Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You could stop acting upset, you know. I would have been ready to swear you’d be happy I can still surprise you”.

Sherlock is once more acting like a child, but he’s used to it. Plus, the delicious knowledge that the British Government, the only DI in this city who actually knows what he’s doing plus the best medical examiner in the UK are working on how Moriarty could survive a bullet to the head is more than enough to stay in the good mood he’s in.

He steps up to Sherlock, who’s curled up in his chair.

“Don’t get me wrong, I see why you’re upset. You thought you were free”.

To his surprise, he finds that he actually is sorry for his plaything. A little bit.

“Sherlock, you’ll never be free. You have to accept that”. He pauses. “Then again, it wouldn’t be half as much fun then, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock still isn’t answering.

He did a good job of acting like he was excited about Moriarty being back for Mycroft, however. He can’t deny that.

Alas, poor Richard. What he wouldn’t give to be able to use him some more. It was delightful to have a face to show his employees. But then again, he’d just grow bored again.

The only toy he’s never grown bored of is Sherlock.

And Sherlock is thankfully still fighting him. He can feel it. The disgust, the hatred, the confusion because he spent years alone to save a man who can never be saved.

They need a new case, he reflects. Something refreshing.

Something he didn’t design.

Again, thank God for Lestrade.

Although – is he only imagining it or is there something like suspicion in his eyes? Not suspicion of John Watson, naturally, he would never suspect the good doctor who keeps Sherlock Holmes alive of anything, but of something being not quite right...

He won’t be mad, in case he is right. It could be fun, to have someone else know, to have someone else realize what is going on behind the door of 221B. Mrs. Hudson thinks they’re a normal couple, naturally. She has no idea why Sherlock gives in to him so freely.

“There’s... something” he begins. “I have no idea what to do, really.”

Sherlock plays his part admirably. Maybe because he has not given up yet. There is a part of him that still enjoys solving cases, a part that forgets now and then.

And it is a pretty intriguing case, all in all.

A man who should have been in Tibet actually sitting in his car dead for a week... yes, there is something very interesting about that.

He’d have loved to have invented it. On the other hand, he wouldn’t get to iunvestigate with Sherlock.

“Any idea about the cause of death?” Sherlock asks.

“It’s a burned skeleton. Your guess is as good as mine” Lestrade shrugs.

Sherlock nods, once more doing his thinker pose.

Ah.

The game is on.

“How have you been, Greg?” John inquires. It has been almost a week since they saw each other last; another clue that the DI might not be as clueless as he seems to be.

Then again, maybe Big Brother gave him a tip. It would surprise him if Mycroft Holmes were never to figure out something is wrong with his brother – unless he’s once more proving that he isn’t the best when it comes to understanding humans.

Naturally no Holmes would admit taht, though.

“Good, aside from this case. The poor parents... I can’t even figure out how he could call from Tibet if he was already dead or dying.”

“And he really has been dead for a week?” John asks. He doesn’t trust many medical examiners. They are so easily led down the wrong path.

“Molly’s sure” he says, blushing. Interesting. Looks like someone has a weakness for Doctor Hooper. This could be useful later, especially if he should ever prove to be a danger.

The morgue mouse is damn good at her job, though. So they really have to deal with the mystery of the man who was at the other end of the world when he died in his car in England.

They follow Greg in a cab.

“Have you got any theories?” John asks.

“Seven”.

He waits for him to elaborate, but Sherlock remains silent. He sighs. He has eight theories of his own, and if Sherlock could only bring himself to enjoy this a little, they would soon be getting cases from all over the world, instead of just the United Kingdom.

The parents of the victim are naturally devastated. John actually remembers the former Conservative MP, if only because he was disappointingly not corrupt. He’s always liked dirty politicians better. They make such wonderful playthings.

Sherlock is... actually rather nice to them, all things considered. But then Johnn has noticed him mellowing for quite some time. He really hopes Sherlock doesn’t turn to nice. He’s dealt with ordinary people all his life, he won’t allow his favourite consulting detective to turn normal.

Even if he has to kill someone else. Maybe Greg. He’s sure Sherlock likes him way more than he lets on.

As they are looking at the car, Greg explains, “Another strange thing: We found two types of vinyls were used for the seats.”

Sherlock looks up, clearly interested. “Two types?”

He nods. “Apparently they differed strongly enough that we could even keep them apart after the car burned out. The second type of vinyl was mostly found around the passenger seat. “

“Where the body was found. Have you asked the manufacturer?”

Lestrade shrugs.

“They told us they only ever use one type of vinyl, and the father is sure he never had the car remodelled.”

Sherlock studied the place where the body was found once more.

“We need to hurry.”

“Why?”

“This makes no sense” he explains impatiently. “The murderer could have put the body somewhere else, but he chose to victim’s car. But he didn’t only do that, he concealed it in a way nobody has explained yet. Now, why would he do that – if he wanted the body concealed, surely there would have been easier hiding places – “

“He knew the victim” John says, “well enough to know that his parents don’t use his car or have keys”.

Sherlock nods.

“So he did all of this just as a way to buy himself some time.”

“He’s on the run” Greg summarizes.

“Or... He’s shutting down his business” Sherlock mutters. “The victim was in Tibet. Do we know whether he went anywhere else?”

“We can check” Greg says, obviously excited.

“Well then” Sherlock declares half an hour later. “Kyrgyzstan, Thailand, the Netherlands. All of these are among the ten countries in the world with the highest heroin trafficking rate.”

“He was selling drugs?”

“Or buying and distributing them. With travels on such a scale, he wouldn’t have worked alone. I would say he had a fall out with his partner or partners.”

“Just how big an organization are we talking about?”

“That is the question.”

It really is. Has John truly been so preoccupied with his game that he overlooked a new group installing themselves in his city?

Thankfully, the oversight proves to be much smaller than he anticipates.

“The vinyl” Sherlock calls out while he, John and Greg are still combing through files for evidence of the trafficking organization, “It was in the form of a car seat.”

“He was hidden between that and the real car seat” John quickly deduces. Thankfully, it’s an easy assumption to make, so Greg doesn’t realize his slip-up.

“If you suddenly had to get rid of a body, where would you find a car seat quickly? A single car seat? I don’t think the killer is smart enough to buy it inconspicuously. Otherwise, he would just have let the body disappear permanently...”

And so it is that they eventually find the group of murderers: Three students who were trying to bring a thrill to their pathetic existence and got caught up in the whirlwind a non-ordinary life brings.

It has been a rather amusing day, he has to admit, even if Sherlock declines accompanying Lestrade to tell the parents.

They really have to have a talk about all this humanizing going on these days.

Sherlock is quiet on the way home. John is not surprised. He’s probably coming down from his post-case high. It used to last for a long time, but ever since... well.

He hasn’t enjoyed his cases that much since he returned form the dead, that is all.

Sometimes, John almost regrets telling him then. It was fun, playing the grieving widower, marrying, divorcing, returning to grieving, and then act surprised when Sherlock returned. He could have just continue the game, then. But knowing him, he’d probably have grown incredibly bored with it if he hadn’t changed the rules.

It’s perfectly fine as long as he’s the one changing them.

If he played by the rules, he’d never have ended up where he is now, after all.

That reminds him. There’s another small terrorist attack he has to arrange in North Ireland. It’s no big deal, but it requires some... personal time.

He can’t have Sherlock around when he makes his arrangements. As tempting as the thought is, it would probably tip a few people off.

Sherlock has fallen into his chair, his coat still on. John could tell him to take it off, but what is the point? When he’s in one of his reveries, the consulting detective tends not to hear him. Now and then he has to remind him of his existence. Painfully. Just a little bit. He doesn’t like being ignored, never did.

Maybe that’s why he eventually did away with Harry. He might not have cared for her or her parents, but she did love to ignore his existence unless she needed something.

“Sherlock, I need to take care of some business. These terrorists are too dumb to engineer their own bomb. I’ll be back when I can.”

No answer, but he’s used to that when he informs Sherlock of his excursions.

He’s in such a good mood when he leaves, he might not even kill anyone this time around.

Not that he meant to, last week. The cab driver was just so annoying.

This time around, no one manages to rouse his wrath, but he still contemplates killing someone just so Sherlock can have a new case in the morning. But on the other hand, this was a pretty good case. He’d hate for it to be swept under the rug just for one he knows the outcome of. Maybe in a week or so, or perhaps he’ll wait until he sees Sherlock getting dissatisfied with his lot again...

Yes, he’ll wait until Sherlock needs to be taught another lesson.

His mood gets even better when he checks his messages on his burn phone.

Apparently Culverton Smith is active again.

He’s watched him for quite some time, now. The man could easily be an artist. They’ll have to wait and see. He’s going to be an interesting case either way, he can tell.

Should he tell Sherlock right away? He’ll see. Maybe the consulting detective is in a better mood and they can start wondering what Culverton Smith could possibly be up to this time. He did like to play around with tropical diseases, John remembers.

That’s not what happens, however.

Sherlock Holmes hasn’t lost the ability to surprise him yet. It is just as well, he will later reflect; he was growing a bit too used to the status quo, and that is never a good sign with him. He’d rather be surprised than remember the drag that was his existence after he’d established himself and before he learned of Sherlock Holmes.

So he doesn’t get angry – as far as he could, anyway. His anger is not that of normal people.

He gets intrigued.

Because today is the day that he returns to 221B and Sherlock, still in his coat but standing in front of the fire place, turns around and announces, “The game is over.”

Chapter Text

“And what am I supposed to take from this? Sherlock, you know what’s at stake. You can’t stop. We don’t stop. This goes on forever.”

Or until he gets bored. But really, that goes without saying.

Sherlock remains stubborn.

“It’s over.”

“Just for the record, what was it? What pushed you finally over the edge?” he asks, sitting down. If anything, he’s mildly amused. Sherlock would never risk harming his friends, and he’s certain the consulting detective wouldn’t kill him. He still can’t let go if his friendship for the man he thought he’d return to after his Fall.

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

Must be the suspicion in Greg’s eyes, giving him hope. So he wasn’t deceived about the DI.

Interesting.

“We could of course focus on this petty little argument, or we could go chase after the serial killer who just claimed his twenty-seventh victim in London alone”.

Sherlock remains quiet, unimpressed.

“Does the name Culverton Smith ring any bells?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. He’s not surprised. Culverton Smith is a well-known philanthropist.

But behind the facade, oh, behind the facade...

He’s one of the few who could ever have come up against John, but he never did. Maybe he doesn’t even know he exists.

After all, he’s very focused on his favourite past time.

Murder. But whereas with John, it is often an afterthought, when he’s trying to get into a good mood or blow off some steam, Culverton Smith has turned it into an art form. And he’s never been suspected. At least a dozen of his crimes have never even been detected.

“Do you have proof?” Sherlock asks finally with a sigh.

He knew it. The good-god man in front of him could never let this go until he knows his beloved city is safe from such a man.

“I am sure it could be found.”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Come on, do you really think I am lying? What fun would it be to lead you on a goose chase with no answers? You get to work and catch a serial killer! He built his own morgue!”

“His own – ah the hospital, of course. Rather ingenious way to hide bodies.”

“I thought you’d like that.”

Sherlock ignores him as he mutters to himself in his thinking pose.

How easily he is distracted. Although that was the first open sign of rebellion in months. How intriguing.

“It won’t be easy to get to him” Sherlock announces. “He’s either surrounded by the press or by security guards”.

“Break in?” he suggest, not because he thinks it’s practical, but because it has been a while since they broke the law together.

“Too impractical, plus it would give him the advantage” Sherlock says calmly. “No, I think we should deploy... more modern methods”.

And that is how Sherlock Holmes ends up getting a twitter account.

Personally, John has never seen the point of social media, but considering he could easily be diagnosed with an anti-social personality disorder, that is not saying much.

The tweet “Culverton Smith is a serial killer” goes viral, as expected. And he reacts just how a showman like him would – inviting them to his hospital.

How the press loves it.

Wow, is John’s first thought at meeting Smith, what a reptile.

Say what you want to say about him, at least he doesn’t force Sherlock to touch him in public. He certainly would never elicit a hug under these circumstances.

An artist, but not one whose style John particularly admires, you could say.

Sherlock despises him. That much is clear.

He despises him so much that he actually makes an effort to be nice to the children. He’s never acted more human. Not that it costs him much; he’s always treated them like adults.

It’s clear Culverton Smith is surprised. He obviously expected  a different Sherlock, a hectic, confused one, like the tweet suggests.

“Just out of interest, how did you do it?” Sherlock inquires eventually, when it is just the two of them and Smith in the morgue. “How did you kill this woman? There are no external injuries”.

“I don’t kill people. I am a philanthropist, as many could tell you”. He looks down at the body.

“Natural causes. No one could tell where she caught the disease.”

And that is all they need.

Really, dangling a piece of information just in front of them, how boring.

But it is easy to tempt him, then.

And a package containing a deadly virus soon arrives.

“Should you pretend to be ill or should I do it?” he asks, “I could die for once, you know.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He just straight away tells Mrs. Hudson that he’s not feeling well.

Culverton Smith is in custody three days later, because he couldn’t resist the urge to gloat.

Alright, John can understand that. And Sherlock’s performance as deadly ill was Oscar-worthy, to be honest.

According to Greg, their latest serial killer is giving up all the information they need.

There is something in what Culverton is doing now, something amazing. Confession. He has never believed in God, but there is something about the idea of confession that fascinates him. Purifying your soul by simply mumbling a few words to a priest. He’s been tempted, over the years, just to see how a clergy man would react, considering confession is holy and it would be impossible for him to tell others.

But that wouldn’t even be half the fun of letting someone else in on the secret he and Sherlock share. Someone who knows both of them.

Mycroft would be an option, but he’s too important to just stop and chat. Mrs. Hudson would never believe him; Molly wouldn’t either; but Greg has the instincts of a long-serving police man, plus he is already suspecting something is wrong, if his and Sherlock’s observations are correct (and when are they not?)

And after all Culverton left him something very useful...

All the benefits of confession with none of the consequences. He truly is a genius. If only his horizon wasn’t as limited as it is; murder is not the be-all, end-all of things, but sadly there’s nothing he can do about it now. Maybe if they met earlier...

But then he wouldn’t be playing the game he is playing now, and he loves it, so it’s all turned out well.

Even now, things still go his way. Sherlock is off to St. Bart’s, since all Culverton is doing is confessing and it’s terribly boring, and he has all the time in the world to put the kettle on and check for any listening devices.

Just three this time. Mycroft is getting predictable. Maybe he should slip him a hint after all to spice things up. But first, he’s going to have some fun. 

Greg finally stumbles in after eight pm.

“Six hours of confessions. And he says we still have a long way to go”. He buries his head in his hands.

“Imagine if Sherlock hadn’t found him. He’d still be out there, leaving bodies in his wake.”

“Tea?” he asks.

Greg nods.

By the time he brings him the tea with the memory-deleting drug, he has relaxed considerably. Too bad that is about to change.

The DI accepts the cup gratefully.

As he’s drinking his first sip, John says casually, “Then again, I think Sherlock cares more about Moriarty still being alive.”

Greg spits some of his drink on the carpet. Mrs. Hudson won’t like that. But thanfully she cleans their messes anyway, so he doesn’t care too much.

“What do you – he’s dead. He shot himself in the head. Sherlock saw it – John, are you feeling alright?”

He smiles. Of course. Something must be wrong with the good doctor if he talks of impossible things, never mind that he usually others six of those before breakfast to stay in practice.

“Oh no. I am very aware that Richard Brook shot himself”.

“Rich – that was Moriarty’s alias – “

“No. He was an actor Moriarty employed.”

Greg looks slightly more relaxed, but also rather confused about his reaction to the news.

“Is Sherlock – “

“He’s at St. Bart’s. Perfectly safe, for the moment. Of course that cannot be said for – someone else. Someone who’s currently with Moriarty”.

Greg frowns.

“He has a hostage?”

“I wouldn’t call it that. He has a friend over for tea.”

John waves towards his cup.

Greg blinks and puts it down. He was thirsty, there’s only about half of it left. Good.

“John... how about I call Sherlock...”

It says something about how much he trusts the consulting detective if he is ready to call him because John is acting weird.

“No need. He knows. He has known for a long time.”

“Known what?” Greg asks, looking a little pale. Hopefully he won’t faint too soon. That would ruin all the fun.

“I am James Moriarty” he says simply.

Greg forces out a laugh.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am pretty sure Mycroft would have noticed.”

“He would have if I hadn’t made sure no one could since long before I came of age”.

Greg is studying him now, trying to understand. That’s another reason John picked him. The DI has experience in telling when someone’s lying. Especially when he’s convinced he knows the person he’s talking to.

“So, what should I tell you first? About how I kidnapped a few people and put bombs on them? Or how I was the one responsible for Sherlock faking his death? Or what we have been doing... ever since?”

“You... monster”. Greg looks like he might be ill. He believes him, then.

“I thought – I was sure that – “ His hand clenches around his cup of tea. “You bastard. You utter bastard”.

“Get it out of your system now” John explains pleasantly. “I’d say you’ll have forgotten all about this conversation on... five minutes or so.”

“What?”

“Culverton Smith’s memory drugs” he adds.

Greg’s eyes dart to the tea.

“Sugar does disguise the taste quite well, I imagine”.

“You... Sherlock...”

“Yes, he has been rather... downcast lately”.

“How can you...”

“It’s easy. Sherlock has never been a sociopath. I, on the other hand... Oh and remember when you were curious about Harry? I killed her years ago”.

Greg launches at him, but the drug is already working, making him dizzy and clumsy. It takes John no effort at all to wrestle him back on the sofa.

“Relax. In a second, I’ll be the good friend you’ve always known me to be”.

Greg continues to mumble abuse as he uses consciousness.

His language is rather... colourful.

Huh. John never thought Sherlock meant that much to him.

It takes Greg only a few minutes to wake up.

“John... what...” he mumbles, confused.

“You passed out as soon as you sat down. Interrogating Culverton Smith must have taken a lot out of you”.

“I – I suppose”. He rubs his eyes.

“Is there still...”

“Your tea’s grown cold. I’ll get you another cup”.

Drug-free, this time. While it would probably be funny to watch Greg repeatedly lose his memory, it would also be highly impractical, plus Sherlock should return soon.

He does just as Greg leaves.

In an unprecedented move, he turns and accompanies him outside. When he returns, he’s tense, even angry. The old fire is back in his eyes.

He would be lying if he said he hasn’t kind of missed it.

“You drugged him” Sherlock spits. “That was not part of the deal”.

“Oh, but how was I supposed to resist? I had to try the drug. You thought the same, once.”

“I tested drugs on myself. There’s a difference.” Sherlock pauses.

“Did you tell him?” he asks eventually.

“Yes, but of course it doesn’t matter. Think of the wonderful Miss Smith.”

Sherlock throws him a contemptuous look and goes to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

For a second, John contemplates following him. There’s something about the spark in his eyes...

But no. Sherlock is certainly expecting it. He doesn’t want to be predictable.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Hudson is blasting Iron Maiden while hoovering again. It won’t last long; she never cleans as much as she pretends to do.

Greg showed up half an hour ago and dragged Sherlock to the Yard. Apparently Gregson needs help with a very boring case, as the consulting detective put it, and he called out “Be back soon” in a slightly panicked manner.

Oh well. He really does deserve a break. They’ve spent almost every single minute of the last two weeks together. He can’t play with his toys all the time, they would break too easily. And Sherlock seems to have reached a critical point.

Yes, much better to let him run around with Greg for a bit. Blow off steam, so to speak.

Just as he’s sat down on the sofa, wondering if he should perhaps check in with the latest drug cartel that’s slowly trying to build up a client base in London, Mrs. Hudson comes in and offeres him tea. He gratefully accepts.

She is all but skipping up and down these stairs. Must have taken her herbal soothers again.

Sherlock looks much better when he returns, he has to admit. Letting him out was a good idea.

“So? What did Gregson want?”

“Suicide in a locked room. They didn’t realize it was suicide”.

“Of course they didn’t. No one thinks properly anymore, really. Anything else we could look into?”

“No. Things have been remarkably quiet” Sherlock comments as he strolls over to his violin.

“A shame” John says, but he doesn’t seem to hear him since he starts playing.

Huh. He hasn’t played like that in a while.

It’s one of his own pieces – when was the last time he composed? It must be months – and there’s a passion in his expression he thought all but lost.

At moments like this, he remembers why he loves playing their game so much. This is the Sherlock Holmes he found years ago, the Sherlock Holmes who doesn’t give up, the Sherlock Holmes who will never surrender.

And it’s absolutely and completely delicious.

It’s too bad Mycroft has to show up and ruin the mood.

He didn’t hear the door bell. Mrs. Hudson must have let him in.

“John, Sherlock” he greets them.

“Quite a beautiful piece, brother mine. Why f major, though? I think I would prefer e major”.

“You always preferred e major” Sherlock answers carelessly, throwing his violin down on the desk.

“What brings you here? I don’t imagine this is a social call”.

“As much as you love to flatter yourself, I think everyone in this room could have come to the same conclusion.”

He sits down.

“Lady Smallwood has requested your help. There is a girl who could shed light on some... private matters between herself and Lady Smallwood’s late husband”.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Naturally, for the longest time, the girl had no idea who he was. She just thought he was this nice, helpful man she’d stumbled across. And then, she saw the truth.”

“Picture in the newspaper?” Sherlock guesses.

“Oh, it was one of these programs on television ordinary people love so much. His face was plastered on screens all over the UK”.

“That will do the trick” Sherlock says, folding his hands. “Does she have any proof?”

“More than enough.”

“Give me the file, I’ll look into it”.

It’s how he deals with Mycroft if he wants him gone soon. Big Brother takes the hint.

The next few days are quiet. Sherlock composes several new pieces, losing himself in his music.

Sometimes, John has the curious feeling that there’s a pattern behind his compositions, but he can’t pick it up. And why should there be? Sherlock has never been particular about his music, unless he wants to make a point or chase someone away.

Still, it’s a welcome interruption when Lestrade calls them in for a strange case indeed.

A drowned woman was found in a cemetery. Her clothes are dry, but there is plenty of water in her lungs, and she has the skin of someone who was emerged as well.

Interesting.

Sherlock, of course, is at it immediately, analyzing the water, coming to a conclusion rather quickly once he does so.

“The water she swallowed... there are certain components... She must have fallen into the river somewhere around Tower Bridge”.

“The Tower Bridge?” John hums. “Some people do have a flair for the dramatic”.

“You would know” Sherlock spits, uncharacteristically, and for a moment, John hesitates to put his jacket on, but then he dismisses his worries.

He’s probably just impatient to get to the bridge and see how someone could either jump from or be thrown down there.

He’s jumpy in the cab too, although he tries not to show it. John begins to wonder if there’s something more behind this. Has Big Brother told him there’s another matter of national urgency? That lives are in danger? Sherlock is awfully sentimental when it comes to those.

Then again, he seems to calm down considerably as the time passes, especially when he gets a text from Gregson promising an interesting case tomorrow.

“Must have been forced to go over cold case files again” John remarks after Sherlock wordlessly hands him his phone. Now and then, he likes to indicate he wants to read a message to the detective. It keeps both of them on their toes. Sometimes, John tends to... get a little too comfortable with his role of the trusted sidekick and almost forgets that Sherlock hates him for what he’s doing.

Still a pity. They could do so much, if Sherlock would just admit that it’s so much more entertaining to be bad than try to be good.

Because no one ever succeeds at truly being good. It’s the joke he’s laughed at since he was a child and his father’s fists beat the truth into him.

It’s the joke that inspired him to play his game, his beloved, endless game.

But he forgot one thing.

Nothing lasts forever.

He should know. He’s ended enough lives.

And yet he didn’t see this coming.

Sherlock Holmes surprised him.

But not Sherlock Holmes alone.

Greg is waiting for them at the bridge.

Sherlock didn’t mention he was coming, yet he doesn’t suspect then.

Maybe he should have wondered why the surrounding streets were so empty. True, it is almost three pm, but this is Tower Bridge.

But he was too focused on the case, because for once it seemed original and new and fresh –

And then Sherlock is standing beside Greg and the DI is pointing a gun at him.

“Don’t. Move” he says slowly, carefully.

“Greg” he answers, blinking confusedly, raising his hands, “what is wrong – “

“Don’t speak. Don’t say a word. Just stand there you – you monster” he breathes.

The hand holding the gun isn’t shaking, not even a bit, John realizes. That’s not the first thing that comes to his mind, though.

No. The first thing is the hatred that is plainly to read in Greg’s eyes.

It surprises him. He didn’t think the DI could hate anyone. He wasn’t that disgusted with Moriarty – with Richie, that’s for sure.

But let’s not jump to wrong conclusions. Sherlock would hate that.

“I have no idea what you mean –“

“I was carrying a recorder”.

And just like that, he knows this is it. Unless he can pull another trick out of nowhere.

“You – “

“I taped your confession” Greg hastens to explains, word stumbling over word, but the gun still pointed straight at John’s heart.

“I can’t explain it, I just felt like something was off between you two, but you never said anything and naturally I didn’t think to ask Sherlock, and I thought if I could listen again to what was going on in the flat while I was there, it would make sense.”

A pause.

“And it did” he adds, bitterly.

He doesn’t think much will come of it as he plays the recording. He’s done that for weeks now, so why should anything change today? All that happened was he fainted, and all he will hear is John looking after him as only his friend could.

But what he hears is not the voice of a friend. It’s a monster, a thing without a soul, or even one human emotion; and he thought he was good for Sherlock, all these years, he was happy that someone was looking after the consulting detective, that he was safe, that he was –

It’s almost too much to bear.

He has to speak to Sherlock. And John can’t know, John can’t realize –

He will never know how he manages to get Sherlock away from him.

But once he does, there are no secrets left between them.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t notice. I should have seen – “

It takes John a moment to realize Greg’s talking to Sherlock while never taking his eyes off him.

“It’s quite alright, Greg” Sherlock assures him. “Even if you made a mistake, which you didn’t, you are more than making up for it”.

“Not enough” he replies softly, “not enough.”

John thinks. Sure, Greg has a weapon, but he isn’t a soldier, and he’s only two feet away.

He could overpower him. The question is whether Sherlock would do anything.

Oh, not like that; John is perfectly sure he will move eventually – but when, that is the question. Is there enough nostalgia left to make him hesitate long enough? Once Lestrade is dead and one of his fears has become true, Sherlock will certainly agree to get back to their flat with minimal fussing.

He won’t risk the lives of his other friends.

He’s certain he’s fast enough.

John is about to move – and he sees the knowledge in Sherlock’s eyes, as well as the panic when he realizes he really has to force himself to act – when a smooth voice rings out.

“I wouldn’t risk it, Dr. Watson. Or should I say Mister Moriarty?”

Mycroft is standing behind him.

So there was a gun hidden in that umbrella all this time. Good to know.

He looks from Sherlock to Mycroft and back again.

“I see”.

E major instead of F major. Enemy instead of friend. The case of the mistress who didn’t know who her lover was until his face appeared on every TV in Britain...

“Rather clever” he admits. Sherlock’s compositions must have had some clues in them as well.

“Anthea?”

“According to the music, Doctor Hooper has acquired a body that fits, sir.”

“Good. I want this to be dealt with as quickly as possible.”

“Of course, sir.”

There’s the same disgust in Anthea’s voice he feels himself. How he could overlook that his brother was living with someone who – someone who –

Thank God for Greg Lestrade and his honest, if conservative, way of thinking.  

“Sir, may I ask if you have decided how to –“

“We’ll let Sherlock decide.”

It’s what he tells his brother after he’s snuck out of 221B and into his office that night.

“You must be aware that I have enough agents at my disposal, John. Resistance, as they say, is futile.”

He is indeed aware.

“So what happens now?” he asks with honest curiosity.

“It’s not my place to say. Nor is it DI Lestrade’s place to shoot”.

“Sadly” Greg pipes in.

Sherlock speaks.

“Let him jump”.

His voice is calm, relaxed, but his shoulders betray him. He’s tense.

“Jump from the bridge”.

“Or?”

“Or Greg shoots you. Or Mycroft. Or someone else kills you. No matter what happens, this ends tonight.”

He really means.

And yet...

There’s regret there, too.

John can feel it.

Yes. The Game is over.

But Sherlock will always remember he played it, and a small part of him will always regret it ended.

No matter what happens, he has won.

John’s life never mattered much to him. But this does.

Anything he could say has already crossed Sherlock’s mind.

He locks eyes with him once more before he climbs up the balustrade.

John Watson closes his eyes, jumps, and welcomes the waves.