"You failed, you know. You're not really so clever... So what do you really have, in the end? Friends?" Moriarty rolled his eyes, shaking his head pityingly. "Sherlock Holmes, the Defective Detective..."

The twist of the knife...

Sherlock stopped breathing. The burn in his lungs couldn't even come close to matching the feeling in his chest.

Humiliation.

Shame.

Desperation.

Self-worth, crushed beneath those shiny dress shoes on that old, bloodstained carpet.

This was it. This was what he hated. What he had wished never to feel again in his life-but it was always there, in the depths of his mind...

You failed.

You're not clever, and you're not special.

You aren't likable.

You're unnecessary.

You deserve nothing, and soon everyone will leave you behind.

Just like they always do.

Despite his best efforts his hands had begun to tremble slightly, and he clenched them into fists. The rain was slowly beginning to let up above them, reduced to an uneven patter on the rooftop.

Moriarty took another few steps toward him, eyes locked on Sherlock's. "You know they don't need you. I can see that. You act like you don't need them, but in reality you're helpless, aren't you? Poor, lost little Locky... I almost feel sorry for you. Except I don't really."

"Back off."

"Oh... have I hit a nerve? This is interesting."

Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath and calm his transport, to regain that pokerface and focus. "You aren't just bored."

Moriarty arched an eyebrow. "Trying to be clever again, are we?"

"...Nobody's born like you. People like you are made. What was it, then? Mommy didn't love you? Daddy hit you?"

For a few seconds Moriarty just stared back at him-and then he threw his head back and laughed, short and breathless-sounding. "This isn't about me, Sherlock! This is about you. But if it would make you feel better, maybe. On the same thread of logic, though, people with your coping mechanisms and tendencies aren't just born, either. You're messed up. Broken. You're damaged goods, Sherlock Holmes, and everybody knows that."

"Mrs. Hudson?" John tried not to sound too desperate as he knocked on their landlady's door. "Did Sherlock say anything to you about going out? Or did you see him?"

"No-heavens, has he run off again? You know, I remember once when I was having a bridge meet in my living room, that man-"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but this might be a bit important." John backed away quickly and turned to bound back up the stairs, pulling out his mobile and dialing Sherlock's number.

When, after several seconds of holding his breath, he only received the detective's dour voicemail message, he rolled his eyes, took a deep breath, and began.

"Sherlock. Where are you? I wouldn't bother, but you disappeared and you've been moody for the last few days, so I... I mean I would bother anyway, but-point is, call me back. Please. You know I just worry."

Beep.

A slow, silent breath hissed out of Sherlock's lungs.

Damaged goods.

A broken calculator...

His phone was ringing, but he tuned the sound out as he slowly turned and raised his eyes to the knife that was resting there on the counter, tantalizingly within reach.

"That's right... A quick swipe, a little stab, a deep incision... Whatever you prefer... And then it'll all be gone. You'll never have to worry about any of it ever again. Never be bored, right?" Moriarty's grin had widened as he had drawn his pistol, pulling the hammer back with a click.

Sherlock paused and looked up at him, desperately trying to read his expression while displaying none himself. "You're serious about this."

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm dead serious. I promise I won't call you an ambulance." He snickered lightly and glanced at the gun. "As if I could, hmm?"

Sherlock reached out and very, very slowly closed his fingers around that knife, reassuringly heavy in his hand.

And he knew that he could do it.

He could take it.

He was completely and absolutely capable of doing this.

Dying would be easy; it was living that was hard.

"He's not working on any cases of ours." Lestrade shook his head at John apologetically. "Haven't heard from him for a little while, actually. Best of luck finding him, though."

John sighed in frustration, but managed a smile. "I'm sure he's just out being Sherlock somewhere, whatever that amounts to."

"He's probably found himself a case, knowing him. He just attracts trouble, doesn't he?"

John nodded, smiling through gritted teeth.

Whatever that amounts to.

"We could do a countdown if you like." Moriarty toyed with his gun lazily, although by his eyes his interest was definitely piqued. "Or you could just slice and dice as soon as you want. You'll be here longer."

Sherlock knew that was true... It would take him quite a while to bleed out enough to actually die.

It would be messy.

Not that he'd care about that.

He'd lie on that familiar floor and just bleed... Arms laid out, feeling the warm blood pour out and listening to the pitter-patter of rain overhead, and then after a while things would go dark, and he wouldn't feel much of anything anymore.

And then it would all be over.

And he'd never have to wake up.

The pain would end.

"Remember all those times you almost bled out? It'll be like that, but simpler." Moriarty was looking at him now. "Lestrade might think you're a coward, but he thought that anyway. And you'll be dead, so who cares? There'll be articles in the paper. But it won't be because anybody cares, mind you, it'll be because it's a good story. Hardly anybody will show up at your funeral. They'll be glad you're gone."

"You, as well."

Moriarty laughed again. "I know. It'll be funny, won't it? Both of us caused so much trouble... And even now, we'll be causing somebody at least a little trouble, having to clean us up. What a job that'll be. Can you imagine what they'll be thinking?"

"What use is that?" Sherlock ran his finger along the edge of the blade, feeling the sharpness, testing...

"Just a final little interesting note... But anyway, Sherlock... Just think. When you're gone, Mrs. Hudson won't have to deal with you shooting up her walls or otherwise ruining her flats. Molly won't have to bother with trying to save her heart for you, which we both know was never going to happen. Anderson and Donovan might even throw a party. Your brother probably won't really care anyway. He never does, does he?"

Sherlock had closed his eyes as he held the knife, not intending to listen but finding himself agreeing anyway.

"Their lives will all be so much easier, so much better... Oh, and don't even get me started on John."

Sherlock's muscles tensed, and his eyes snapped open, drawing in a deep breath of stale air.

John.

Moriarty was too engrossed in his own words to notice that Sherlock had stopped running his fingers over the blade. "John's going to be sooo relieved not to have to go running after you every couple of seconds, or tend to your stupid injuries, or comfort you when you're all whiny and depressed. He might even thank you. He's tired of worrying, you know. That's all he ever does anymore. You've killed his love-life."

The rain had stopped, and a deathly hush had fallen over the flat, broken only by Moriarty's voice and the thud of Sherlock's heart against his ribs.

'All he ever does...'

"But he is going to cry. Stupid, pathetic tears... and then he'll stop. And he'll go on with his life, just as if you had never even-what are you doing?!"

The clatter echoed against the bare walls as Sherlock let the knife fall from his hands and drop to the floor. He raised his eyes to look straight at Moriarty's stricken face.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?! You want this! I know you do! I can see it in your eyes-look, it would be so easy, so simple-"

"No." With immense effort Sherlock tore his focus away from that blade, away from that room, and turned toward the door.

"Wait!" Moriarty was almost screaming now. "Don't you dare move, or I'll kill you myself!"

Sherlock could hear that hammer click, and he paused, not looking back at him. "I wouldn't have wanted it. You'd still be alone."

"No! You do want it! I'd just be helping you!"

"This is what it comes down to? Honestly... I'm disappointed in you. I expected something more, but in the end you're just a crazy, lonely mental case."

Just like me.

"You're not going anywhere, Sherlock Holmes!" Moriarty's voice cracked. "You're going to stay here and die, because I NEED THIS!"

Sherlock kept his eyes on the door, listening intently to every sound behind him.

'You've killed his love-life.'

"I'm not staying here for you. You're not worth it."

Sherlock hardly heard the deafening sound of the gunshot. He registered a white-hot agony tearing through him before a dark curtain fell over his senses and he collapsed onto the ancient, dusty floor with a hollow thud.

'He might even thank you...'