Disclaimer: Nothing mine. Thank Ennui Enigma for bearing with me through this. God knows it wouldn't make sense without her.

When he heard about the Turner – Reichenbach falls – Jim wanted it. After all, Reichenbach translated to Richard Brook – his old stage name – and the thing would have suited his own sitting room. He had to give up on that project because Sherlock got involved, but it wasn't a big sacrifice. It was just one more unplanned game, delightful in its own right.

Seeing Sherlock turned into a hero was a nice bonus. Finally, there was someone beside him that understood the sleuth's greatness. The media had taken a shine to Sherlock, who seemed to get bigger cases in turn (Jim helped with that, naturally, though not always) and get even more media coverage as a result.

Jim collected in a scarf-blue folder all the articles he could find (and wrote enraged letters to the papers about their spelling errors), saved every clip of video feed, and, of course, continued his full surveillance on the detective. Wouldn't want to lose the good habits.

He laughed at his friend's frowning face under that deerstalker. (Why had Sherlock picked it if he hated it so much? Though it was fitting – a hunting hat.) Jim wondered, though, why the tabloids chose the Victorian slang. Confirmed bachelor? What was wrong with writing 'helluva gay'?

John objected to the term, of course, and the fact that, to Jim's extensive knowledge, they weren't actually fucking – yet, just continually making bedroom eyes at each other. Someone would have to intervene before they started and Sherly decided he wanted to please John – ugh!

Then came the day that Watson asked Sherly to take a little case. Shirk the media. Naturally Jim had to make sure that Sherlock didn't start giving into his pet. No, the situation was so bad that the only acceptable plan of action was the one that would eventually end in definitely separating his Sherlock from John Watson, MD. Good thing that he knew just how to do this.

It was easy. The right, 'idiotic tourist' attire, down to the clumsy, "Forgot I had a phone," routine, and here Jim was in the Tower of London, The thieving magpie blaring in his ears. Rossini's music was so powerful – inspirational, really.

The plan went without a hitch. Work of art, really. And if Jim danced during its realization...well, Sherly loved ballet. He purposely turned the 'o' of 'Get Sherlock' (now try to stay out of the news) into a smiley like the one in their sitting room. (Wasn't that was a nice touch?) "I know you...and I'm happy about it." It said both.

The right app – like he'd told his many, many clients – and you could do anything. Open the vault of the Bank of England. Free everyone in Pentonville prison. Take ermine, crown and all the other emblems of power. Of course, Jim didn't take them away. This was not to be a game of cat and mouse. This was a show of sheer power. And he so hoped that his photo in a crown would be shown as exhibit A. He texted Sherlock. Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x. Who would arrive first, he wondered? Sherly or the police?

When the police arrived, he greeted them with, "No rush." He was quite comfortable where he was. And Sherlock wasn't here yet. Why wasn't he here? Didn't he like playing with Jim anymore? The mere thought was heresy. Oh well. He'd see him soon. Jim was shoved into the police car still smiling.

Of course, Sebastian didn't like the plan. Once again, Jim was guest of England's finest. But after his last sojourn, this seemed a vacation resort. Hell, he even had access to all the newspapers. The idiot at the Guardian who wrote Sherlock was 'part of his trail' instead of 'trial' was so going to hear from him! Didn't anyone have proofreaders? And there was more. Even among men of the law, people were baffled by the sheer magnitude of what he'd attempted, and offered him a sort of uncomfortable respect.

At the actual trial, the waiting for Sherlock was almost unbearable. Soooo bored! He couldn't scream so instead he harassed the policewoman. It was petty, even Jim knew, but one had to make do sometimes. He could at least smile internally knowing that she took great comfort in imagining him jailed and raped thrice daily, while noting of the sort was going to happen.

But then , oh, finally Sherly was there, so beautiful that it stole Jim's breath away. And he was entertaining as expected too. Jim's lawyer should have objected to such a question if he wasn't under strict orders to do nothing. Sherly's description was so flattering. Not only because spiders were such fascinating and useful creatures but because he'd used the verb 'dance' a propos of the threads, and conscious or unconscious, the quote was a very welcome act of homage. Jim nodded his approval.

But then, oh, then it was fantastic. Answering to the dull and inopportune questions, Sherlock declared, "I felt we had a special something." How much of that was sarcasm? How much fact? Had Sherlock started to realize it too? Had Mycroft tattled after all? Jim couldn't entirely keep the shocked enthusiasm off his face. They had a special connection and Sherlock had been the one to say it.

After that, of course, it was all sheer fun. With Sherlock demonstrating that in five minutes he could understand anyone amply by deducing the jury and being, in the end, brought away for being a smartarse (though Jim supposed the technical term they'd write down wasn't that).

The trial had a pause while everyone tried to compose themselves after the exit of tornado Sherlock. Their special connection held because they brought Jim to the cell adjoining Sherly's.

"I do have many talents, but I'd probably mess up your boiler, sadly," Jim admitted, mentioning the sleuth's earlier words. "But I know a couple of snipers that would make a wondrous job of it. I could send one to 221B if you need."

"Thank you but I'll pass," the detective replied.

"Are you sure? For you, any of my services would be free of charge. As you said, we indeed have a special something between us, and I aim to please," the consultant criminal insisted.

"I'll keep it in mind for when I finally want my brother dead," Sherlock drawled.

"Please do. Though I wouldn't mull it over sooo very long. You might find yourself short on time, sweetie." Jim smiled even if Sherlock couldn't see him. "On a different note, just a splash of milk for me, no sugar or lemon."

"Where?" The sleuth sounded baffled.

"In my tea, you silly," Jim teased.

"Do you expect that we'll have a tea party soon, Jim?" Sherlock sounded wary.

"One can dream – can't he? - that we'll have a friendly meeting someday. Really, Sherlock. We should have been best friends."

"Quite hard with you always on the brink of a murdering spree," the detective bit back, sarcastic.

"Someday you'll understand, my dear. I promise!" Jim assured.

The rest of the trial, even if (because) it went exactly like expected, was again boring. The best part of it was making sure the pet was still following it, even with his master banned from court, and sending him a shrug at his own lawyer's inaction. "See? I'm not even defending myself, and don't care," it said. ("I don't need to. I have Seb to do it," was implied – not that the pet would understand that.)

When he was acquitted – of course he was, people weren't that brave or self-sacrificing – he went straight to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't disappoint. When he opened the door to the flat at 221B (after picking the front door) Sherlock welcomed him with tea. He made himself vulnerable by turning his back too. He trusted Jim not to kill him – the consultant criminal was here for playing and they both knew that. Sherlock even offered him a serenata. Bach. Quite proper since Johann Sebastian couldn't stand unfinished melodies (and what else was this?). Jim mentioned it, and he was – they both were – oh so very polite, beyond the small talk. Discussing music. Dancing around the subject uppermost in both their minds.

At last Jim touched it. "But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."

Sherlock faked not even knowing about what, but Jim didn't fall for his false ignorance. "With me...back on the streets. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." He smiled gazing, a bit adoringly, in Sherlock's eyes, then grinned.

Sherlock, pretending (surely pretending) to be uncomfortable, busied himself with his own cup.

"You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I – except you're boring," Jim declared. All gentle teasing, of course. Sherlock could never be boring. But they were alike, and Sherlock wouldn't have become a consulting detective without the consultant criminal's earlier intervention. What would he be?

Jim shook his head in fake disappointment at the sleuth's goodness. "You're on the side of the angels." Oooops. He shouldn't have let Seb get him into Supernatural. That's where these metaphors came from. Would Sherlock frown at that? He didn't, luckily.

Then they were talking about Jim's exoneration from prison, stating the obvious, and Jim explained his philosophy. "...And every person has their pressure point; someone they want to protect from harm. Easy peasy."

Sherlock asked how Jim planned to burn him. Jim was enthusiastic, discussing their 'final problem' (the one who'd rid him of competition for Sherlock – hopefully). "I did tell you," just did, in fact, "but did you listen?" he queried.

After that, they most naturally started talking about Jim's other plans – what he's done the Old Bailey show for (beside seeing Sherly again, obviously). Advertisement. Because, "In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king, and honey, you should see me in a crown." (He was still put off over the lack of exhibit A.)

"Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex," Jim remarked smugly. Not for the money he could make from his clients – who cares about money. Opening vaults was just a game.

"I just like to watch them competing. 'Daddy loves me the best!'" Just like he did with Seb and Alice, but on a way larger scale.

"Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know. You've got John." (And Jim was still not over it.)

"I should get myself a live in one. It'd be so funny." If he shared a flat with Sebastian, could Seb be a pretty housewife for him? Jim could dress him up. Mmmmm...

But Sherlock was all hung up on the why (not money, of course – not even power) and Jim owed him an answer. "I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The final problem." Which Sherlock won't understand, not even after it's come to pass, but that was fine as long as the detective played along.

"It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock; the Fall." He'd made Sherlock the consulting detective; he could unmake him, if he wanted.

"But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination." He hoped the change would be permanent at least – otherwise he'd have to take additional measures. And the kid – the sleuth would always be a kid to him, if partially – complained about not liking riddles. Didn't Jim know? But he couldn't give him the solution to that. Not yet.

"Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ...owe...you." That had a nice ring, hadn't it? Considering he's had to come up with it on the spot because he was a clumsy idiot so agitated by his intended one's presence that he messed up carving the bloody I (heart) U that he'd planned. It had such a nice ring that he decided to leave it as his parting shot, along with the mangled apple.

Days later, Moriarty was going to raze the Daily Express. He was no'Jimbo'. Seb suggested taking the journalist responsible to play with instead. What a lovely idea. And, after all, he needed a distraction for a while: he had to give Sherlock a little time to properly anticipate their final problem, make him work out the riddle. He himself had to find the right journalist to work with (one without spelling problems!).

In the end, Sherlock's reprieve (in which he, sagely, still didn't bed his pet) lasted two months. After that, Baker Street was full of killers obliged not to act (none of them would take kindly to a competitor taking the initiative), no matter how eager they were (wasn't it delicious?), Kitty Riley got her scoop and Jim was ready to send around his thieving magpie sealed envelopes. It was time for the grand show. This was going to be such a grim(m) tale. Jim chuckled to himself. If he was lucky he'd have won this round. He almost did the last time he used a child too.

Jim enjoyed seeing the case brought to Sherlock – and he relished that bitch Donovan's undying animosity. She would do nicely, very soon. He was betting on her to rush to serve his aims, but naturally, someone else could beat her to such. Jim was not used to losing though, and not only because he rigged circumstances in his favour.

Jim had his spy cameras all over St. Aldate. His men sent to install them thought he needed data to plan the kidnapping. Jim didn't explain that was at best a secondary bonus. No, the cameras were for observing Sherlock at work. Jim chuckled seeing him bully the school employee despite her having a shock blanket already. Absolutely delightful. The detective wanted this solved 'quickly'. Oh, but he really cared for kids, uh?

Jim was smug when Sherlock found the book he'd planted (just in case he needed help getting this – he might have deleted the tales). He loved seeing him find the other clues. They were new to the consulting criminal, of course, but he didn't doubt there would be. He didn't pick the ambassador's children only because they were posh children whose daddy would hire the best detective – that being Sherly, of course. He picked them because he'd ascertained that they were clever little things – at least the little boy was – who would try something and make the game interesting. Linseed oil? Clever! Jim hoped the kid wasn't all that hungry – it'd be a pity otherwise.

And here Sherlock was, playing with footprints and – by his own admission – "starting to have fun." (See? Wasn't Jim perfect at engineering these games for him?) And Watson dared to scold him for smiling. The detective was so beautiful when he smiled. Oh, no matter. The blogger wouldn't last long now.

Next stop was, of course, Bart's. The sleuth bullied Molly out of a date – selfish, irresistible boy – and declared Jim (whose involvement John didn't even suspect. Really?!) had been, "a bit naughty." Now, if Sherlock wanted, Jim wouldn't mind being a bit naughty close and personal with him, maybe involving Molly too if Sherly wanted (NOT John). They'd never have that, would they?

Poor Molls though, distancing herself from her old flame. "I ended it." Because Jim had no further use for her, or she would never have. When Sherlock suggested Molly not to date, "for the sake of law and order," Jim shook his head in mock despair. The sleuth couldn't really think that he acted out because Molls dumped him, did he? The detective certainly knew that it was all for him. Always for him. He couldn't not know.

Jim admired Sherlock's intense sleuthing and shivered with pleasure when Sherly absent-mindedly, so very softly, murmured that parting shot. His boy was still fixated on their tea party. It evened out the burst of irritation he'd felt at the sleuth calling Molly, "John." John was useless, not helpful. The earlier Sherlock's subconscious accepted this fact, the better it would be for everyone. Case in point: Watson hadn't mentioned the magpie envelope with breadcrumbs that Jim sent at 221B for ages. And when he did, he queried, "What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?"

Sherlock explained, "The sort that likes to boast; the sort that thinks it's all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me: All fairytales need a good old-fashioned villain." Jim chuckled in disappointment. He'd said, "Every fairytale." oh well. At least Sherly had got the punch line.

Jim had to admit that Sherly had trained his inspector well. Bored watching the analyses, and to spice things up, one hour before he'd sent Scotland Yard a fax. Hurry up they're dying! Lestrade hadn't bothered the sleuth until he decided to go to them. The DI knew that the detective would be doing his best already.

Sherlock was finally ready to sweep in and save the kids, so Jim texted to his man at Addleston to flee. The man left the kids to their own devices, mostly, but had to check that they wouldn't wander away. Jim had gone through a true casting for that role. He was quite satisfied with the result. The curls were just right, and the general effect would undoubtedly give the expected results.

Through the cameras he'd placed in the abandoned factory, he observed Sherlock figuring it out. And remarking, "Neat," with a grin – much to his pet's dismay. Jim clapped his hands in delight. The detective, once again, liked his tricks. He wasn't so sure that Sherly would like his subsequent plans, but one day he'd understand.

Next stop, Scotland Yard, where his next trick would come to fruition. Wasn't Sherlock too cute, arranging his coat collar down in order not to be himself? Pity that wouldn't be enough. A moment later, Jim was reminding him through the windows of the nearing building: I O U. The letters were really intended to mean 'I (heart) you', but if he did it properly Sherlock wouldn't quite understand that yet.

And then, here Jim was, to pick his date up, and he didn't even have to suffer through the pet's presence – he "might talk," out of turn and Sherlock was the one to leave him on the pavement. Jim grinned broadly.

The detective hated it when Jim turned the TV screen on – lots of things to think through – but he abruptly stopped protesting when Jim aired his tape. Oh, but it had brought back the memories when he created it. He'd painted the white fluffy, and the grey stormy clouds himself – together with Sebastian – and then the paint war had sorta happened, and then...well, that was not a story for children.

Sir Boast-a-lot's tale, on the other hand, did involve children. The bravest and cleverest knight. He might not be a pirate as Sherly would have preferred, but he'd be forgiven for that. He was giving Sherly a warning. It should be happening right about now, after all. The 'other knights' at the Yard wondering if sir Boast-a-lot's stories were true. Someone bringing up the matter to Lestrade, or even a superior to the DI. "And then even the King began to wonder..." The child had surely screamed in terror. It made people wonder, right?

"But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-lot's problem. No, that wasn't the final problem." Just in case Sherlock missed the point. He didn't have to lose only his reputation – he didn't even care about it, so it would be no hardship. No, he had to lose John Watson, one way or another, and Jim would bloody well see that it was done. "The end," he sing sang. Jim saw Sherlock baring his teeth in a silent growl, and like his taped-self, grinned.

And then, Sherlock was screaming to stop the cab, which Jim did. Kidnapping him was always tempting, but not on today's to-do list. "What was that?" Sherlock yelled, running to open Jim's door. Well, now that couldn't happen. No physical confrontation now. Jim was wearing the same cap that Hope wore, and Sherly should have noticed if he wasn't so distracted. He reminded the distracted detective, "No charge," and sped away, leaving Sherlock to other cabs and his murderous guardian angels.

A little later, and Sherlock was figuring it out – and then on a cameras' hunt. The fact that he didn't notice when they were installed was rather shameful. But then, perhaps, he had noticed and surmised Mycroft was acting out again.

Jim was glad that Lestrade interrupted him before he could get the last camera. He'd have missed out if he didn't have that inside shot of Sherly being all snippy but saying (praying internally, Jim was sure), "You're going to have to be strong to resist." Sherlock hoped his friends wouldn't give into the consultant criminal's little plot. Well, how could they? Sherlock recognized it. "You can't kill an idea, can you?" The sleuth was getting it. "He wants to destroy me inch by inch. It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play."

Jim laughed to himself, "Oh, but Sherly, you don't have a choice! You must, and you will, play along."

And then the pet, John, started worrying about his master's reputation and letting the word 'fraud' slip carelessly from his lips. It made Sherlock anxious. Upset. Made him feel like his one...friend...was doubting him too. "Moriarty is playing with your mind too. Can't you see what is going on?" he growled, furious. John reassured him with a stupid quip. Pity. Jim had hoped for a moment that would cause the rift to fester where he'd eventually be allowed to kill Watson.

Jim continued playing with relish. His net was closing around his Sherly. He'd sent the burnt ginger man (it was amusing to create it – had lot of fun with Alice while cooking) to tease his Sherly – though if the old bat had delivered it right away, the sleuth would have had more time to taste fear. But at least he now he surely knew; that the pet had forgotten was, honestly, downright insulting to him.

Then, of course, came the arrest and the daring escape. It was beautiful! Sherlock seemed to know instinctually that Jim didn't want Old Bailey – the Reverse. He didn't accept his fate rolling over helplessly either. The sleuth might not even notice the IOU with dark angel wings in Baker Street, preoccupied as he was, but Sherlock wasn't the only one who knew graffiti artists. Jim found it a nice touch.

Now Sherlock would know what it was like to be prey instead of hunter. Being hunter was heady in its own right, Jim could attest to that. In order to reverse his role and escape his sudden role reversal as prey, the sleuth would need to set things straight. And since the police was likely to be unreasonable, the place he'd need to go to begin clearing his name would be...Kitty's.

It wasn't a chore like usual getting involved with Kitty. She was hungry – for recognition; fame; money – and Jim appreciated that in people, especially people he had to use. He'd started as her big scoop, and then she'd pitied him – wicked Holmes' little toy – and from that they'd smoothly transitioned to admiration and seduction. Jim was a great actor. He'd moved in with her, claiming this or that rehearsal or show, he had more than enough time away to follow his plans – and now he went back to her because Sherlock was coming.

The detective had already arrived there at Kitty's place with his new pet even. Jim wanted a fucking BAFTA for his panicked reaction upon meeting. "You said that they wouldn't find me here. You said that I'd be safe here," he whimpered, voice trembling. John was enraged, of course. Sherlock was...looking. Waiting to see where this would go.

When Jim begged the doctor not to hurt him, he was more sincere than he would have wanted to be. God, but he missed Seb now – though the man was close, he wasn't here – John looked murderous. Kitty explained – boasted about her scoop, indeed – and it didn't matter if no one currently present believed her. If Jim could sow even a sliver f doubt, Sherlock hopefully wouldn't complain when it was time to get rid of his flatmate. If he had to whine and whimper and tremble and apologize compulsively to the man that he hated with a passion, Jim would do it.

The best part, as with all lies, was the kernel of truth in them. Richard Brook, actor. Kids' TV. That was all true. Jim slipped a triumphant smile at his detective while the pet read his CV. The sleuth offered him a very non-amused one back, barely moving his lips. And then John was demanding explanations from his friend, "because I'm not getting this." (What else was new?)

Sherlock's reaction in all the drama was like that of a stone, except for that tiny reaction Jim got out of him initially. Until Jim prodded, "Just tell him. It's all coming out now. It's all over. Just tell them. Just tell him. Tell him!" It was a fine suggestion, actually. Why couldn't the sleuth go along with his script? Instead he bared his teeth in a silent growl and marched towards the consulting criminal. When Jim pleaded not to be hurt, once again, opting for a tactical retreat (he missed Seb so much now; Kitty would defend him but she was all talk), his terror was only half feigned.

Sherlock was on the brink of snapping, yelling at him to, "Stop it now!" and John – the bloody moral compass – had a grudge towards Jim the size of fucking Eurasia and would probably, like Alice, offer interesting suggestions about how to best hurt him.

Both of his prey were hunting him down, the closer to actually playing tag he's ever come, and even while scared he found himself high on the feeling. He grinned at Sherlock before closing himself into the bathroom. He didn't linger – better not to be caught in an enclosed space. Out of the window he went, running back to Seb who had accompanied him there (and run the errands for him – there was no way that Jim was shopping for Kitty bloody Riley). Sherly, sadly, didn't pursue him further. Oh well. They'd see each other soon.

Next move, though, went to the detective. He'd need to arrange things for his great stage exit, and rushing him just wouldn't do. These things needed careful consideration. Planning. When he finally received the message, Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH P.S. Got something of yours you might want back, Jim firstly grinned, then frowned. Something of his? He'd certainly not kidnapped Alice, or Seb, his other people were useless pawns (Jim wouldn't want them back if they got caught), so what was he talking about? Did he mean the code? Had he believed that? Really?! Oh, boy.

Jim let him stew a bit. Wound him up further. In the meantime, he positioned his players. One for the workaholic DI (Lestrade). His best workman sniper for the landlady (these old houses always had something that needed fixing, and Jim wasn't kidding when he said that he knew killers that could repair your boilers or pretty much everything else). One waiting to tail Doctor Watson. Alice, as the intended public of his show, would send the words 'Holy Friday' that would stop everyone else once the spectacle (of course it was a mere display, there was a reason he didn't intend to threaten Molly – Sherly would need her for his trick) had happened. She wasn't making sure nobody disturbed them – as she'd surmised at first. She was watching it from a vantage point to Bart's and sending the word that would mean the killers had to stand down and not go through with their assassination once Sherlock was 'dead'. She'd have wanted to do more, but this was what he required from her.

Seb was in stand-by to help him later – and gosh, how many times his Colonel checked and rechecked and repeated his instructions to Jim. He didn't like this plan much. He'd rather be a sniper – but Jim wasn't going to offer him to Myc.

Lastly, there was the call. The phone call that would drive Watson away but not Sherlock – he'd obviously see through it. If Jim was lucky, John and Sherlock might even have a full-blown row. At the very least, some sharp words would fly. And, one way or the other, these would be the last words they'd exchange before one of them died. Somehow. Let the doctor think he'd pushed Sherlock into it – if he survived.

With his phone hooked into the hospital's CCTV, Jim smirked. "You machine"?! Oooh...nice. And the reminder, "Friends protect people," was just what Sherly needed to hear right now. A reminder. If John was working for the consultant criminal, he couldn't have done better.

I'm waiting...JM, he texted. Now the good part. He was fiddling with the ringtones on his phone when Sherlock arrived. "Ah...here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem. Staying alive! It's so boring isn't it? It's just...staying." He really meant that, and he was sure Sherly understood.

"All my life, I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you," Jim continued. In a sense, that was true too. He had the sleuth exactly where he wanted him, every move predicted.

"And you know what? In the end, it was easy. 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 injected disappointment in his voice, and rubbed his face to hide the lie. Sherlock could never be ordinary, not even if he tried, though he'd become weak now that he cared (for people who weren't Jim; the consultant criminal frowned internally). And Jim would never play with anyone else.

"Ah well..." He circled the sleuth like a shark around his prey. Tempted to tackle him, but the show didn't require it. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?" he queried.

"Richard Brook," the sleuth answered flatly.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do." It happened involuntarily, but it was amusing nonetheless.

"Of course," Sherlock agreed.

"Attaboy," Jim praised – as he himself had been praised a lifetime ago.

"Richard Brook in German is Reichenbach. The case that made my name," Sherly explained, showing off his linguistic prowess.

"Just trying to have some fun," the criminal consultant replied. Let the detective think that he was even more the center of all his nemesis' choices.

And Sherly was tapping his fingers insistently... "Good. You got that too," Jim remarked. Sherlock explained how the tapping was in truth the much yearned for computer code.

Jim remembered fondly, "I told all my clients: 'last one to Sherlock is a sissy'."

And the sleuth wanted to use the code – to revive Jim Moriarty. This time the disappointment was perfectly genuine. Jim buried his head in his hands in mock despair. "No, no, no, no, no! This is too easy," he protested. "There is no key, DOOFUS!" he yelled.

"Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless," he explained, exasperated at Sherlock's naivety. And the detective looked confused, of all things.

"You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock." He really thought Sherlock would have known better, but played along – for the sake of playing, of course.

"But the rhythm -" the sleuth objected.

"Partita number one. Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach!" Jim revealed, sarcastic.

"But then how did -"

Once again, Jim didn't even let him finish. "Then how did I break into the bank, to the Tower, to the prison?" He spread his arms expressively. Embracing all his coups in one. It was all so simple. "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." Too right that was – but still he'd hoped Sherlock's knowledge of technology wouldn't let him believe his fabrication. But the hope for clever had eclipsed all the rest. Go figure.

"Now shall we finish the game?" the consultant criminal prompted, impatient. "One final act. Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it." For a moment Sherly pretended (surely pretended) not to know what he had to do, but only a moment.

Jim quoted the upcoming newspapers titles, remarking that people would believe them. "I love newspapers. Fairytales. And pretty Grimm ones, too," he pointed out.

Sherlock walked over to the edge of the rooftop and looked down. Checking if his plans were already in place? Measuring the drop? Jim checked too. As he said, nice.

Sherlock still wanted to fight him. Disprove his lies.

"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort," the consultant criminal exclaimed, exasperated. His plan had to go through. He hadn't done all this just to see it thwarted in the end. "Go on. For me. Pleeease?"

Instead of complying, Sherly – his breath short – grabbed him by the collar and spun him around, pushing him nearer to the edge. The physical contact was wonderful. Almost sexual. Jim waited for what he'd do, perking up.

"You're insane," the sleuth declared. Well, that was anti-climatic.

Jim blinked away his wonderment and queried, " You're just getting that now?" He'd been a bit insane from birth, by people's standards. And Sherly had had ample time to figure it out. Jim was disappointed.

Then Sherlock was holding him over the ledge, and the blood was singing in Jim's veins. He wasn't afraid. He was high on it. He opened his arms wide, and abandoned himself with full trust to his friend's hold. Time to play his game.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive," he stated, nonplussed. Sherly frowned. Hadn't he figured it out yet? "Your friends will die if you don't." Jim felt so gleeful. Perfect, wasn't it?

There was fear in Sherlock's eyes, and he immediately acknowledged, "John." Jealousy burned bright inside Jim, but that'd be resolved soon. Somehow.

"Not just John. Everyone," the consulting criminal whispered, like the devil himself.

"Mrs. Hudson," the sleuth uttered quietly.

Jim smiled at him – now they were getting closer to it – and again whispered, "Everyone."

"Lestrade," Sherlock guessed. Oh, but he cared for the DI.

Jim explained the game – three lives for one – and, furious, Sherlock pulled him to safety. Killing Jim would have solved nothing. Sherly must have expected this, in some form, but he gave a wondrous performance – gaze lost, breath heavy – as if he was really contemplating his own death. (Well, Jim supposed that something could go wrong – though it better not or he'd find the people responsible and destroy him utterly before following his old master.) Jim shook himself free of Sherly's grasp because the show required it, no matter how reluctant he was to give up the contact, and smiled in triumph.

"You can have me arrested. You can torture me. You can do anything you want with me," he declared (and he'd probably find it pleasurable too), "but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only friends in the world will die unless..."

"Unless I kill myself – complete your story," Sherlock concluded.

Jim nodded and smiled, utterly happy. Either Sherly gave up his friends, or Jim would remove them. Either way, Watson was finally out of the picture. "You've gotta admit that's sexier," he remarked. It was a beautiful story. And they could pretend to die and move on – maybe away. Romeo and Juliet (but the boys' plan would work this time.)

"And I die in disgrace," the detective said.

"Of course, that's the point of this." He'd made Sherlock into what the consulting detective was and now he'd unmake him.

"Oh, you've got an audience now." These should be Sherlock's men. Plan ready. "Off your pop. Go on." His beloved sleuth obediently climbed onto the ledge, but still he hesitated. Afraid?

"I told you how this ends," Jim prompted, as a way of encouragement. Or did Sherly want him to kill his friends? He could do that. "Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it." He looked at Sherlock, expecting to enjoy the show.

But Sherlock wanted 'privacy' (afraid that Jim would notice how he was faking his death?) so, though disappointed, Jim moved away a bit. A moment later, though, Sherlock was laughing – and that made Jim beyond angry and frustrated. Why suddenly so gleeful? And why wasn't he complying with the plan? "What did I miss?" Jim growled.

His wording had given him away, and alerted Sherlock to the fact that there was a calling off code ('Pets allowed') in case Jim should realize that Sherly would be too sad without his little safety net. And now it was Sherlock's turn to circle him all shark-like and sing song, "I don't have to die if I've got you."

Jim laughed at that, suddenly relieved. He'd waited so long to get rid of these people (of John bloody Watson). Not even Sherlock could change his mind now. "Oh! You think you can make me stop the order. You think you can make me do that?"

"So do you," Sherlock replied. Oh, almost anything for you Sherly, but not that.

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to," he pointed out.

Sherlock's next words left him all shivery; he loved when his boy got so intense. "Yes, but I'm not my brother, 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."

So sexy a threat (a promise?). All Jim wanted to say was, "Yes, please." He didn't let himself be swayed, though. He shook his head. "Naaah. You talk big. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels," he objected. Sherlock wouldn't even know how to torture the answer out of him.

"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them," Sherlock said darkly.

So maybe Jim needed to rethink the assessment he'd done just now. His boy was certainly serious. And hopefully he'd get creative. Jim blinked and closed his eyes a moment to rewind his thoughts, then smiled. "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." He laughed in utter delight. They weren't just destined for each other. They might as well be one soul split in two at the start of time itself. Wasn't this wondrous? "You're me. Thank you."

Sherly might have played against him, pretended to be good, but they really were the same. Mirrored creatures. (Was maybe this not Sherlock's first life, too?) The proof elated him. He almost embraced the sleuth, then and there, then remembered the plan and settled for shaking hands. And his detective agreed to it. "Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you." He really hoped Someone (his personal, caring Higher Power?) blessed Sherly. With all his heart.

"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out. Well, good luck with that," he declared. With a last grin and pulling Sherlock close (so close, almost impossibly close, God yes) he took his gun and showed Sherly how it was done. Faking your death. Either Sherly didn't realize, or he realized – but he should realize, too, that they'd been losing time chatting. Too late to torture the answer out of Jim either way. Too late – that's what Jim's actions said.

If the horrified look and shallow breath were a result of Jim 'offing' himself in front of him, or of realizing that he had to jump (no time for playing anymore) Jim couldn't say. But God, shocked – scared – was a look so becoming on Sherlock. It wasn't fair. He made everything sexy. Jim looked at the sky and heard his boy's 'note'. He heard Sherly spreading Jim's lies – confessing them to his little pet. The pet that Sherlock would now have to abandon. High time, if you asked him. Life was perking up now.