Author's note: Wow. To all fellow writers: Moriarty equals more reviews. A lot more reviews.
Thank you all so much.
So here's the continuing confrontation between Moriarty and Sherlock. Yeah, the logical thing with Sherlock just shooting Moriarty... not going to happen. They have to have a conversation first, right?
Warning for – philosophy? I guess... You'll see what I mean.
I don't own anything and please review.
Sherlock can only imagine what his friends are going through. But he imagines it quite well, too well for his liking. He can almost see John draw in a deep breath, Greg emptying whichever flask he is currently occupied with, and Mycroft's stony face.
But they don't suffer – they can't suffer – as much as Sherlock does at that moment.
To realize – to know – to have to accept that – your whole life was nothing but a drug-induced dream, a whole life full of crime solving and fighting and pain and, sometimes, joy –
For a second, just a second, he thinks about jumping off the roof, for real this time, but then he remembers that Mycroft, John and Greg are sitting in a car on the street. He can't make them watch him die.
Especially not John. Not a–
No, not again, because that never happened. He never played games with Moriarty, he never destroyed his web, he never lived with an ex-army doctor, he never worked with DI Lestrade, he never annoyed his brother – he doesn't count "taking cocaine" as annoying on purpose.
He has never, never wished he's never been born. But he's at close to it at the moment as he'll ever get.
Moriarty seems to have fun; at least his for the first time since he stepped on the rooftop his gaze is fixed on Sherlock.
"I almost forgot how much fun it was to watch someone's life crumble before his eyes – thank you for reminding me. And, because of that, I'm not going to kill you. Not now, at least. Take it as an early Christmas present, Sherlock Holmes. Oh, and don't even think about using that pistol – your friends may be sitting in a car on the street and listening to our little conversation, but one of mine has a sniper rifle that can shoot farther than any other – there may not be any high buildings in the immediate vicinity, but you can see a few from here, can't you? And it's not only you who would suffer, trust me. I believe you are smart enough to realize what would happen to your friends after you met your end. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes". With that he turns around, whistling "Staying Alive".
Sherlock is still trying to get his thoughts together; he might not be the world's only consulting detective, but he might rid the world of its only consulting criminal, once and for all, even at the cost of his own life, that doesn't seem to be worth that much anyway.
No matter what he is, he can at least do that.
Mycroft, John and Greg should be smart enough to just drive away as fast as they can, but –
Sentiment.
They won't save their lives if it means living him behind.
Then again they're ready to die for this cause, as is he.
But is he ready to let them die? He wasn't in his dreamed-up world.
As Moriarty continues to stride away from him, he realizes he has to choose.
And then he understands.
He not only gets to choose who lives and who dies. Well, who should live or die; he doesn't think he can really control the outcome, but it's a choice nonetheless.
He can choose a life.
He might be a cocaine addict who's never done anything but take cocaine for the last twenty years.
And, if he is honest – it's easy.
Meaningless, unimportant, but easy.
No cases, no attachments, no pain. Just cocaine.
The other life, the one he dreamed off – it wasn't real, and it was difficult.
It was a constant fight, with criminals, with himself.
And then they clashed, and –
"I don't think I've eaten or laughed that much in years, so you're welcome to stay".
"I can't help but notice there's something different about you, today."
"I prefer your version of me to my version of me".
And so does Sherlock.
He indefinitely prefers his difficult thought-up life to the easy, meaningless one he has apparently been leading all this years.
So that's the life he chooses to believe in. He will have it back, in any way he may live it.
And he'll take the first step now.
Maybe he'll die – if so, he won't die just like any cocaine addict.
He will have done something good.
If he doesn't die – why not go into rehab again? Why not build up the life he has dreamed off?
John wants to help him, and maybe, just maybe, it's not too late to get Greg off the booze after all.
And Mycroft will have something to do at any rate.
So he starts thinking quickly. There isn't anything he could quickly duck behind, but –
If he manages to let himself fall on the roof so that Moran – he's sure it's him – can't shoot him –
First he has to make sure that one shot will kill Moriarty, which is admittedly not easy when you're high.
Moriarty needs to come closer.
And the only way you do that –
Moriarty has almost reached the stairs. His thought process must have been quicker than he realized, he'd have thought that the consulting criminal would be long gone by this point.
He takes a deep breath and calls.
"Just out of curiosity, before I go: Did Jeff Hope eventually die of his aneurism, or did you do away with him because he'd become a risk?"
Moriarty stops walking. In fact, he stands absolutely still. Then he turns around.
"How did you know about Jeff Hope, my dearest druggie?"
Sherlock relaxes, and the irony of this is not lost on him. But Moriarty has turned around and is interested, and he knows the consulting criminal well enough. "Jim" will come closer, the more interested he gets.
"I might be a drug addict, but that doesn't mean I don't know what's going on in London.
I know you paid Jeff Hope – or rather his children – for every murder he committed. I know he gave his victims a choice: either they try their luck and pick a pill, or he'd shoot them – though the gun was a fake..."
He would go into more details, but Moriarty's eyes start to wonder again, and he doesn't want him to get bored enough to just make a signal to his sniper.
"So" he repeats his question, "did you let him live out the rest of his days quietly?"
"As a matter of fact I did" Moriarty answers, and the way Sherlock asked the question – casual, not caring – seems to have done the trick and he strides closer. Though he's still a little bit too far away for Sherlock's liking.
"Though it wasn't the aneurism – in the end, it was a heart attack. Well, sitting all day, no sport – what do you expect?"
And, because Sherlock knows just what to say, he replies with "Dull".
"Indeed". Moriarty's eyes glitter. "Is there anything else you'd like to know?"
He wants to see how much Sherlock knows, if the consulting detective could be an adequate playmate for him, something to obsess over and keep his attention. Sherlock can give him that.
"How is General Chang doing?"
Moriarty's eyes narrow, but there is a hint of admiration in his voice."General Chang? A bit on the slow side, these days, but otherwise..."
"So dead too then" Sherlock says matter-of-factly. He knows every nuance of tone Moriarty could possibly use; there is no denying that secret mirth he heard in these words.
He shrugs his shoulders. "Yes – I don't take kindly on people losing something worth nine million..."
"The Empress' pin? That probably still lies on the bedside table of Eddie Van Coon's PA."
Now Moriarty is impressed. Something predatory is in his glance, as he tries to tell whether Sherlock will be a potential ally or enemy. Something "his" Moriarty never had to think about – but then, the other version knew of Sherlock's cases, knew on which side he stood.
The side of the angels.
A bit dramatic maybe, but all in all correct.
"How did you know that?"
"It's what I do – deducing people" Sherlock replies.
"So – you look at people, pick up clues and tell them their life story? What about me, then?" And now he looks almost like a little child on Christmas, and Sherlock can remember feeling like that so well, when he got an interesting case...
Survive today and you can start building this life. Focus.
"Easy. You didn't grow up in London – Sussex? Most likely Brighton" and Moriarty comes closer and closer – "You received a good education, despite an obviously difficult childhood – abusive father, I would say, you have more fun talking about dead men than about dead women. But you have no problems killing women on the other hand, so mother was either constantly absent or dead".
"Dead. Drank herself to death when I was two years old..." Moriarty waits a moment, then urges "Go on!"
"Your – and that is a result of my investigations – first murder victim was Carl Powers. He was a young boy, twelve years old, and he bullied you at school, even though you were older – so I guess you weren't a tall boy."
"That's true too. You're not bad, Sherlock". Moriarty is coming even closer now, and soon, Sherlock will be able to put a clean shot between his eyes.
"Thank you, that's quite enough" he says when Sherlock draws his breath – this version of Moriarty is terribly impatient – "but I have a question now".
"Yes?" Sherlock asks, casually bringing his hand near his pocket, without it appearing anything more than coincidence.
"You were the one who solved – well, sort of solved, you haven't the murders yet – the Brackenstall case – you know Lady Brackenstall wanted her husband gone and contacted me, you know I only hired two murderers because I wanted to see if anyone in this dull world would not be so unbelievably ordinary and able to see through my little plan. And you found all that out with the plan of a DI who has seen more bottles than files in the last few years."
Sherlock winces. Of course Moriarty knows everything about every policeman in this city – you can't run a criminal empire otherwise.
"Yes, I know all about your friend. I would say that you deserve better – but then you're a drug addict, so maybe that's not true. Still..."
He looks at Sherlock with a questioning glance.
"Here is my question: What is it going to be? Friends – or enemies? We could be big, you and I together, Sherlock. We could rule the world if we chose to. Think about it."
"I don't have to think about it. And I'm rather sure my answer has already crossed your mind".
Moriarty stops smiling. "You are aware that choosing the side of the angels" – just as dramatic as in Sherlock's dream then – "means choosing death?"
"Yes" Sherlock says, and his voice is firm.
"I am sure that everything I have to say has "already crossed your mind", as you so eloquently put it. So your decision is final?"
"Yes" Sherlock repeats.
Moriarty hasn't even given a sign, that he's aware of, but a shot rings out that seems to come from one of the faraway higher buildings and it doesn't take Sherlock's power of deduction to know that the shot is aimed at the street below, at a car... The consulting criminal smiles.
"So you will bear the consequence. You would already be dead if I didn't think you indefinitely amusing... It's a pity, really. But you, in one of your highs, could decide to tell God knows whom all about me, and killing people just to keep them quiet is so dull... So I fear there is no other way."
"Actually I quite welcome it" Sherlock says, his voice still steady, though his mind raises with the question who just got shot. Moran is an excellent sniper; he almost never misses. But he can't think about that now.
"You do?" Moriarty laughs. "You really are a wonderful distraction, Sherlock Holmes. Take that compliment with you – not many people get it."
"Don't you want to know why I welcome it?"
He sighs dramatically. "So I'll do you the favour and ask. Why?"
"Because – as long as it entails yours, I'm happy to submit to my destruction".
And with that Sherlock draws out the pistol and shoots Moriarty between the eyes, cherishing the look of surprise on his face.
He doesn't get down fast enough, however.
A shot rings out and suddenly there's a weight on his chest and he has trouble breathing.
He's lying on the roof of St Bart's and this time he's rather sure he's actually dying. But at least Moriarty is dead, once and for all.
He does wonder about his friends, though, which one of them is dead, if the other two could escape. He hasn't heard any other shots, but maybe he's just overheard them, being busy bleeding to death.
Then the door to the stairs clangs open, and he hears three – three? – men running in his direction.
"Sherlock? Sherlock!" Mycroft, his voice shaking.
"So much for the promise, then. 'Lock, I swear if you don't get up right now, I'll shoot you another hole in your chest, just to even things out". Greg, close to tears.
"Try to breathe, Sherlock, I know it hurts, let me see – " John, desperately trying to still the bleeding, but knowing it is hopeless.
Sherlock smiles. "See? The limp was psychosomatic".
"I know. Don't talk, Sherlock, and please – stay awake".
"I fear that might not be possible" Sherlock answers. He can feel the darkness rushing towards him. But at least Moriarty's dead, and his friends are there.
"Mycroft, remember your promise. And, while you're at it, look after Mrs. Hudson now and then".
"I will" Mycroft replies quietly, voice steady again now, he's holding Sherlock's hand.
Greg touches his shoulder. "Don't worry, 'Lock, I'll look after her too – only when I'm sober. I promise."
"I'll make sure he stays that way" John says, still trying to help and failing, of course, because nobody can help him now.
"Alright then" Sherlock answers and draws in what he supposes is his last breath. "Goodbye".
And then the darkness claims him, despite the shouting of "No! Sherlock!", "Don't you dare, 'Lock!" and "Try, please!". But he has done something good, he has won.
And the darkness is not quite dark or quiet, either.
Because, he doesn't know where from, but there's a light somewhere, and a voice –
"Sherlock? Sherlock! He's waking up! Come quickly!"
Author's note: See, that wasn't a cliffhanger, right? Right? I'm not sure – but you can guess what's going on, right? Getting a little desperate here...
It just seemed right to end the chapter here, and the end is not far off – I think (though I can never be sure, you know that by now) that the next chapter will be the last one...
I hope the philosophy about life choices wasn't too annoying, too far-fetched or too little explained. English is not my native language (it's German), as I'm sure you have noticed, and I can't always express things the way I want.
I also hope that I did Moriarty justice. He's such a wonderful antagonist. I love the fact that he's Sherlock's mirror image – Sherlock could have gone either way, and this is what he could have been like. At least that's how I interpret it. I will stop rambling now.
Mind: Wait... so it's going to be over soon?
Me: Yes.
Mind: Well, alright. And sorry for my threats earlier.
Me:...
Mind:...
Me: I'm still not building up a criminal network and calling myself "the spider".
Mind: Well, it was worth a try.
Me: I suppose it was.
I hope you liked it, and please review.