Greater love hath no man than this; that a man lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13
"Moran," John said quietly, "British soldiers don't shoot unarmed civilians. Or each other."
"Really? Obviously you had a different war experience to mine." Moran levelled the gun. "Detective Lestrade," he said, without looking across at him, "if you're going for your phone, you're being very unsubtle about it. And I'd advise you not to try any further, unless you want a bullet in your head."
Lestrade, whose fingers had twitched instinctively for his pocket, held both hands up with his palms out. "Okay," he said, taking a step back. "Okay, just take it easy and tell me what it is you want. We'll talk."
"Sherlock," Moran called over his shoulder, "do you want to do it before or after I start shooting?"
"What…?" John took a few steps forward before Moran cocked the gun again, which stopped him mid-stride. "What the hell are you talking about…? Oh, God, you… you can't possibly think that Sherlock—"
"So," Moran called over his shoulder again, "it turns out that you're nowhere near as stealthy as you seem to think. This gun is fully loaded, and it goes off in five seconds. I'm still debating who to shoot first—didn't expect your friend Lestrade to be here as well. Which one do you prefer?"
"Why are you doing this?" John was still very quiet. "I don't understand. I met you twice. Never harmed you in my life."
"No," Moran agreed. "You saved my life, as I seem to remember. Funny how that happened. Couldn't ever have guessed that Sherlock would pay Newell to try to murder me on your hospital shift."
"He what? What are you—"
"Hey," Lestrade broke in. "Look, just... stop it. Put the gun on the floor, before this turns into a situation you can't control. Nobody's been hurt yet, and you're not—"
"Five," Moran announced.
"Are you insane?" Fear twisted John's tones toward the shrill. "Sherlock's dead, Moran. I saw him—"
"Four…"
"Please, for God's sake—!"
"Three…"
There was no two. Instead, a firm step out in the corridor, and a soft, dark voice from the shadows: "All right."
Then he that was dead came forth. Sherlock Holmes, coat, scarf and all, had his hands held up, palms outward.
Lestrade heard, through the thudding in his own ears, a choked cry from John. A sound he'd never heard from a man, woman or child in his life, and never would again.
"Well played." Sherlock was speaking to Moran, but his eyes were on John; he mouthed his name. "The location was a particularly nice touch. I see you've been stalking me for some time."
"Longer than you could ever imagine, Sherlock."
"Oh, I rather think I could imagine it. You think I don't know who was holding the rifle at the pool all those years ago?" Sherlock's tones were thick with contempt. "Moriarty wasn't a fool. He had himself a brainless henchman who was a crack shot—"
"So did you, for that matter."
"He'd obviously put you to good use," Sherlock continued. "I told you I wanted to meet you. Forgive me for the opinion that making me guess where you'd go was unnecessarily dramatic of you." He looked around. "But I'm here, and so are you. What do you want?"
"What do I want?" Moran laughed, a low, growling sound. "Oh, God. You're expecting me to say I want money, or safe passage to a non-extradition country, or some other thing that you can cough up with a phone call or a bank transaction. I want Jim Moriarty back."
"I wish I could say that I was sorry to not be able to accommodate that request." It's all right, John, Sherlock mouthed to him again. Lestrade, from where he stood, could not see John's face, but he could see Sherlock's; he had an idea that John might be about to pass out. He took a step toward him to help. Moran briefly turned the pistol on him in warning and shook his head, and he stopped short.
"Moriarty is dead." Sherlock was matter-of-fact. "And the man's passing was no great loss to the world."
There was a metallic clicking noise as Moran shifted the gun in his shaking hand. "You said at his trial that he wasn't a man at all," he said unsteadily. "Do you remember what you called him that day?"
Sherlock paused. "Yes," he said. "I called him a spider."
"Let me tell you about that spider. He was born in Dublin on May 28th, 1976. His father was Paul Moriarty; his mother's name was Aine. Three sisters, all older. Moved to London when he was ten. You wouldn't want to be an Irish boy in London in 1986; Carl Powers learned the hard way not to bully him. Jim went to school. He had hobbies. He liked reading and painting and classical music. Wore size nine shoes. Favourite colour was grey. Appreciated a good medium-rare steak. His middle name was Michael. People cared about him. You killed a man!"
"I didn't kill him, Moran, and the proof of it is in your right-hand pocket," Sherlock said. "You think I would have gone up on that roof without something to record what happened? And you could only have taken my phone if you reached the roof and interfered with Moriarty's body before it could be discovered. Surely you, as a military man, would have noticed that the wound was self-inflicted."
"Noticed? Let me tell you what I noticed that day..." Moran choked up, biting his hand until his teeth left a line of crimson between the thumb and forefinger. "I noticed that the only man who cared about me after I came back from the Balkans was dead," he said. "I noticed his brains floating away on the concrete. I noticed that when I went to lift him, the back of his skull came off in my hand—"
"Jesus—"
"John, shut up," Lestrade snapped at him, but John had taken a step forward. Lestrade again made a move toward him; again he was stopped short by the business end of the pistol.
"No, it's all right, Greg," John said. "It's all right. I think I get this."
Moran laughed at him; a low, spiteful hiss.
"Oh, but I do," John said. "Everyone's making a difference when they're deployed. In their own heads, anyway. You were a war hero. And when you came home, nobody here wanted to know about it."
Moran, silent, swallowed heavily.
"My left arm was in a sling for months after I was shot in Afghanistan," John went on. "I was in a Tesco's once, and a woman asked me how I'd done it. I told her. She said I deserved it and worse, and asked me how many Afghani children I'd murdered. After that, I started telling people I'd broken my collar bone falling off a ladder."
Silence.
"What was it like for you?" he asked him. "Was it the looks people gave you? The fact that nobody'd even mention where you'd been for three years? Or did they call you a murderer too?"
Moran swallowed again. "Shut up. This isn't about—"
"And then one day, you met... this guy..." John continued, "and he was a brilliant, arrogant genius. He didn't treat you like a murderer or an invalid or a basket case. He dragged you in and said, 'you, I've got a purpose for you now.'" He shook his head. "And let me tell you, you'll never repay that, Moran. Waving that gun around won't change things at all. I know all about that."
For a moment, the two men looked at each other in silence and mutual fascination. A flash of understanding.
One flash, and then it was over. Moran's gaze froze. He shrugged John off and returned his focus to Sherlock.
"Whose hand was on the trigger that morning on the roof means nothing to me, Sherlock," he continued. "You can't argue your way out of this one on technicalities. Jim is dead, and he's dead because of you. He was a good man—"
Sherlock scoffed. "Your definition of 'good' needs work."
"He was a good man… because he was good to me…"
"Hitler loved his dogs," Sherlock said, "and James Moriarty was a maniac. He killed people."
"Yes, he did. Have you ever asked John Watson how many people he's killed?"
"Don't change the subject," Sherlock growled.
But Moran turned his attention on John again. "How many, Captain Watson?" he asked. "How many victims? Five? Ten? Fifty? When you call them The Taliban, or The Tong, or write them off as a killer who deserved a bullet, does that mean it's all right?"
John was looking at Sherlock and took no notice of Moran's question.
"How many people John may or may not have killed is beside the point, and I'm getting tired of this boring little conversation on the philosophy of war," Sherlock continued, regaining his hold on himself. "John has nothing to do with this. Neither does Lestrade. You've been looking for me, and now you've found me. I'm here of my own accord, I'm unarmed, I'm entirely at your disposal. As such, I see no need for you to detain these two any longer. Send them off. We'll deal with this matter between us."
Moran shook his head; he was smiling. Not a friendly smile; this was a savage curl of his upper lip, like the snarl of a dog. "You still don't understand at all, do you?" he said. "You reckon you're a genius, and you don't understand. I told you, I don't want anything from you, Sherlock. There's nothing you can give me. Nothing I want."
"I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the sort of hostage situation where the hostage-taker doesn't want anything," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "And I don't know how much more compliant I could possibly be about this, so I suggest you follow up your advantage while it lasts. Stop boring me and name your price."
"You can't buy your way out of this one," Moran choked. "You killed my best friend. And now you're going to know what I went through when you did, because I'm going to kill yours."
And with that, he turned the gun on John. "Sorry, Captain Watson," he said. "It's not personal."
He pulled the trigger.