step forward, closing the distance between us, my visage brimming with tenderness. I take a deep, internal breath, and tell her the truth. "You."
As I step out onto the sunlit rooftop, I contemplate how others would handle a situation like this. A nostalgic man might take a deep breath, contemplate the surroundings, feel the warm sun for a time last. A weak man might sob or whimper, thinking of loved ones, or beg for his life. But I am a straight-forward man, and I do only what straight-forward men do—I get it over with.
Moriarty is waiting for me, sitting rather precariously on the edge of the roof—just as he sits so precariously on the edge of death. He doesn't turn as I approach, just continues listening to "Stayin' Alive" on his mobile—probably purely for my ironic mind to devour. "Well," he announces, "here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock. And our problem, the final problem."
As he babbles on about some nonsense, I partially mute him, so that his voice is just a nasally drone in the background, like a car radio. I survey the immediate surrounds, and feel my heart dip as I eliminate one option, two options, three options.
"Stayin' alive!" Moriarty exclaims whiningly, holding up his phone, blaring the music. He glares at it, as if it were the mobile's fault. "It's so boring, isn't it!"
He switches off the music rather violently, and I resist the urge to stare at his psychotic impulses. "It's just . . ." Moriarty moves his hand in a straight line, possibly to indicate a—boring—timeline, "staying . . ." He puts his head in his hands, exhausted by the notion. I try to ignore his actions and continue scanning, but his words hit me hard. I can't pretend that they weren't mine, at one point, too.
But that was before I met John and Molly.
"All my life I've been searching for distractions," he complains, staring off into the distance, "You were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you."
I could say the same. The exact same.
"Because I've beaten you."
I look sharply at him, the irony in his statement almost—almost—reducing me to laughter. But the certainty in his voice stops me. What if he knows something I don't, something different, something more.
I always knew I wasn't going to make it off the rooftop alive, but I knew he would never lower himself to shooting me. As he told me the day we met, "I don't like to get my hands dirty." No, he would do something cleaner, classier—the fall. He would make me jump.
And I would fall.
But Moriarty doesn't know about Molly.
"And you know what?" Moriarty's tone is taunting, so taunting, but I don't fall into his trap. "In the end, it was easy."
I remember my own words from so long ago, spoken to John when I first met him: "That's the frailty of geniuses; they're always so desperate to be caught." And when John questioned me, I said something like, "They want credit," and you know what? It's true. Too true. I have to literally bite my tongue to keep from blurting out my plan to Moriarty, just to see the look on his face.
Moriarty closes his eyes, as if it pains him to repeat, "It was easy." I can see him internally sigh. "Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people." Moriarty sounds . . . exhausted, so exhausted, and I involuntarily sympathize. I've been thinking the exact same thing.
We are alike, aren't we?
"And it turns out you're ordinary, just like the rest of them!" Moriarty puts his face in his hand again, and I watch him cooly.
And then suddenly his face changes, becoming playful—like a little boy's—rather than a tired old man's, so quickly it's like he switched personalities entirely. "Oh, well . . ."
He leaps up and starts circling me, and I have to fight to not track his moments. His voice has changed again, into a deep, brooding tone, as he says, "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real?"
I can hear the joviality in his voice. "Did I nearly get ya?"
No. Never. I could never forget what you did to John, or Molly, or what your goons did to Mrs. Hudson, or the way you antagonized Lestrade and his police force. Never. I will never forget.
"Richard Brook," I say, a speck of malice darting into my voice, but Moriarty doesn't catch it.
He sounds disappointed, like a young boy who has made a clever reference that no one understands. "Nobody seems to get the joke. But you do." His tone is challenging, goading me, Do you? Do you really? Come on, Sherlock. Put on a show for Daddy.
"Of course," I humor him. He sounds pleased, very pleased—proud of his prized pupil. "Attaboy."
"Rich Brook in German is Rechinbach," I say, still staring off into that distant, invisible spot, thinking back to that day when I became the Rechinbach Hero, so far away now, when everything was right, everything was happy. "The case that made my name." Some of the aching for that day lingers in my voice before I shove it—quite rudely—out of my mind palace forever.
"Just trying to have some fun," Moriarty jibes nasally, still circling, obviously thinking he's already won. Ohh, Jim. You should know I'm not going down without a fight.
Suddenly he stops, right in front of me. An arrogant sneer crosses his face, turning his visage dark. "Isn't it funny how love blinds women?" The cocky smirk plastered on him tells me who he's talking about.
Molly.
"Molly, Molly, Molly, now she's a doll," he drawls, and I force myself to stay in one place, motionless, but internally I'm reeling. My blood is pumping full force and for the first time in my life, I want to punch the smile right off his face, I want to get physical, I want to make him hurt.
But I don't. Because if I do, everything is lost. Because if I do—if I give in to my petty, human emotions—he's already won.
"I learned so much from her, being "Jim from IT"," Moriarty continues, still circling me, like a hawk intent on its prey, or the vulture, come to scavenge the remains. "So many secrets. I learned about John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, but most importantly about you." Suddenly he stops, his face only an inch away from mine, and it takes all my self control not to jerk my head back. "About how you don't even care a wit about her." Moriarty almost winces in sympathetic regret. "Bet you wish you did now. Bet you wish she were there to help you, to pick up the pieces."
He pulls away, and inside I sigh in relief, finally breaking my ice-cold stare into nothingness as he walks to the ledge and peeks over. "Now, shall we finish the game?"
I follow him, looking down at the pavement also, wondering how I'm going to survive this, if I'm going to survive this. I resist gulping and step back from the edge. "Yes, of course." This hurts. "My suicide." Why does this hurt so much?
All my life I've learned to block things out, to only skim the surface of emotions, never delve deep. Pull back and you won't get hurt. Pull back and nothing can touch you.
I never realized that pulling back can hurt, too.
I'm in uncharted waters, treading on unmapped ground. Everything is new and ready to be tested, but that's the thing about fresh ideas—you never know what will fit and what will blow up in your face.
"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud,'" Moriarty tells me pompously, and I can tell that in his mind, he's already won.
"Go on," Moriarty encourages, but the excitement has gone out of his voice. He sounds almost—bored, now. I think back to countless hours lounging in the chair at Baker Street, being rude to Mrs. Hudson and annoying John, with the dull, fog-like haze of boredom over me constantly, infuriating me. I would watch John go out and have fun with girlfriends and old friends, and he hardly ever seemed bored.
I was so jealous.
"For me," Moriarty asks. He makes a horrible high-pitched squealing sound as he begs, "Pleeeas—"
I can't control it any longer. I seize him by his collar and haul him over to the edge, him completely in my power, I—with one flick of my hand—able to end his life. It wouldn't be me falling, it would be him, and the splat on the pavement would be the final high note in our dramatic opera.
Time slows down. I shake Moriarty, teasing the "permanent destination" of the fall, and I feel an almost overwhelming sense of achievement when I see something like shock in his eyes.
But I can't. I just can't. No matter how hard I try to release my grip and send him plummeting over the edge, my hands are in fixed fists. And as he dangles over the edge, I can see the fear on his face, and I imagine him falling, twirling down to meet the ground and be lost from the world forever.
But, I just . . . can't.
"You're insane," I spit, somehow managing to put all my hatred, all the venom and malice I've been feeling since the day I met this man—if you can call him that—into those two tiny words.
But Moriarty only blinks. "You're just getting that now?"
I shove him closer, feeling my grip loosen minutely, and I hope and beg that it will slacken completely sometime in the next five seconds.
And Moriarty knows it. "Whoa, whoa, whoa . . ." He stares me down. "Let me give you a little extra incentive," he says, his sportive manner evaporating. "Your friends will die if you don't."
I almost release him in surprise, but I catch myself just in time. So this is the part I was missing, the last critical piece of the entire spectacular plan.
I don't bother hiding my shock. Moriarty could see it anyway. "John?" I say, fear dripping into my voice, and John's face—his annoyed, exasperated, funny-looking face—appears before my eyes. I think of having to lose that face, and all the jokes, laughter, rectifying, and friendship that goes with it, and I have already decided what I'm going to do.
"Not just John," Moriarty says with a condescending, sadistic smile on his face. "Everyone!" His whisper seems to have a fun, upbeat ring to it, and I am reminded by a wave of anger how much I hate him.
"Mrs. Hudson?" I ask, a terrified quaver to my voice as my annoying, motherly, overprotective—yet so, so strong—landlady comes into view, and I try to imagine Baker Street without her.
England would fall.
"Everyone!" Moriarty revels in his power, and I am helpless in it.
"Lestrade?" I quiver, hoping that somehow good, trusting, DI Lestrade would be spared, but Moriarty's cruel look tells me otherwise. Lestrade comes into frame, sighing and laughing at the same time, as he so often does around me, and I can't bear to think what shambles the police force would fall to without his humble, intelligent ways.
I can't even dare to hope at this point that Molly is still alive. If Moriarty's snipers are watching my friends' every move, than they've seen what she's doing and put an end to it.
And then Moriarty says, "Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims", and I realize what he's missing.
Three. He said three. Not Molly. Molly's been missed. Molly's been overlooked. Mousy Molly, the insecure pathologist, has been discounted.
Uh, that's not everyone, Moriarty.
I almost laugh. He's made the most fatal mistake of them all, and I can imagine the glare Molly would give him if she were here now.
But that doesn't discredit the peril my other friends are in now, supplemented by Moriarty's vicious, "There's no stopping them now," ending in a cruel whisper and a hintof a savage smile.
I pull him up violently, staring at the street below, with all the normal people walking to and from their normal days in their exceedingly normal lives.
Moriarty puts his lips next to my ear. "Unless my people see you jump."
It's okay. Everything will be fine, right? Molly will have the landing pad prepared for me, right? Right?
But what about the others? John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade? Will everything be okay for them? Or will the snipers not be fooled by our charade and shoot my friends—my only friends—anyway?
Moriarty withdraws his face from mine and stands before me, grinning with exhilaration and a bit of heartless sadism. But I'm not looking at him, I'm staring at the ground, at the countless people there, thinking of how happily oblivious they are, thinking with grim imagination my crumpled body, bloody and smashed, on the street, thinking and pleading and hoping that Molly and my homeless network and everything else is perfectly ready and put into place.
Moriarty is beyond pleased, I can tell. "You can have me arrested. You can torture me. You can do anything you like with me." Moriarty almost seems to want me to do this, just so I will fail. "But nothing's going to stop them from pulling the trigger." He's bordering on gloating, and I feel a wave of fury roll over me. He gets up in my face just to annoy me: "Unless . . ."
"Unless I kill myself, complete your story," I finish distantly, still staring at that faraway, distant place so far below. Where are they? Where is my homeless network? Are they here? Are they coming? Will they get here in time? Moriarty nods along, agreeing, and gives a dry laugh. "You've got to admit, that's sexier."
"And I die in disgrace," I say darkly, letting my devastation seep into my voice, hoping to convince Moriarty that I've given up hope.
He eats it up. "Of course." He squints at me as though I was a bit slow. "That's the point of this." Moriarty sounds so matter-of-fact, like a human life wasn't worth more than an ant on the ground's, that I almost hate to disappoint him.
Because I can't give up. I won't give up.
I don't want to die.
"Oh," Moriarty articulates, looking over the dizzyingly high edge at the people below, "you've got an audience now." I join him in staring at the street below, and a thrill flies into my heart. I recognize three of the most active participants in my homeless network loitering around down there, looking normal.
My heart starts beating faster. Everything was, slowly but surely, falling into place. Now all I need is the final piece.
John.
Moriarty looks at me, gesturing to the ledge invitingly. "Off you pop," he declares forcefully. When I hesitate, he tilts his head, indicating the protrusion on the roof, ordering, "Go on."
Reluctantly, I step up onto the ledge, looking out at the average, peaceful day in London being average and peaceful.
I can't miss the bold arrogance in his next words, "I told you how this ends." I breathing hard now, partially from anger and loathing towards the man who would be so callous as to endanger my only friends in the world to get to me, and partially from fear.
Fear of the fall.
"Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers." Moriarty sounds almost rueful, almost apologetic, but all overlaid with an off-hand calmness. "I'm certainly not going to do it."
He looks up at me, and I look away from him, not wanting to meet his eye. But I have to text Molly, some way, to let her know which plan to use. "Would you give me . . ." I take a deep breath, trying to act as though all hope was lost, " . . . one moment, please . . ." I swallow, continuing my portrayal, "One moment of privacy. Please?" I can't mask my desperation. If he doesn't look the other way, then Molly won't know when to put the mat out—or if the put the mat out—and I really will die.
I can't distinguish Moriarty's face. He seems . . . disappointed. "Of course."
He walks towards the other end of the roof, and I relax, grateful for the time to think. My mind is racing, whirling, leaping, perhaps faster than it ever has before, and every word that Moriarty has spoken during our encounter flashes through my mind—"Our problem, the final problem . . . Because I've beaten you . . . In the end, it was easy . . . Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims . . . You're death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers . . . I'm certainly not going to do it . . .
Wait.
I freeze, and my brain rewinds, and Moriarty's annoying drawl replays in my mind, "I'm certainly not going to do it."
I'm certainly not going to do it.
I'm certainly not going to do it.
And I can't help it—I start smiling. Then grinning. Then giggling. Then full-blown laughter, the hardest I've laughed in weeks, chortles and chuckles and everything else.
Moriarty whirls around, his face beset in anger. "What? What is it?" he demands. When I keep laughing, he screeches, "What did I miss?!"
Gracefully, I step off the edge. I won't have to fall, won't have to go through with this whole hoax, won't have to be dead. Because if I can get Moriarty to somehow reveal the OFF button to his whole scheme—which I have no doubt that I can—I can call off his killers, have him arrested, and be re-welcomed—with many elaborate apologies—as the city's very own Reinchinbach Hero.
"You're not going to do it?" I ask challengingly, mocking him in undertone. Come on, Jim. That the best you can do?
Moriarty blinks, confused, and I can just detect a hint of anger at himself. "So the killers can be called off, then, there's a recall code or a word or a number." I hiss, taunting him, mocking him with a condescending tone just as he did to me mere seconds ago.
I circle him, mirroring his previous actions, feeling . . . good. Feeling right. Feeling on top of the world again, winning, beating him. "I don't have to die . . ." I gloat, and I'm so happy that my words come out singsong, "If I've got you!"
"Oh . . ." Moriarty struggles to recover quickly, trying to keep his dignity in tact. "You think you can make me stop the order, you think you can make me do that?" His tone is doubtful, but I know that he knows that I can do it.
"Yes," I confirm, and half-whisper knowingly, "So do you."
I like this. This is fun, throwing his words, his clever tauntings, back in his face.
He tries to drawl it, tries to make it seems obvious, like I was kidding myself, but I can see through it: "Sherlock, your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to do."
I sweep in front of him, getting up-close and personal with his face, "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" I am not Mycroft. Sure, he's not exactly ordinary, but I am not Mycroft.
I stare him down, looking right through his eyes. "I am you," I say simply. It's true. Together, we make up the elite level of non-ordinariness that makes life so easy and so impossible all at once. "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."
But Moriarty is shaking his head, half-sadly. "Nah." He shakes his head more. "You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels."
Oh, Jim. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels," I say, thinking of the true angels—John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. Molly. "But don't think for one second that I am one of them."
No. I am not an angel. No. I am far from it. I am the Devil reincarnated in human form, a demon from Hell disguised as a saint. No. No, I am not an angel.
And in that moment, Moriarty sees it. He sees the depths of my non-angelic soul, the secret darkness I so often hide. "No," he says, a sense of wonderment in his voice, "You're not." He blinks rapidly, as if he can't believe what he's seeing, smiling oddly, as if he has been thrust into the light after living a life in darkness but is not quite sure if he likes it yet. "I see." It's like we're communicating, somehow, without speaking, in a way ordinary people, angels, can't, him reading my mind and gasping at what's in there. "You're not ordinary. No." He nods and smiles more, and my heart starts pounding, anticipating his next words. "You're meeee." He draws out the "ee" in "me", savoring the word, and something in my stomach turns. I don't—I don't want to be him. I don't want to be Moriarty, the unordinary, un-angelic monster. For the first time in my life, I wish I was ordinary. I wish I was normal, average, bland, unmemorable. I wish—I wish—
But after thirty long years, I should know by now. Wishes never come true.
Moriarty laughs. "You're me!" he repeats gleefully, giggling in that odd way of his. "Thank you," he enunciates, "Sherlock Holmes." He offers his hand for a shake and I stare at it a moment before grasping it lightly, his long, thin fingers smooth and cold in my hand. He squeezes my hand, hard, and I resist the urge to yank it back and wipe the shake off.
"Thank you," he repeats again, nodding some more, starting to resemble a bobblehead. "Bless you."
I narrow my eyes, staring at him, and he swallows, as if accepting a difficult fact. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out." He nods, acknowledging his mistake, and I tense, sensing a big, monumental move coming in our elaborate game of chess.
He grins. "Well, good luck with that." And suddenly, just like that, he opens his mouth wide, and his left hand delves deep into his pocket and he pulls out a gun—a gun!—and brings it up to the inside of his mouth—
"No!" I gasp, hurtling myself backwards, away from the insane man, and Moriarty—pulls the trigger.
He slumps to the ground, mouth still open, with that same crazy, happy look on his face, and I know why it's there.
Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do.
Moriarty died thinking he won. And, in a way, he did.
But I'm not ready to give up yet.
I breathing hard, staring at the blood trickling swiftly from the back of the mastermind's head. I groan and look away, sickened, and I struggle to maintain some semblance of control.
Panting, I bring my hands to the top of my head, like a jogger recovering from a hard run. Swallowing my fear, I step up onto the ledge, knowing what is going to happen, knowing what I'm going to put John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade through.
I see a taxi pull to a stop, and I know without seeing him get out that it's John, recently back from the Mrs.-Hudson-has-been-shot red herring. Now is as good a time as ever.
I get out my mobile and quickly text Molly, "LAZARUS," meaning that Moriarty is dead and I'm going to jump. She responds immediately with, "LAZARUS IS A GO," but I can tell, even through text, that Moriarty's demise relieves her—the fact that Moriarty will never bother her again.
I swallow and prepare myself. I open my Contacts—with its six entries, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Moriarty—and hit John's scowling face, a picture I took just to annoy him. As the phone dials, I think back to that day, when I was sick of him teasing me with The Hat, so I decided to tease him with his own mad face.
It was a good day.
I can hear his mobile ringing all the way up from here as he gets out of the cab, walking briskly. "Hello?"
It kills me to hear his voice. "John," is all I can say.
He's running now. "Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"
"No, no, turn around and walk back to where you came."
John slows, but doesn't stop. "No, I'm coming in."
"Just do as I ask," I manage, breaking off in the end with an almost-sob. It's getting quite difficult to talk; I have this uncomfortable knot in the base of my throat, and I'm not quite sure why it's there. "Please," I beg, and he immediately turns around. "Where?" he asks, and my heart warms for him, doing what I want—no, what I need, and he can tell that I need it—without question, because he trusts me.
John walks by the ambulance building, and I tell him, "Stop there." Perfect. Perfect position. Everything is going perfectly. John is never going to find out.
If everything's going so perfectly, then why do I feel so shitty?
"Sherlock," he complains, his voice a mix of testily and quizzingly, knowing I can see him. "Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."
He looks up and sees me, and even though I can't see his face very well, I can hear the fear come over him as he says, "Oh, God."
I grapple with my feelings, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I—I can't come down, so we'll—we'll just have to do it like this."
John's breathing rapidly. "What's going on?" He sounds like he's going to be sick.
"An apology," I say, staring at him, willing him, begging him not to believe it. It hurts, it hurts deep down inside, the words that I'm saying, but—just maybe—maybe if he believes that I'm a liar, it won't hurt him so much.
I pause, controlling my emotions, as I always must do, and say simply, "It's all true."
He actually takes a step back. "What?" he demands, and it almost sounds like he's mad.
Good old John.
"Everything they said about me," I tell him, each word stabbing myself in the heart, "I invented Moriarty." I look back at the cold, dead corpse of James Moriarty, bloody and disfigured, the smile relaxed off his face, and every part of my being rebels from the words that I'm saying.
I never lie. I'm brutally honest. Sherlock Holmes, frank to a fault.
It hurts.
John looks at me with wide eyes, stumped with disbelief. He shakes his head, and I can tell he's searching, searching for an explanation. "Why are you saying this?"
Clever John. Thinking that someone is forcing my words. If only it were that simple. If only.
I'm saying it for you, John.
The next words, the ones I know I have to say, are the hardest, and I have to force them out of my unwilling mouth. "I'm a fake."
John blinks rapidly, and I can hear it in his voice. "Stop it, Sherlock. Stop it." "Sherlock," is all he says.
"The newspapers were right all along," I manage, and this time the sob does break through to my voice, and the tears well in my eyes. "I want you to tell Lestrade." I close my eyes, thinking of Inspector Lestrade's face when he hears—disbelieving, angry, sorrowful, "I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson." I can't imagine how my poor, trusting old landlady would react. Probably with a lot of blubbering and tea, and I feel a pang just thinking about it. "And Molly." My voice breaks on Molly's name, and I make myself go on, having the confidence that she, at least, will know I'm alive and brilliant. "In fact, tell anyone that will listen to you." I'm physically shaking. "That I created Moriarty—for my own purposes."
John shakes his head quickly, fervently denying my accusations. Loyal to a fault. And I can hear it in his voice—a hard anger, only suppressed by tears of his own. "Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister."
I laugh dryly. "Nobody could be that clever."
Because I'm not anybody. I'm not ordinary. I'm not an angel.
His voice is hard and determined. "You could."
I let out another laugh. John looks up at me disbelievingly, and I know now that he's not buying this one bit.
I search for an explanation How could I have known, how could I have known, and I choose the first one that comes to mind: "I researched you." It's flimsy—no one but John and his sister knew about her problem, and if I could've known that I was going to meet him, and he was going to be my roommate, before the fact, I would be just as brilliant as I was denying I was.
The papers have no idea how stupid their exorbitant claims are. If anyone could pretend to be a genius for that long, and fool that many people—than they really are a genius.
But I continue with my shoddy explanation anyway. "Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you."
John's face twists into one of anger—anger, and terrible pain, as if it were physical and he was barely holding back from screaming in agony.
An open man would mirror his expression. A free man would take it all back and beg John to forgive him. But I am a beaten man. So I sniff, swallow, hold back my tears, and say, "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."
His eyes are closed, and he's shaking his head sharply. "No, alright, stop it now." He makes to move forward, but I dictate quickly, my voice dangerously unstable, "No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."
I put my hand out, pointing, and John responds with his own hand up, a surrendering, cooperative gesture. "Alright." He walks backwards, a fearful undertone to his voice, like he has just now realized that I am on top of a roof, fifteen stories above the ground
Without knowing it, I'm breathing hard, and I see out of the corner of my eye a couple of my homeless network running with a giant blue mat, and I know Molly has done her job. All I have to do is do mine, and I have the hardest one. "Keep your eyes fixed on me!" I order John, my heart rate accelerating. My voice breaks again. "Please, will you do this for me?"
"Do what?" John asks, but underneath, I can tell that somewhere, deep down, he knows.
"This phone call, it's, um . . . it's my note." My voice darkens slightly. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" John shakes his head again, denying it again, but I can tell he knows. Despite all the times I insisted he was an idiot, or was blind to observing, John is a smart man. He knows what I'm talking about.
"Leave a note when?" he asks, and the way his voice breaks, I know if I have to listen to him much more I won't be able to go through with it.
The mat is in place. Everything is ready. All there's left to do is jump.
I have to do this. I have to. I have to.
"Goodbye, John."
"No!" I hear him beg, "Don't—"
I look down at him, at his imploring eyes, at his face a mask of fear and pain, and I want to yell, want to scream it out, "I'm sorry!"
I'm sorry, John. So, so sorry. But I have to. I have to. I have to save your life.
I end the call, then toss the phone on the ground, cracking the screen. I won't need it anymore.
"No—Sherlock!" I hear John's yell, desperate and pleading, all the way from up here, and it cuts through me, a knife shattering the ice around me and letting the pain flood in. And it does, pain rushing and swirling all around, sweeping away everything in its path and reeking havoc wherever it can, drowning all reason and rationality and destroying all my resolve.
And I would step down from this ledge, turn away, and run down to John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, if not for one thing.
Three evil assassins, with three evil guns and three evil bullets, directed at three angels' hearts.
So I do what I have to do.
And right before I do it, I look back at Moriarty, lying dead on the ground, and give him a final half-smile, as a sort of acknowledgement, a salute.
Because he was right. In the end, he did burn my heart out.
And I fall.
She gazes unblinkingly at the bright, blinding sun, letting the pleasant warmth soak into her skin, her hair shining in the blazing yellow light. She looks so peaceful I almost hate to disturb her, but I walk up anyway.
I say nothing, but let her turn around to me. When she sees me, she jumps, holding her hand to her heart, just like she did a lifetime ago—literally. "Sherlock! You startled me."
I swallow, trying to be polite. "Sorry." There. That, that was right. That was good.
Molly smiles vaguely, but I can tell there's something else on her mind. She stares out the bright Bart's window, looking down at the street, where they have already washed away the spoils of war. I can tell she's remembering what I am—my jump, John's scream, all the blood.
I turn away. I do not want to remember the heartbroken way John knelt over me, taking my pulse, desperately hoping for something, but finding nothing.
I can't look at Molly. I can't see the utter devastation on her face.
I didn't think I meant that much to John.
I always knew he liked me. Well, he liked correcting me and apologizing for me and applauding at my deductions. He has always been my best friend, and I know that I—no matter how fervently I deny it—wouldn't be able to function if something were to happen to him. I would simply just shut down. I wouldn't be able to take it.
I didn't know that John couldn't take it, either.
But the way he looked at me, the way he wailed when he thought I was dead—it kind of made me think that maybe I am his best friend.
I mean, I was.
"Why did we do this?" Molly whispers hoarsely, and I turn to her. Her face in a mask of horror and sorrow. "Why did we do this to John?"
For some unfathomable reason, I grab her shoulders. She looks down at my hands, as if very confused as to why they're there, but I don't release, not yet. I feel her warmth and her slight tension beneath my hands, and I like this, I like touching her, I like feeling her, Molly.
I've never touched anyone if I could help it before.
I stare into her eyes, seeing much of my terror, and desolation, and regret mirrored in there. "Because if we didn't, he would die," I tell her, and release her shoulders, turning away.
I hear a gasp behind me. "What?" She walks in front of my face, forcing me to acknowledge her, just as she did so, so long ago, when I first laid eyes on the ostensibly mousy, average—but, in truth,extraordinary—pathologist.
She narrows her eyes at me. "Why would he die?"
I swallow. "Moriarty."
She looks—angry. "Moriarty's dead."
Is he, though? "He had snipers. A gun, or each of them." Molly's face softens to my words. "On each of what?"
I look down, not meeting her eyes. "On each of my friends."
I steal a glance at her face. She bites her lip, looking dejected. "I thought I was one of your friends."
I turn away, retreating back into my straight-forward, matter-of-fact manner and flip my coat as I say, "Not according to Moriarty. We tricked him." I face her now, a grim smile on my face. "You were my secret weapon."
I turn back to walk through the double doors and into the newest chapter of my life, but I know without looking that Molly is smiling.
Author's Note: Yes, guys, I know I added and cut out some things discussed on the rooftop.
Know that I love you guys, because I had to watch The Phone Call about twenty times to complete that scene (ugh! Too sad!).
Please review! (OMG, so excited. Next chapter is THE chapter. You know. The one you've all been waiting for. And me, too. Can't wait!)
I have been having slow updates last couple of chapters . . . sorry! Thanks for patience! Next chapter will come really soon, I promise!
Review, review, review, review, review (or follow/favorite. I'm okay with both :D).
