Sherlock stood up at the realization, unintentionally pushing Mycroft to the side. He ran his hands through his hair, an air of frenzy about him, as he thought and planned. He paced back and forth in front of his brother, his hair sticking out at all angles from its rough treatment. Mycroft rose to his feet, unsure of what had happened and what to do about it. His eyes followed his brother's movements for a minute before he stepped in. Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, forcing him to a stop.
"Sherlock, what is it? Is it the voices?"
Sherlock looked up at his brother as if he'd just noticed he was there. "What? No. Mycroft, you need to leave."
Mycroft's expression hardened and he dropped his hands. "I'm not leaving."
"Leave the room then!" he shouted. "I need some time to think."
He resumed his pacing as if the short exchange had never happened. Mycroft watched him for a few more seconds, his usually stoic manner wavering, before leaving the bedroom. He stormed out but managed to control himself as he carefully closed the door behind him. As soon as the door was shut, Sherlock locked it and resumed his place on the bed. He sat hunched over, with all of his weight resting on his elbows that stayed propped up on his knees. He rested his chin on steepled fingers, thoughts racing.
Moriarty is the unsolved variable in this equation. He's the last loose end to tie up. As long as he's still out there, walking free, alive, I will never rest easy. This isn't revenge; this is justice. It's for all of the people he's killed and the one's he might kill. My head is in the right place. I can do this. But how?
Sherlock moved into a more comfortable thinking position, lying down on his back on John's side of the bed. He kept his hands in the same pose, clasped as though in prayer with the tips of his fingers just under his chin. John's previously untouched pillow still bore his scent. The strong aroma fueled his thoughts rather than incapacitated them.
I have to lure Moriarty out somehow, make him think I've changed in the way he wanted me too. He expected me to become him, he never thought that John would've already changed me, but if I can make him believe it, I can easily draw him out. And then what? What do I do? Take him into custody? Kill him? I need to plan this thoroughly before I make any kind of move.
The hours of the day dragged on, melting together into no time at all for Sherlock. Everything outside of his own mind didn't exist for him. He didn't see the light of day fade to black; he didn't hear Mycroft's worried pacing or the few times he knocked on the door to check on him. Nothing could've broken his train of thought. His eyes were closed in silent contemplation, he appeared peaceful enough to be sleeping but his mind was working hard to formulate the perfect plan. The only problem was he didn't know how it would end. That was the issue when dealing with another genius; it was difficult to plan Moriarty's moves in reaction to his own. He was unpredictable. That's what made him so dangerous.
There were several different paths, so many different endings. Some go well for Sherlock and some don't but he didn't know for sure how it would end. He didn't like that. He laid thinking until the moon shone brightly in the sky but, even then, he thought he would have to settle for an alternate ending. He woke from his stasis grumpy and unsatisfied, hating to have to compromise. He stood up from the bed, padding toward the door, when a knock caused him to stop and listen.
"Little brother, are you okay in there?" Mycroft asked. "I'm very worried now."
Sherlock sighed and opened the door. "You're still here?"
Mycroft's expression turned sour. "Of course I'm still here! I'm here for you!"
"You shouldn't be; I'm fine," Sherlock replied, crossing his arms.
"What happened to you thinking you were going mad? What happened to the depression?"
"I've pinpointed the root of the problem, Mycroft. That's all I have time and attention for right now."
"You could've told me. I wasn't sure what you were doing in there all day. You could've committed suicide and I wouldn't have known."
Sherlock paused, staring at his brother. "What was that?"
"I said you could've killed yourself! I was worried sick!" Mycroft shouted, his irritation rattling his disposition.
Sherlock moved past his brother and into the living room as he thought aloud. "Kill myself… it hadn't crossed my mind before…"
"I'm glad for that." Mycroft sighed as he followed his brother, collapsing in a chair from emotional exhaustion.
"…But it could work," Sherlock continued, swept up in his stream of consciousness.
"What! What could work?"
"Nothing, Mycroft. It's fine, I'm fine. You should go. I'm sure you have business to attend to," Sherlock said, facing Mycroft.
"Nothing is more important than you right now," he replied, sitting up straighter in his chair.
Sherlock sighed, his frustration building, but he knew he would never get his brother to leave through anger. He raked a hand through his hair, trying to calm his mind before attempting to speak.
"Listen to me; I'm fine… for now. Just leave me for the night, okay? Go home, do work, come back tomorrow. Please," Sherlock said carefully to make sure his brother understood.
Mycroft appeared to be warring with himself, unsure if he should leave his brother alone. He scanned Sherlock, assessing his physical and mental state, attempting to come to an ultimate conclusion. Eventually, he sighed, grabbing his umbrella from beside the chair to help him stand. He stood at eye level to his brother, staring him down as a silent warning as if to say: If you're lying, little brother, I'll be far from pleased. Sherlock nodded once in understanding.
"Okay, Sherlock. I'll be back tomorrow."
"See you then," Sherlock replied, watching Mycroft swing his umbrella as he walked out of the flat.
When the door closed, Sherlock visibly relaxed, dropping the mask he was trying to keep up for Mycroft's sake. Suicide. It was unexpected, unconventional, but the perfect fit for the hole in his plan. It was unpredictable enough to rival Moriarty's changeable attitude and throw him off his guard. His enemy was so full of himself that suicide would be inconceivable to him. It was time to initiate the plan. He had to call Moriarty out and he knew just the way to do it.
Sherlock looked around for a laptop, grabbing the only one in sight off of the desk in the corner. He dropped into a chair, about to open the lid, when he noticed it wasn't his. He hesitated but forced himself to push through it. It made no difference whose laptop it was. He opened the cover to the log in screen and typed in the last password he remembered John having. Sherlock could always guess his passwords even though John had taken to changing his every week in an attempt to keep him out. When he realized that wouldn't work, he started leaving Sherlock messages as passwords. The most recent one was: Sherlock, you forgot the milk. He smiled to himself as he hit enter and the screen unlocked.
His desktop was bare since John wasn't really one for technology but it made his internet browser easier to find. He opened it and went straight to his website: The Science of Deduction. He knew Moriarty would be and was patiently awaiting a sign, an update, and he was about to give it to him. He opened the page to make a new post and wrote the note that his nemesis had been eagerly anticipating.
Dear Jim,
Please, will you fix it for me so that I won't have to feel anymore? I require your assistance. White cliffs. Midnight.
He knew as he hit the post button that Moriarty would see it and come running. He couldn't resist. It would be his downfall. Sherlock checked the time in the corner of the laptop screen. It was still early so he had plenty of time to make it to the cliffs before Moriarty. He closed the laptop, leaving it in the chair, and moved to sit at the desk. If he was going to go through with his plan, he felt like he had one last thing to do. Sherlock grabbed a pen from a cup on the desk, a blank piece of lined paper, and started to write.
My Dearest John,
While I dejectedly admit you are gone I am writing to you so that I may divulge things left unsaid before my final hour. I am rarely at a loss for words, rarely bemused, and rarely wrong, so what I am about to write would've surprised you as it has surprised me. Throughout my life I was always so sure that I didn't need anyone except for me. I was so very sure of this up until that fateful day you walked into the lab at Bart's to inquire about a flatmate. Upon our first meeting I severely underestimated the effect you would have on me. You were the first person to make me feel unsure, to force me to question myself and the path I was on. You made me deconstruct my whole life just so I could rebuild it to fit around you. I have had a revelation and I had it far too late, for that I apologize, but it has made me sure once again. I have realized that you were the one thing I didn't know I needed in my life and now, without you here, my life has little meaning. I hope you would forgive me for the actions I am about to take; I know how you would disapprove. It is unconventional, I confess, but this will solve all of my problems and remove a deep-seeded menace from society. By dawn, Moriarty will be dead and so will I.
Love,
Sherlock Holmes
