June

Barts Hospital

It was very strange. As John slammed out of the laboratory on his way to comfort the "dying" Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock struggled to identify exactly what he was feeling. Regret, certainly—he could no longer remember how long it had been since he didn't feel regret about what was coming. For someone who had rarely encountered that emotion in the past, it was both eye-opening and traumatic. It hurt.

He wasn't sure if one could really distinguish clearly between regret and sadness—each had elements of the other wrapped inside of them, but he could nonetheless say that there was a difference. He regretted lying to John, making him believe Sherlock was heartless; he regretted possibly, probably, having to leave London. Of the 13 scenarios he and Mycroft had worked out, 11 involved a lengthy time in hiding. The thirteenth—he would not think about the thirteenth. But he was sad, not regretful, about the idea of leaving, and everything that was going to mean. He was sad about the utter inevitability of it now, and what it would mean for the future, if he had one. And while he didn't care what the world at large thought of him, he was sad, truly sad, at the idea that he would need to convince John of Sherlock's utter falseness. That what they'd had, who they'd been, had been a sham all along. Even if, as he hoped, the lie would be of short duration, the idea of it was awful.

Right now, though, something else entirely was taking center stage. And that something was fear—sheer, pulsing terror, in fact. He was terrified of Jim Moriarty.

He had realized over the past few months that what was so unsettling, so frightening, about Moriarty was his utter unpredictability. While under normal circumstances that would have been fascinating-people that Sherlock couldn't read, couldn't anticipate, were vanishingly rare—the sheer malevolence and cold, lethal insanity underlying Moriarty's smooth façade horrified Sherlock on a visceral level. There was a fundamental wrongness there, leading to an atavistic reaction of revulsion—a mind of that calibre lacking any shred of humanity. Until the pool, Sherlock had been able to shove that awareness down in favor of admiration of Moriarty's mind, and the elegant games it created. He had even, occasionally, wondered if he and Moriarty had an opportunity to, well, not engage, exactly, but compete, so long as no fatal damage was done. Sherlock believed firmly in detaching himself from human feeling, human weakness, for the sake of the Work. That didn't mean he lacked those things, merely that he intentionally repressed them for a higher purpose.

The face-to-face meeting, however, had demonstrated to Sherlock how unforgivably stupid he had been, to assume that someone willing to detonate blind old ladies for the sake of a game would acknowledge any boundaries at all, or be in any way daunted by the idea of death, on any scale or from any whims that might strike. Mycroft's warnings, as soon as he understood what was really underlying the "interrogation" sessions with Moriarty, had only reinforced Sherlock's dread.

Dread—that was an accurate term as well. Dread, though, he was intimately familiar with—he had dreaded many things in his life. In this case the only difficulty had been the sheer duration of the dread—it was exhausting to feel this level of negative expectation for weeks on end.

And it was ironic that, other than Mycroft, the only one who had realized that something was terribly wrong with Sherlock had been Molly—small, stalwart Molly, who dared to tell him what she had seen. Molly, who had been startled at his appearance last evening, but never hesitated in offering her help (and, he suspected, her heart, though there was nothing he could do with that except break it). She had tried, so hard, so hard, to convince him to tell John. In the end he'd had to just walk out; if the argument had continued he feared losing the rigid control he was maintaining over himself. He didn't want to hurt her, and he didn't want her to see him lose that essential control. The wobble in his voice when they first spoke was bad enough.

He texted Mycroft on his way up the stairs to the roof. It's begun. He received an immediate, somewhat uncharacteristic reply. Understood. Godspeed.

Stepping out into the sunshine on the roof was dazzling after the shadows of the stairwell. His eyes struggled briefly to adapt and he squinted a bit as he spied Moriarty sitting on the ledge at the far side. His phone was playing the same obnoxious pop tune that rang across the pool.

"Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem." The smaller man held the phone up. "Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" He punched the phone theatrically and the music stopped, while Moriarty glowered. "It's just ...," he slid his hand along in a floating motion, " ... staying." He lowered his head briefly into his palm as Sherlock walked towards him warily. Sherlock was exerting every ounce of his concentration to read him, to try and anticipate. It didn't work any better than it ever had with Jim.

"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 said, bitter and triumphant at once. Sherlock forced himself not to react. Resisted the urge to pace, and tucked his (slightly shaking) hands in the small of his back.

"And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy," Jim sneered." "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 rubbed his face again while Sherlock forced himself to remain quiet. "Ah well," he sighed, in a mocking version of resignation. Then he stood and started to circle Sherlock, while Sherlock watched his every move, fearing a weapon, fearing a bomb, just … fearing.

"Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?" Moriarty chortled slyly.

Sherlock knew it was time to engage. "Richard Brook," he said simply.

Jim smiled. "Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."

"Of course," Sherlock said, in as superior a tone as he could muster.

"Attaboy," Moriarty murmured.

"Rich Brook in German is 'reichen bach' – the case that made my name." Sherlock didn't believe that – he had had a 'name' in police and criminal circles long before Moriarty slithered into view – but catering to the madman's vanity was the best way to gain information at this point. It was essential to learn, in detail, what mechanisms Jim had set into motion. And the best way to do that was to lead him to boast. The frailty of genius, as he'd once told John.

Jim smirked. "Just tryin' to have some fun," he said, in a cartoonish American accent. He was still slowly circling Sherlock. Sherlock decided it was time to add the next bit of theater, tapping his fingers rhythmically behind his back.

Moriarty saw, of course. "Good. You got that too," he said, as if praising a particularly bright toddler.

"Beats. Like digits," Sherlock said. Jim must believe that Sherlock had bought into that so-obvious charade at Baker Street. So obvious, in fact, that Sherlock had only realized last evening that Moriarty actually wanted him to think it real. Insulting, really—Jim had to know how staged that had looked. But if Moriarty thought him that gullible, so be it. "Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head – a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."

"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy," Jim said smugly. He was clearly reveling in his cleverness.

Sherlock pointed at his head. "Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty." He gave his words a triumphant ring. He had to play this very carefully; too much and Moriarty would twig to the plans Sherlock and Mycroft had crafted.

Jim suddenly turned away, moaning in mock despair. "No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy, " he moaned, dropping his head into his hands. "This is too easy." He lowered his hands and spun back around. "There is no key, DOOFUS," he screamed at Sherlock, that intrinsic madness shining through again. "Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless."

Sherlock painted an expression of frowning perplexity on his face.

"You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears?" Jim said in a scolding tone. "I'm disappointed." He mimed a plodding, round-shouldered cretin. "I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."

Sherlock was well into his performance now. "But the rhythm," he stammered obligingly, his forehead creased in confusion and distress.

Jim threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "'Partita Number One.' Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach!"

Sherlock was quickly tiring of his role as the Village Idiot. "But then how did…" he began.

Moriarty overrode him, speaking in almost manic fashion. "Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?" He spread his arms wide, as if asking the world to witness this profound stupidity. "Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants." He strode back towards Sherlock, pointing his finger in an accusing manner. "I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever."

Jim continued, in a terse, almost angry tone. "Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building—nice way to do it."

And just like that, most of Sherlock's options vanished into the wind, and his long-dreaded exile was assured. Well, assuming he survived. To cover his momentary distraction as he mentally recalculated, he assumed a stunned, confused demeanor. "Do it? He said uncertainly. "Do—do what?" He blinked several times, to add a little color to his performance. This was, after all, very much a stage play, for an audience of one.

Now he adopted a mode that, ironically, fit with what he was truly feeling, though not quite for the reason Moriarty thought (or at least Sherlock hoped that was the case). He stared out over the horizon and said "Yes, of course. My suicide." The sadness in his face and voice were not faked, not at all.

Jim was enjoying himself now. "'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales," he said slyly.

Now Sherlock's focus moved to learning as much as he could, in the limited time he still had, about exactly what Moriarty has in place—what mechanisms would target Sherlock and those he cared about. Because that had been obvious all along—if Jim planned to "burn the heart out of" Sherlock, simply shaming him in the newspapers wouldn't be enough, and Jim knew it. Which meant that those people important to Sherlock were definitely in danger.

Sherlock walked to the edge of the roof and leaned forward to look at the ground. He was faintly aware that Jim had moved over to look as well, but he was more concentrated now on getting a good look at the (potential) landing spot, and trying to shove the fear back down. Because he was afraid. He had done every preparation possible, including two long sessions with a professional stuntman to train. But even the stuntman pointed out that the odds of survival, with the bag, with the muscle relaxant the stuntman had insisted he take, with the training, with perfect conditions, was at best 50% for a fall from this height. He was shaking now. He considered trying to hide it from Moriarty, but then realized it fit into what Jim wanted to see.

"And pretty Grimm ones too," Jim continued. He turned his head and gave Sherlock a hard, black look.

Sherlock decided that a push-back was in order. "I can still prove you created an entirely false identity," he said, with the air of someone grasping at straws.

Jim was exasperated now, bored with this pro forma response. "Oh, just kill yourself," he sighed. "It's a lot less effort."

Sherlock started to turn away, to keep from responding the way his instincts suggested. But Moriarty was now more determined than ever to make this farce, rather than tragedy. "Go on," he urged. "For me. Pleeeeaaase?" he squealed, and just like that the rein Sherlock had on his temper snapped. He spun around and grabbed Jim's lapels with both hands and propelled him half-way over the edge of the roof. He was seriously, seriously considering Option 13. The one over which he and Mycroft physically came to blows, for the first time in a number of years, because Mycroft simply wasn't prepared to accept it as a possibility. The Scorched Earth policy, in which neither he nor Jim walked away.

He gave Jim another shove, bending him partially over the edge. A look into those black, soulless eyes revealed only mild interest. "You're insane," Sherlock blurted out. Jim blinked at him, perplexed. "You're just getting that now?" he said, clearly amazed.

The rage swept through Sherlock again and he bent Moriarty far back over the edge, while Jim flailed a bit and whooped like one of the Three Stooges. But abruptly that black gaze focused again. "OK, let me give you a little incentive," Jim said. Sherlock frowned to mask his inner elation. This, this was what he needed.

"Your friends will die if you don't." Jim snarled.

Sherlock had to get confirmation of who was targeted. "John," he gasped. Jim, delighted, continued in an intense near-whisper. "Not just John. Everyone."

Sherlock continued staring into those mad eyes. "Mrs. Hudson," he said.

Jim smiled broadly and whispered "Everyone" again. He was clearly finding this tremendously entertaining.

Sherlock offered what he hoped was the final name. If Mycroft was also targeted, things would get very complicated indeed. "Lestrade," he said.

"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now," Jim said triumphantly. Sherlock pulled him back from the edge of the roof—Option 13 was off the table, even if he had been really inclined to take it. "Unless my people see you jump," Moriarty snarled.

Sherlock gazed past Jim towards the edge of the roof, his face bleak. Jim loved that expression—he believed now, more than ever, that he'd won. "You can have me arrested," he said. "You can torture me; you can do anything you like with me. But nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die, unless..."

"Unless I kill myself," Sherlock almost whispered. "Complete your story."

Moriarty beamed and nodded. "You gotta admit, that's sexier," he said, waving his hand enthusiastically.

Sherlock couldn't stop staring at the edge. "And I die in disgrace," he said despondently. He allowed the true despair he felt at his limited options show on his face. Let Jim think the disgrace mattered to him.

"Of course," Moriarty said, in a chastising tone. "That's the point of this." Jim looked below and saw that there are now people roaming the pavement below. "Oh, you've got an audience now," he said, pleased. "Off you pop." He made his bizarre head-rolling motion, like some great evil snake. "Go on."

Sherlock reluctantly climbed up on the ledge while Jim watched. "I told you how this ends," he continued, as Sherlock stood on the ledge, looking down and shaking. He couldn't stop. "Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers," Moriarty said evenly. "I'm certainly not gonna do it." He paced back over and looked up at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock blinked, and took his chance. "Would you give me…one moment, please? One moment of privacy?" He looked down at Moriarty, who seemed a bit taken aback. "Please?"

Jim was clearly annoyed that Sherlock was being so pedestrian, but had no real reason to refuse—he was, after all, getting what he wanted in the end. "Of course," he finally said in a lofty tone, as he wandered back towards the center of the roof.

Sherlock quickly hit the prearranged buttons on the mobile in his pocket, the mobile that was also recording this entire conversation. A text flashed to Mycroft: Lazarus. And then another, 3. Moments later he felt the phone vibrate with what he was sure was an affirmative response. The wheels were now in motion.

But, while he stood shaking and waiting and looking below, Jim's last statement filtered through his head again. And as he realized what it meant, his face cleared, and he chuckled.

At the sound, Moriarty stopped and spun around as Sherlock continued to laugh. "What?" Jim barked furiously. "What is it?"

Sherlock turned on the ledge and smiled widely at Moriarty. "What did I miss?" Jim snapped. Sherlock hopped lightly off the edge and walked right up to Moriarty. "'You're not going to do it,'" he quoted. "So the killers can be called off, then—there's a recall code, or a word, or a number." He circled Jim now like a predator. "I don't have to die," he continued, "if I've got you," ending in a sing-song tone of delight.

But Moriarty is, oddly, delighted as well. "Oh," he cooed, then laughed lightly. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

Sherlock continued to stalk him. "Yes," he said simply. "So do you."

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

Sherlock loomed over Moriarty now, very close indeed. "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" he said, with utter conviction. "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." He meant every word.

Jim shook his head disbelievingly. "Nah. You talk big," he sneered again. "Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary—you're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels," Sherlock snarled. "But don't think for one second that I am one of them."

Moriarty stared, those blank, dark eyes searing into Sherlock's. Sherlock stopped breathing momentarily, waiting to see which way this would fall. Jim suddenly blinked, then closed his eyes. Sherlock found himself doing the same, the relief making him light-headed. When he opened them he saw Jim beaming at him, a bizarre glow of warmth in his eyes.

"I see," Moriarty burbled. "You're not ordinary. No. You're me". He gave a happy little laugh. When he spoke again his voice was high and delighted. "You're me." He paused momentarily, as if pondering this. "You're me. Thank you!"

He thrust out his right hand, reaching out to shake Sherlock's. Sherlock was suddenly wary, but wasn't sure why. "Sherlock Holmes," Jim said, the hand still proffered. Sherlock slowly raised his own hand and took it.

Moriarty's head bobbed quickly. "Thank you. Bless you," he said, in a fervent tone that Sherlock found profoundly disquieting. Jim blinked and lowered his head briefly, as if fighting tears.

"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out," Jim said evenly, still nodding, still holding Sherlock's right hand captive. "Well, good luck with that," he said abruptly, and pulled out a silver pistol, shoved it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger, a mad grin still on his face.

Sherlock was never able, later, to remember the next ninety seconds. He had brief flashes; remembered throwing his hands over his head in horror, not at Moriarty's death but at what it meant for their plans. Their plans, that always included Mycroft following Moriarty after Sherlock "died", using that sham to allow Sherlock and Mycroft to work together to end him and his organization. Another flash—he suddenly realized that the wind had spattered tiny bits of blood and brain matter across his chin and mouth. His stomach contents made a violent surge for freedom, and he threw his hand up to his mouth in reaction.

When next he was consciously aware of what he was doing, he had stepped back up onto the ledge, still shaking and now aware that the jump was inevitable. John's arrival, when Sherlock had hoped that he would be delayed long enough that the phone call would reach him still at Baker Street, was horrifying, but he had no choice. The call was agony, for both of them. He finally reached a point where he knew he must end this—the watchers wouldn't wait forever, and if he continued he would be sobbing in moments. He couldn't resist giving John one clue, one clue he prayed that John, steadfast John, would remember once he calmed. And then he dropped his phone, and held out his arms, and flew.

The fall itself was fast, so fast. He saw the ground hurtling towards him; couldn't look at John, needed to find his spot on the bag. He counted in his head, just as instructed, and flipped himself onto his back just in time to hit the bag. He landed properly, but a bit off-center. The bag tilted to the side and there was a tremendous blow to his left arm as he landed, not completely on the air-filled surface. He ignored it, concentrating on rolling off completely and following his waiting crew to take the place of the waiting corpse.

There then followed the most horrible minute of his life—listening to John's hopeless moans, unable to react, to help, to stop this. It was as well that John knew he had been weeping on the roof, or the reflexive tears would have given him away. Quickly, then, the "medics" picked him up and placed him roughly on the gurney. He was dimly aware of some pain, but nothing agonizing. Most of the pain he felt was not physical; he feared no medication would make this stop. The worst, the very worst, was John's sigh of despair as he left, left John, left their life. Dying couldn't possibly be this hard.