He must have slipped, his attention more focused on telling John to do what had to be done, or maybe he hadn't struggled enough, but Moriarty had realized what he was doing and immediately tried to take control.

Sherlock could feel himself being pulled back as Moriarty told John that everything was fine. He hoped that his friend had seen something suspicious, was still scared enough to call help, anything. He couldn't do anything about it. He had to fight for his life. He grabbed Moriarty again only to almost have his throat cut, and he quickly ducked and rolled away, trying to aim once more, but he was faster than he'd thought and he could only stop Moriarty's arm with the knife a few inches from his breast.

They jumped up and stood in front of one another, panting. He calculated the distance between them. It was small enough that Moriarty would have time to reach him with the knife before he pressed the trigger; the consulting criminal was an expert when it came to knives. It didn't surprise him. He must have extracted information out of countless people, committed several murders, and someone like Moriarty would prefer the intimacy of the knife to the anonymity of the gun.

"What have you told him?" Sherlock asked calmly.

Moriarty waved the knife around dismissively.

"Just enough to reassure him".

"He's not an idiot" Sherlock said simply, "He won't believe you".

"Do you really think that? I've been in your head for quite some time now. Do you really believe that John Watson is worth your time?"

He was provoking him so that he'd make a mistake. He didn't succeed. Sherlock knew himself, and he knew John. Moriarty couldn't understand the friendship that united them, just like he hadn't understood his memories concerning his family or Greg or Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty was a psychopath, Sherlock might even have made him a worse one than he had ever been when he was alive if that was possible, he couldn't understand friendship or devotion. So he couldn't understand that his friends knew him in a way he had never known himself. And even if John refused to believe there was something wrong with him, there was Greg. Greg wasn't the Yard's best detective for nothing. Greg would feel something was amiss even if he couldn't explain it, and he would act if necessary.

"So much trust in your friends? It was different when we met" Moriarty stated softly.

"We both were" Sherlock replied. Moriarty chuckled.

"I suppose. I still had a pulse" he contemplated, sighing.

"Don't blame me for committing suicide. It was your decision" Sherlock reminded him. He hadn't taken into account that the consulting criminal might feel resentment towards him.

"I don't. It was my decision, and I was happy to carry it out. But as to what's happening now – you bring me back, and you refuse to entertain me. I had to look after myself". He was waiting for sympathy that wouldn't manifest itself. He didn't really need or wish for it either way. He was only what Sherlock had supposed Moriarty was, an annoying, fun-loving madman who would stop at nothing.

He wondered if, at some point in his life, he would have been equally disappointed that nothing entertaining had come up in a situation he had expected distraction. Perhaps. Probably. The man he had been before he met John had long become only a faint memory that bore little resemblance to who he was now.

They were still standing there, looking at one another, when suddenly Moriarty charged towards him again and Sherlock grabbed his arm and twisted it, making him lose the knife; it would all have been over then if Moriarty hadn't managed to knee him in the stomach with enough force that Sherlock's grasp loosened. He didn't let go of the gun, however. If he did that, all hope was lost.

"I suppose this is going to take a while" Moriarty breathed, but despite standing once more where they had been, Sherlock felt hope.

Moriarty was breathing heavily. There was no doubt that he felt, that he was corporeal to some extent. He could harm him. The gun could kill him.

"Really, Sherlock, it would be much easier if you stopped fighting the inevitable. I'm stronger than you".

"How?"

The question surprised him. He studied the consulting detective with something resembling pity.

"I did this" he said, his gesture indicating the mind palace. "You didn't even notice. And when you found out, you ran. And remember the break-in in Mycroft's office? You couldn't prevent it. And you couldn't prevent it either if I decided to hurt John or someone else of your friends... Maybe the DI or the nice pathologist?"

He wouldn't unsettle Sherlock. He had done so at first, but perhaps Sherlock had grown used to the horror or he simply didn't care anymore. What he cared about was that Moriarty was destroyed. His own life meant little to him.

He saw the moment Moriarty recognized this, watched his eyes harden and his body shift in a more defensive stance. Just as Moriarty was here to kill him, he was here to destroy him once and for all, as he should have on that rooftop. As he should have left him in his memories, where he belonged, instead of ripping him out and giving him a life of his own.

It was his fault that Moriarty was here, and he would do anything to right his mistake. He felt certain that, even if John refused, Greg would do what he had asked. Greg had always done as he had asked, had always trusted him. From the very first moment he found a drug addict standing at a crime scene after having solved the case.

"You really don't care anymore" Moriarty said, confused.

"I care about certain things" Sherlock replied evenly, and Moriarty shook his head.

"Do you really think it is healthy to want to murder someone?"

"You seem to be doing fine".

Moriarty actually laughed, and if Sherlock hadn't known that he was ready to pounce every second, he would have thought he was distracted. But he wasn't. There was a gleam in his eye that made clear he was only waiting for Sherlock to rush, to risk it so that he could have his mind palace and body once and for all.

They continued standing there, eyeing one another.

"I'll go in" Greg said eventually, the silence having become too heavy. "I'll go in and see – " he stopped when he realized he didn't know what he would see. Whether he would really see anything. Maybe he never had. Maybe he had been wrong. But one look into John's panicked eyes was enough to assure him that he wasn't. Something – someone – Sherlock –

He knew what the doctor was thinking because he was thinking the same, even if it was crazy, impossible. Moriarty was there. There could be no doubt about that. Sherlock had assured him again and again that he had indeed shot himself on that rooftop. What they were thinking –

What were they even thinking, exactly? There was a vague suspicion in the air about Sherlock not being Sherlock and Moriarty being involved. But it was too ridiculous to contemplate. At least he wished it was. And yet he was contemplating it because he had not spoken to Sherlock. He had spoken to something else. Something cunning, something cruel, something –

Something like –

No. It wasn't possible.

Wasn't it?

He would go in. He had to see. He had to know the truth.

Sherlock had to make a decision. Should he risk an attack? Of course this had to come to an end one way or the other. On the other hand, what if Moriarty won? John was in the house. So was Mrs. Hudson. And if John was worried at all, he was certain to have called Greg. They would all be there when Moriarty emerged, master of his body, all the time of the world at his disposal to get rid of them before he vanished into the night...

He had to act.

He shot at the floor in front of Moriarty, which surprised him enough to jump back, at which point Sherlock ran into him, his hand with the gun coming down on the arm that held the knife, the other in Moriarty's face. The knife fell on the floor, Moriarty dropping to his knees to stay in reach while he twisted Sherlock's arm, the gun trembling, Sherlock trying to press the trigger –

They both had a hand on the gun and the knife now, they must have painted a strange picture if there had been any observers –

At the moment, although he didn't know, Greg opened the door once more and looked upon the thing that had been one of his best friends until that morning, one sound rang out in the mind palace.

A shot.

Then, silence.