"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."
It was true, to a point, thought Sherlock. Alone was all he had now. He had been forcibly separated from his colleagues and his home and even now his best friend in the world was storming out the door, a bitter "Friends protect people" on his lips.
It's true, John, he wanted to say. That's why I'm doing this.
But it was better this way. Mycroft had come through with his timely phone call (finally justifying his existence), and John would be safely out of the way.
He would admit to a qualm about this. John had made a good point earlier that Bad Things tended to happen when they separated because Sherlock was trying to keep him safe, but what else was he supposed to do? It's not like this exact situation had come up before. Moriarty wastrying to drive John away. He was trying to isolate Sherlock. If Sherlock kept John close, it might drive Moriarty to violence solely because John had not left.
No, in this case, John was safer away from here.
His mobile chimed with a text and Sherlock no longer had time to dwell on John's hurt feelings.
The game, as they say, was on.
#
John edged out through the door and pulled out his camera, looking for a place to put it. Thanks to whatever magic Anthea had worked, he could not only record whatever was about to happen, but transmit it as well. He had to put it down, though—not only to keep his hands free, but because the footage (whatever it turned out to be) had to look like surveillance footage, not like there had been a third person on this roof.
What it would show, though, was that Moriarty was not only involved, he was in control, and Sherlock would be exonerated. He hoped.
All John knew for sure what that this would be the final confrontation with Jim Moriarty. One way or another, this madman needed to be gone from their lives, from the world.
What he really needed was for everyone to see this video. Everyone. To see it, and to believe it. Not just those who believed in Sherlock—people like Mrs. Hudson or Greg Lestrade—but the disbelievers at the Yard. Donovan. Anderson. That berk of a chief superintendent. Every officer Sherlock had ever made feel like a tit, because they needed to know that all of this had been fake, all of it had been thrust upon Sherlock. The press needed to know. Kitty Riley. (Especially Kitty Riley.)
Everyone.
He wished his gift could make that happen. He knew he could affect people's perceptions, but he couldn't change the way they thought (nor would he want to). But he wanted them to watch. He wanted to make them see the truth, make them see that while Sherlock might be a self-centered, arrogant prat (because, well, he was), his heart was good—that he hadn't wanted any of this. That he hadn't done any of this.
If his gift could work on a recording, if it could work on a person watching it, that was what he hoped would happen—that they would watch and SEE.
John held that thought tightly as he propped up the camera, just as the door opened behind him. Sherlock had teased him once, saying what he thought came true—and if that was true, John would infuse this video with a his own conviction. He would make it impossible to look away. He couldn't convince people it was real, but he would make them watch, make them see … and then they would believe.
If he could.
But his gift could only do so much, he thought. So while he held that thought, that fond hope in the back of his head, he gave the camera a friendly, encouraging pat with his hand, and then concentrated on staying invisible to his best friend and the maniac boasting on the roof.
#
Sherlock stepped out onto the roof to the strains of "Staying Alive." He took a moment to appreciate the irony, because wasn't that the entire objective? Well, that, and keeping John alive.
He straightened his shoulders and walked forward, surprised to find Moriarty in an almost pensive mood. "You were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you, because I've beaten you. And in the end, it was easy."
Sherlock just waited, and before long the mood passed and Moriarty was on his feet, gloating again. ("Oh well … Just trying to have some fun.") Sherlock humored him by going through the steps, the pieces of bait for the trap—Richard Brook, the mythical key code, all of it.
"Admit it," Moriarty said, "You've had fun. I know you, Sherlock. You relished the puzzles I left you, and now that we've got rid of all those annoying, ordinary people, you can come be so much more."
"We?"
Moriarty looked surprised. "Of course. You must be as bored with them as I am. They're all so predictable. Not worthy of you at all." He was still circling, prowling around Sherlock like a panther certain of his kill. "Oh, I understand the appeal. All those admiring remarks, the wondering looks as they stand in awe of your genius. It's gratifying, I know, but not satisfying in the long term, wouldn't you agree?
"How so?"
"It's like offering a dog the finest French cuisine, isn't it? It might be grateful for the food, but it will never understand the nuances and subtleties of the flavor, or the genius that went into the preparation. So why waste it? Why waste your gifts on pets? Those ordinary people can't appreciate how amazing you are. You need an … educated … audience."
Sherlock refrained from shaking his head. "You believe that you are such an audience."
"Of course. I'm the only one who could possibly appreciate you, Sherlock. I'm the only one who can truly understand all your gifts." Moriarty was in front of him now, an almost earnest look on his face. "Could I have chased them all away so easily if they'd really known how extraordinary you are? Even your loyal pet left you, off on some other scent. He didn't even care enough to stay. All you have left is me."
"You honestly believe that after all this, I would join you?" Sherlock allowed some surprise to filter into his voice. "After you've hounded me, threatened me, tried to ruin me … not to mention almost killing those children?"
Moriarty waved that away. "As if you care about those poor, bitty, sick children … Really, Sherlock! All I've done was show you how little you mean to your so-called friends. They were just dragging you down, making you ordinary. You can be so much more without them. You can be so much more with me."
Now Sherlock did shake his head. "I've told you no before, and the answer has not changed."
"This is your last chance to change your mind, Sherlock, because right now, you've got exactly two choices."
Sherlock shrugged and made a face as if he were bored. "Join you, or you'll kill me?"
Moriarty smiled a long, slow smile. "Oh no. Join me, or jump. You've picked a nice, tall building for it."
"What?"
"Your suicide. I told you, I've beaten you, Sherlock. No matter what choice you make, your old life is over today. It's already over. The only question is whether you continue breathing."
Sherlock's brain had stopped working. "My suicide," he repeated blankly.
"Of course."
"To complete your story."
Moriarty nodded. "I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales … and pretty Grimm ones, too." He peered over the edge. "So, which will it be, Sherlock? Come do magnificent puzzles with me, or pop off?"
Sherlock grabbed him, swinging him around toward the edge. "You're insane!"
"Are you just getting that now?" Moriarty looked honestly surprised. "Fine, I'll give you incentive. If you don't choose, all of your friends will die."
And what little brain function Sherlock had recovered disappeared. "John?"
"Everyone," Moriarty said, eyes alight.
"Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?"
"Everyone," he repeated with relish. "Three gunmen. Three bullets. You decide right now or everybody you care about will die."
Sherlock released him and stepped back, stunned.
"It's your choice, Sherlock. Either my people see you shake my hand or you jump. Nothing else will stop them. I'm certainly not going to call them off."
"What's to prevent me from pretending to join you and then making sure they're safe?"
Polite surprise. "Do you really think you could do that? Oh no, there will be quite a long probationary period where it will be just you and me spending quality time together. You'll enjoy it, though, I promise."
Sherlock couldn't keep the revulsion from his face.
And turning, trying to ignore the quiver in his knees, he stepped up on the ledge and looked down.
#
