Chapter Text
1.
THE DIOGENES CLUB
“Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac.”
For the first time in ages, Mycroft lost his composure. “I never inten—I never dreamt—“
“So this,” John sputtered, rage building in his chest as he reviewed the papers again, “this is what you were trying to tell me, isn’t it? Watch his back, ‘cause I’ve made a mistake.” He slapped the papers down on the table beside him and leaned back, because dear God if he didn’t he’d instead lean forward and knock Mycroft’s newly-fixed teeth in. “How did you meet him?” he asked instead.
Mycroft took a deep breath, clearly intending to answer the question, and John watched something shift inside him. For just a moment John thought he was looking into Sherlock’s face; the brothers were capable of familial similarity when it came to moments of epiphany at least. “You care about him, don’t you, John?”
John’s jaw snapped shut and he glared. “What?”
A sharp steel edge had appeared in Mycroft’s eyes, and John was not sure he’d ever seen in the man anything so dangerous. “I’m talking about sentiment, Doctor Watson. I’m talking about feelings and caring and . . .love.”
“I—what?”
Mycroft had never been so self-possessed; actually, the wild look in his eyes seemed more possessed than self-possessed, and John’s rage, while justified and quite incendiary, took a backseat to something that burned brighter in that moment. “We aren’t given the time to take the long way ‘round this. I need to know, quite simply, if you would die to save my brother’s life.”
“Mycroft, what are you asking?”
“I know already you would kill for him. Would you, in fact, consent to die for him?”
John stood, and the clumsiness of the movement knocked the papers off the table next to him. “Something is going to kill him,” he said, his hands rolling into tight fists. “Or someone.”
“That’s the outcome of his plan, yes.”
“Moriarty.”
Mycroft’s eyes were blazing. “I know you want to physically harm me and I do hope you have the opportunity soon, but again, I need to know, John.” Mycroft stepped closer, his keen eyes slicing through all of John’s frail artifice. “I need to know if, given the chance, you would lay down your life for the life of Sherlock Holmes.”
2.
ST. BART’S LAB
Sherlock bounced a rubber ball against the wall of the lab at St. Bart’s, waiting. This was not good. John was supposed to be here. Sherlock’s timing hinged on John following his old patterns. John would want to be along because things were coming to a head. He’d even sent John a message to ensure it. Where was he?
He sighed, caught the ball, and held it in his tight fist. His timing was slipping, but perhaps it wasn’t too late. He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed into it quickly.
Come and play. Bart’s Hospital rooftop. –SH
He paused, thinking he had to spice up the invitation.
PS. Got something of yours you might want back.
He stared at the door of the lab and frowned. “Come on, John. I need you to go so you won’t be here for this.”
The responding text on his mobile came too fast.
Oh-ho, on the contrary, my dear. I have something of yours. –J
The next text followed three seconds later and was nothing but a link. Sherlock clicked it and, once he’d adjusted to the view and the context, felt his world begin to tilt.
3.
ROLAND-KERR FURTHER EDUCATION COLLEGE, PT. 1
SCENE: Roland-Kerr Further Education College. A familiar classroom is harshly lit. JOHN sits in the chair Sherlock had once inhabited. MORIARTY sits across from him in a chair once inhabited by Jefferson Hope, the long-dead cabbie. He looks into the camera and smiles as though surprised they’ve been joined by an audience. JOHN stares at the table in front of him.
MORIARTY: Ah! Sherlock, so glad you could join us. It really is a delightful little surprise, isn’t it? All the way around, I think. John, don’t you agree?
JOHN lifts his head and nods once, sharply, then returns his gaze to its previous position.
MORIARTY: A little nervous, I think. Not that I blame him. It’s not every day a man at arms decides to lay down his life for a . . .friend.
JOHN lifts his head again, but this time his eyes are full of fire.
JOHN: Can we just get this over with?
MORIARTY: (laughs) So impatient! It is quite remarkable how you found this one on your own, Sherlock. Finding a good pet shouldn’t be so easy.
JOHN lets out a sharp bark of laughter.
JOHN: Is that what you think this is? Loyalty? Because it’s not.
MORIARTY: What is it then, oh doctor?
JOHN: It’s just another of your games, Richard Brook.
MORIARTY: Oh, it’s not my game, Johnny. Not at all my game.
JOHN: I know that, yeah? I know that. It’s Sherlock playing his little games. So fine, give me the pill, I’ll take it, you’ll give him a fright, and as soon as I get a chance I’ll find a new place to kip.
Sherlock gasps and jumps up from the floor of the lab at St. Bart’s. He rushes out into traffic and flags a cab, all the while unable to tear his eyes from the video feed.
MORIARTY: That’s quite the speech, Doctor Watson. I’m not sure I can believe you, though. You’ve always been his friend, haven’t you?
JOHN closes his eyes.
JOHN: I’ve tried. Doesn’t matter. He’s not been a friend to me.
MORIARTY: Tell me.
JOHN: No. Mycroft has already explained everything: how Kitty Riley was right, how none of this is real. So fine, film this last bit, have somebody come in to read over my parts and make it sound like I’m making some grand declaration, and let me get out of here.
MORIARTY howls with laughter.
MORIARTY: You know, Sherlock, I had a completely different plan for how to solve our last problem. It was going to be a beautiful symphony of symbolism—but I got the impression you were catching on to me. Yes, it’s true! I got a bit eager after all, left too many clues. I always do that. You can call it sentiment if you must, but we both know it wasn’t that. So rather, call it doubt. It’s just so hard for me to believe that you’re real, you know? You can’t possibly be that good, can you? But yes, you can! I know you can! You met with Molly Hooper didn’t you, you clever, clever boy!
JOHN: Oh, for God’s sake. Where are the pills?
MORIARTY: Don’t you want to know what he said to Molly, John?
JOHN: No! Because it’s all bollocks! I don’t know who’s lying to whom anymore, and I don’t care. I only know that once I’ve acted through this bit I’ll be able to get the hell out of it.
MORIARTY: Your exit will be far more permanent than you might think, Johnny.
JOHN: Yes, fine, stop talking and give me the damned pill already.
MORIARTY: Oh, do you not know how this works?
MORIARTY motions off camera and two hands appear holding two small bottles, each containing a single capsule, identical in every detail. MORIARTY carefully takes the bottles and grins at JOHN as he places them on the table.
MORIARTY: You have to choose, Johnny boy. Which pill will kill you and which will set you free?
JOHN stares hard at the two bottles and Sherlock notices that both of his hands are perfectly still.
JOHN: They’re the same.
MORIARTY: No, they’re not. You know better than that.
JOHN: One of them has a placebo, the other has a poison.
MORIARTY: That’s right.
JOHN: Not much for me to go on.
MORIARTY: How about now?
MORIARTY slides one of the bottles closer to JOHN.
MORIARTY: But you know this part, don’t you? A Study in Pink, wasn’t it? So tell me, John Watson, which bottle?
JOHN snatches a bottle off the table and angrily twists the top off.
JOHN (impatiently): Aren’t you supposed to take the other one?
MORIARTY: Very good. Yes, yes I am.
MORIARTY opens the other bottle and lifts the pill to his lips, as does JOHN. Sherlock pounds the seat of the cab as it approaches the college. Both MORIARTY and JOHN swallow their pills.
JOHN: Can I go now?
MORIARTY (sympathetically): Of course. But you won’t go far, Doctor Watson.
Sherlock screams in the back of the cab.
JOHN: What do you mean?
MORIARTY: The truth is, Johnny boy, your friend Sherlock was no fraud. There is no Richard Brook, you idiot. This has all been real, and now I think I’ve finally done what I promised at the pool—I’ve burned the very heart out of Sherlock Holmes.
JOHN swallows visibly and falls to his knees.
MORIARTY: Feeling it now, are you? Sherlock, you’re probably very close. Not close enough, I’m afraid. Gotta dash, sorry. Catch me if you can!
Video feed ends.
4.
ROLAND-KERR FURTHER EDUCATION COLLEGE, PT. 2
There were no cars parked in front of the Roland-Kerr Further Education College when Sherlock’s cab pulled up and deposited him, knock-kneed and practically hyperventilating, at the entrance. The doors were still unlocked and he made his desperate, clumsy way up to the room he remembered vividly from eighteen months prior. The sound of sirens pierced the night as he laid eyes on his flat mate, his blogger, and his best friend.
Please, he thought to himself. Not this.
He rushed to John’s side and lifted his wrist. A very, very weak pulse fluttered there.
A thin sound rasped from John’s lips. “Friends,” he whispered.
“Shut up,” Sherlock said, whipping off his coat and kneeling before John.
“Friends . . .”
Was this an apology for the doubt Sherlock had heard in the video transmission? Was this a statement of fact? Was this the opening for one of John’s long-winded diatribes?
“This isn’t the time, John,” Sherlock said, leaning over his friend and placing his mouth over John’s. Have to breathe for him until the paramedics arrive, he thought to himself.
John moved his head away. “No.”
“Don’t tell me that,” Sherlock said.
“No . . .time.” John’s eyes drooped shut and he held his hand out to Sherlock’s face. His fingers barely touched Sherlock’s cheek, but he felt them like a brand on his skin. “Don’t . . .regret. Worth it.”
And then John was gone, his head dropped back and his limbs fallen in a final repose.
Sherlock made a noise he’d never made before, a low, hollow groan of horror, before he dove back in and again tried breathing for both of them. Panic was making it difficult; he was more hiccupping than breathing, more gasping than exhaling, trying to draw as much air as he could into his own lungs to compensate for the terror flooding his mind, and his body was loath to give any of it to John.
Emergency services arrived and stormed through the building until they found him there, still administering what aid he could, but it quickly became apparent it was pointless effort. Sherlock could barely breathe himself, and his lips were too tender against John’s, too hopelessly gentle and desperately emotional. It was a full five minutes later that the paramedics called the code, and it took another minute to pry Sherlock away from John’s body.
Mycroft was there, of course, and he was already frantic to forget what he saw: his baby brother on his knees, sprawled out over the still body of an ex-army doctor, kissing him, tears streaking his cheeks.
No greater love, Mycroft thought to himself as he watched the medics strap his brother down and administer the sedative. Sherlock bucked against his restraints until he went still.