Chapter 2: Confessions

3 DAYS AGO:

Sherlock stared at the face of the man behind a seemingly endless game of murder, theft, and organized crime. He didn't seem to be the least bit concerned with Sherlocks presence as he roughly gripped the man kneeling before him. Distantly Sherlock could feel his chest burning, he forced a calming breath into his lungs. He eyed the figures wearily, lettng his mind supply deductions and facts. Cautiously, he drew closer, eyes narrowed his mind thrumming trying to work out the puzzle in front of him. Deductions were seemingly useless when they could only draw surface level conclusions on the man holding a rather large gun.

'MK-38, Military grade, not Johns, no visible VIN, untraceable then.' His thoughts supplied. 'Suit, unremarkable, clean, probably dressed for the occasion.'

Sensing the war inside his opponent, the other man was the one to crush the silence.

"Oh come now, sherlock. You didn't really believe I was going to kill you?" The ebony haired man's shrill lit echoed across the abandoned hospitals' dark rooftop. The very modern looking gun cradled carelessly in his left hand. His other hand placed almost lovingly on the shoulder of the man kneeling before him.

"I told you already-" he paused an insane smile spreading across his features.

"I'm going to burn the heart out of you." he spat the words out, his voice deadly and low. Slim fingers gripping the other man so tightly he began to stir.

"Oh but our guest is waking up, it's time we get on with the show." Jim Moriarty all but purred. "Com'on now, lets not keep our friend waiting." He said, tapping the other figure with the guns' barrel. "waky waky." Earning a low groan from the man on his knees.

The night sky seemed to grow darker with every carefully strung word exiting Moriartys' thin lips. The weapon in his hand slowly charging, sickening red light seeping into its barrel, aimed directly for the heart of its target. Sherlocks' eyes widened slightly with realization as he took a step forward. The maroon glow of the barrel lighting up the face of its target. Moriarty chuckled, pressing the barrel of his MK-38 deeper into the beat up leather jacket of John Watson.

"Oh no Sherlock, that won't do." He chimed. "Why don't you tell Johnny boy here the truth? He's not going to be around much longer anyways."

"Tell' m what? Sher- Sherlock?" John slurred, his head pounded, eyes dizzy and unfocused.

'He must've been smothered and drugged when they grabbed him, which explains the lack of bodily damage.' Sherlocks' mind whispered uselessly.

"Oh do go on Sherlock! I'd hate to have to end our little meeting so soon." Moriarty mocked.

The night air seemed to still, anxiously awaiting, city noises seemed to muffle in the distance. Suddenly the rooftop felt suffocating. Sherlock lowered his raised hands in defeat. His eyes scanned for a way out. Maybe if he was fast enough he could wrestle the weapon away from the demented man and pitch him from the rooftop. No, John would be dead before he could cross the distance between them. A distraction, he needed a distraction.

"How did you find out?" His voice was cool and sharp.

"How do you think sherlock? I can feel you, I was just temporarily unable to find you. Why else would I invite you to play?'' His tone was casual but it carried an edge that bit deep. Sherlock eyed the man with newfound suspicion.

"What's 'e talking about? Sherlock?" John asked almost calmly, falling back onto his military training. He breathed deeply and slowly, though Sherlock could plainly see the tension and confusion written into his features. Johns' piercing gaze searching his for answers as the drug in his system began to release its hold. Sherlock stiffened mid-step, his mind finally working out the game Moriarty was playing.

"John… I… I…" he began, his voice sounding far away, he paused to force down the rising panic that threatened his composure. How could he even say the words, it had been so long since anyone knew his secrets. The modern world simply wouldn't accept such things. At best people would call him mental, at worst cart him off to some ACE rehab clinic. The last person he'd told had died far too long ago, how Moriarty of all people had figured it out was simply beyond his reach. He thought anyone like him was either long gone or hidden, and yet here stood one such man playing a game of cat and mouse.

"My birthday, its September third-"

"You've got to be joking! How is this relevant right now?!" John yelled, though his body swayed with the effort.

"1846." He finished. Eyes downcast, hands curling into fists as if he were a child getting into trouble for telling a lie.

"Sherlock, you are NOT four hundred years old! Is this some kind of sick prank?!"

"Four hundred and twelve actually." It was a statement.

"I tried to tell you," he continued "I wanted to but the opportunity never came, I didn't know how to." he continued, silver eyes glued firmly to the concrete.

"Did you never wonder. John? How I came about all this seemingly random knowledge? Or all the times you've nearly died but didn't? Why do I never carry a weapon, even on the most dangerous cases?"

"That's because you're Sherlock bloody Holmes!" John shouted.

Sherlock smiled wanly.

"I've had time, John. More time than any man is owed." his voice shook darkly, barely above a whisper.

"Ah ah ah don't stop there Sherlock! Why don't you tell John the best part!" Jim laughed, a manic grin plastered across his face, pushing the barrel of the MK-38 deeper into the underside of John's neck. Even from six meters away Sherlock could see Johns' steely gaze on him. The tension in his body, Sherlock could not bring himself to meet the others eyes. Instead he glared at Moriarty, as if he could set him ablaze for making him spill such words. But the moment passed Sherlock visibly deflated, his shoulders slouched, long coat still in the cold night air.

"Sher-"

"It was a curse, John. I - I was young, foolish. I thought I could control it. But I was wrong. I thought I could save her if I" Sherlock paused, his frame shaking, fists curling, his voice thick with emotion. "I used my fathers books, his advanced ones - the type of magic I chose backfired onto me." His voice trembled harshly, silver eyes not even daring to meet those of his dearest friend.

"Eros died anyways that night, I couldn't save her." He ground out.

"What are you saying?" John leaned against Moriartys' hold, his hands straining against the thick wire on his wrists. Moriarty gripped him, his long fingers digging harshly into his injured shoulder, but the pain was ignored.

"I have magic John. I was made with it, or maybe it is what made me. I can kill a man with less than a few words, or fix broken bones. I've lived far beyond what is reasonable because of it."

" Are you mental?"

"It has always been a dark secret I tried to be rid of, and I thought maybe now I could be and finally live a normal life, with you."

"Wait -"

Sherlock held out his hand, slim fingers cutting through the night air in an elegant gesture, suddenly a blue flame flared to life in the palm of his hand. Slowly he lowered his outstretched palm, the flame fizzling out into darkness.

"Jim Moriarty is no man." Sherlock cut him off.

"You're right Sherlock. I'm just. Like. You." The words were meant to taunt, to cut deep, and they did.

"YOU ARE NOTHING LIKE ME!" Sherlock practically screamed. A wind had begun to stir, tugging at his belstaff and ruffling his dark curls. Sherlock's eyes seemed to come alive, shining silver like the moon. His whole figure shaking with thinly veiled rage. He could see John's eyes widen significantly at the display, almost leaning back into Moriartys' grasp in shock and fear.

"No, No you're right. We are nothing alike. I'm better than you Sherlock," Jim spoke softly, "I've won, I have your heart." His brow furrowed, Moriarty gazed at John before lifting his eyes once again to the slim man standing against the night sky. A demented smile creeping onto his features once more.

"He's right, we are nothing alike." Jim Moriarty whispered to no one in particular as he sank to his knees behind John, pressing the muzzle of the weapon from John's neck into his chest.

"Goodbye Sherlock." he whispered into John's ear. Sherlock was running now. John could feel his heart pounding like a hammer, trying to escape what he knew was coming. He held Sherlocks silver gaze, unnaturally bright in the night sky, a hurricane of winds tearing at his clothes as he ran, desperately shouting words in a language he'd never heard before. John held his eyes, trying to memorize his face, even as he struggled desperately against the cemented grip of the madman pressed close to his back. Jim Moriarty squeezed the trigger, and for a moment it was like being struck by lightning, time seemed to freeze. Just enough time to hear his best friend scream his name to the winds, and then John Watson was no more.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Good or bad please leave a review! I'd love to get feedback from everyone!