"She has really done her homework, Miss Riley – things that only someone close to Sherlock could know." Clara stormed into the Diogenes Club, a newspaper crumpled in her fist. Mycroft looked up from his perfectly polished shoes, slightly surprised to find Clara sneering at him.

He swallowed, stewing on her words and quietly shut the door with a click. He knew not even the infamous Doctor would be able to smother the oncoming volcano.

"Have you seen your brother's address book lately? Three names: yours, mine and John's, and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me or John."

"John and I," Mycroft corrected in a whisper. Clara glared at him, beyond ruffled.

"So how does it work, then, your relationship? D'you go out for a coffee now

and then, eh, you and Jim?" Clara basically snarled, shaking the newspaper at him. Mycroft calmly sat in one of two lavish armchairs, crossing one leg over the other. He went to open his mouth but Clara beat him to it, anger curling out of her throat. "Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

"I never inten... I never dreamt..." Mycroft covered his face with his hand, frowning deeply. Of course Clara was smart enough to connect the dots. He should have prepared for something like this.

"So this was why you hired me, hey?" Clara flicked through the creased pages, her shoulders jutting up and down with each livid breath. "Watch his back because I've made a mistake." Clara shook her head, slapping the paper down on the ground and perched on the opposite leather chair, crossing her arms. Her usually warm brown eyes were sharper than daggers. She regarded Mycroft with a chilling calmness that was eerily like Sherlock's demeanor. "How did you meet him?"

Mycroft sighed. "People like him...we know about them; we watch them. But James Moriarty...the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen and in his pocket the ultimate weapon: a keycode. A few lines of computer code that could unlock any door."

"So you abducted him to try and find the keycode."

It wasn't a question, a plain fact. Mycroft wasn't surprised, it was the only plausible explanation. A five-year-old could have figured it out. "We interrogated him for weeks."

"And?" She raised an eyebrow, mouth pressed into a hard line.

"The only thing that made him open up..." Mycroft looked away, memories flooding his eyes. "I could get him to talk. Just a little, but..."

"In return, you tell him Sherlock's whole life story," Clara finished grimly. "So one big lie – Sherlock's a fraud – but people will swallow it because the rest of it's true." She leaned forward in her chair, nails digging into the upholstery. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him the perfect ammunition."

Clara stood up, rage rippling off her body. "Clara..." Mycroft started, watching as she stalked towards the door. She looked back, hurt plain as day on her face. "I'm sorry," he uttered, eyes flickering.

"Oh, please," Clara replied tightly. She turned the doorknob, throwing it open.

"Tell him, would you?"

.

John strode into St Barts Lab, the distinct bounce of a squash ball greeting him before Sherlock did. Not that Sherlock was usually one for cheery 'good mornings'. "Got your text," John told him, looking around for Molly. Must be on her lunch break.

Sherlock was on the floor, back flush against the bench and tossing the small rubber ball to the opposite cupboard and catching it with agile hands. He caught it, ceasing the endless slap on the lino. "The computer code is key to this. If we find it, we can use it – beat Moriarty at his own game."

"What d'you mean, 'use it'?" His brows creased, easily shifting to confusion, which happened a lot around Sherlock.

"He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook," Sherlock explained, staring at the cabinet.

"And bring back Jim Moriarty again." A silent wave of pride washed over him. Usually, Clara was the one to figure it out. John looked around, surely she was here, sleeping or chatting to a scientist? He gave up his search, knowing better than to bring it up in front of Sherlock. Their bloody rows would be the death of him.

Sherlock stood up, rubbing his neck, lost in thought. John hoped he hadn't noticed him looking for Clara. Or maybe he had; you never knew with Sherlock. "Somewhere in 221B, somewhere – on the day of the verdict – he left it hidden..."

"Uh huh," John replied, pretending to know what was going on. He rubbed his jaw, thinking. "What did he touch?

"An apple. Nothing else." Sherlock drummed his fingers on the bench.

"Did he write anything down?" He offered.

"No."

John walked away, pacing by the store cupboard. He was completely oblivious to Sherlock's eyes widening at his own fingers and the short text he quickly sent on his phone.

Come and play.

Bart's Hospital rooftop.

SH.

PS. Got something of yours you might want back.

.

"John, I really don't want to talk ri...what?" Clara stopped in the street, nearly dropping her groceries. "Oh my god, I'll be right there," she said, switching off her phone and hailing the nearest cab. Mrs Hudson had been shot, Mrs Hudson had been shot. Clara's mind was a whirlwind as the cab speeded around London streets. "Can you hurry? It's an emergency," she told the driver, trying to control her breathing. Clara didn't want to think that the worst could have happened to her landlady, her friend.

.

I'm waiting...

JM.

The sunlight was burning through Sherlock's overcoat as he closed the door to the rooftop. Moriarty was calmly sitting on the edge, shoes polished to perfection and dark hair slicked back. His phone was in his hand, music blaring out of it. His foot tapped in time to 'Stayin' Alive'. "Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem." He didn't look up as he spoke, relishing the music. He held the phone up higher as Sherlock paced towards him. "Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" He shut off the music in an angry jerk. "It's just...staying." He dragged his hand palm down through the hair, glaring at the slow movement. He drew his head into his chest, clearly vexed. "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."

That drew Sherlock's attention. His eyes flicked towards his enemy dangerously. "And you know what?" Moriarty continued, frustration lacing his words. "In the end it was easy. It was easy. 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, before finally giving Sherlock a glance. Moriarty was hopelessly disappointed. That was even scarier than his anger.

"Ah well," he sighed, standing up. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye as he began pacing around him, like a lion circling its prey. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

"Richard Brook," Sherlock said, the name an answer in itself.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do." His mouth contorted in disappointment again. "I thought Clara might, but I guess she isn't as smart as she thinks."

Sherlock couldn't help but freeze. Why did he love bringing her into this? "Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach – the case that made my name." Sherlock brushed off the comment, regaining his vigor.

"Just tryin' to have some fun," Moriarty jeered, his voice shrouded with a distinctly American accent. He continued to pace, the circle becoming smaller. His eyes latched into Sherlock's hand, drumming carefully on his thigh. "Good. You got that too," he commended.

"Beats like digits," Sherlock explained. It was a habit - explaining himself. "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." Moriarty smiled like a cat receiving dinner.

"Yes, but now that it's up here," he gestured to his temple, "I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty."

Moriarty stared at Sherlock in disbelief. He spun on his heel, clutching his face. "No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy." He turned to Sherlock, eyes filled with madness. "There is no key, DOOFUS!" The last word was shouted right into Sherlock's face. "Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless." It was impossible for Sherlock to hide his confusion, which only made Moriarty even more irritated. "You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed." He lumbered away, shaking his head.

Sherlock stood there, stunned. It wasn't possible. "But the rhythm..."

"'Partita number one.' Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach."

"But then how did..."

"Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?" His voice rode over Sherlock's, taking back control. He spread his arms wide, smiling at the overcast sky. "Daylight robbery! All it takes is some willing participants."

"I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."

Sherlock stuttered as he spoke. "Do it? Do, do what?" Sherlock's eyes became clearer after each treacherous second of thinking. Too slow, he was too slow.

.

Clara slammed the cab door, dumping her bags on the sidewalk and sprinting to Mrs Hudson's door. A man shouldered past her, head covered in tattoos and muscles the size of her head attached to his arms. Clara fell through into the foyer, heart beating in her throat. She stopped still when Mrs Hudson was nervously watching the handyman drilling a hole in her wall. The landlady, jolted when she spied Clara, but smiled cheerily. "Oh, God, Clara! You made me jump!"

"What..." It wasn't her own voice, but rather John's, who was wide-eyed beside her.

"Is everything okay now with the police? Has, um, Sherlock sorted it all out?" Mrs Hudson's worried eyes were the least of their problems.

"Sherlock..." Clara uttered, her voice full of horror.

"Oh my god," John whispered. They shared a frightened look.

Clara sprinted outside, ignoring her vegetables rolling into the gutter. "Taxi!" She shouted.

"Over here!" John shouted, motioning to a cab he'd hailed. They jumped in, demanding to go to Bart's Hospital.

.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock rumbled. Always one step behind... "My suicide."

"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers," Moriarty said wistfully, "Fairytales."

Sherlock walked forward, his shoes butting the ledge of the rooftop. He peered over, watching the hospital staff potter along the pavement. He spied a few teenagers smoking across the street. They didn't even notice Sherlock juggling his life above them. Moriarty stood next to Sherlock, buzzing with expectation. "And pretty Grimm ones too."

"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity," Sherlock told him, turning away from the ledge. It was true - he could still win this battle. Maybe.

Moriarty sighed, his eyes rolling back. "Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort," he muttered, exasperation tainting his voice.

Sherlock stalked away, his feet starting to pace, to centre his mind. Yes, he would win this for her. For Clara.

"Go on. For me."

Sherlock ignored him, he had to think. He'd been so stupid these past few months - it was time to finally start using his brilliant head.

"Pleeeeeease?" Moriarty's voice was a squealing plead. Sherlock didn't know what he was doing until he'd wrapped his hands around Moriarty's coat lapels and shoved him back so he was almost toppling over the edge. Sherlock could see it, the blood on the pavement. The audible crunch that would send the nurses running. He could end Moriarty's life right now, but...

"You're insane," Sherlock breathed. Moriarty was nonchalantly blinking at him.

"You're just getting that now?"

Sherlock felt his heart hammering. Yes, Moriarty was smart but this, this was different. He didn't care. He wanted to play the game but didn't care if all the pieces burned with him. He was self-destructing right now. Sherlock's gut twisted - I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. And he wasn't talking to himself.

His plan was a pile of ash. This wasn't what was meant to happen. Infuriated, Sherlock shoved Moriarty further, but the madman only shouted in glee.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive," he giggled. Sherlock frowned as Moriarty's voice lowered savagely. "Your friends will die if you don't."

Sherlock couldn't help it, the fear was plain on his face. His mind flicked back to Clara, to Dartmoor. "I don't have friends" he had snarled, slopping a glass of scotch onto the armchair. Oh, how he was wrong. And now his mistake would be his downfall.

"Clara," he whispered. The word slipped from his mouth, a silent plea. Not her, never her.

"Not just your precious Clara," Moriarty taunted. "Everyone."

"John."

"Everyone." His face was plastered with indescribable happiness.

"Mrs Hudson." Sherlock's hands felt numb. Each name was a death sentence. "Lestrade."

"Four bullets; four gunmen; four victims. It doesn't sound as special as three but..." Moriarty shrugged, unperturbed. "There's no stopping them now." Sherlock wrenched Moriarty back to safety, damn him. He was unstoppable. "Unless my people see you jump."

Sherlock couldn't stop his body betraying him - his chest rose and fell in horrified breaths, he could hardly stop his hands from shaking and his eyes were glassy with fear. He never thought death was something to fear. Yet it was different when it wasn't your own, when it was Clara's or John's or Mrs Hudson's, even Lestrades'.

Moriarty was smiling triumphantly like the Cheshire Cat. "You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only four friends in the world will die...unless..."

"...unless I kill myself – complete your story." The words were acid in his mouth.

Moriarty nodded, ecstatic. "You've gotta admit that's sexier."

Sherlock looked to the horizon, taking in the London skyline. "And I die a disgrace.

"Of course. That's the point of this," Moriarty replied, as though Sherlock had missed the idea. He lent over the side, dark eyes taking in the pedestrians milling outside the main entrance to the hospital. "Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop."

Sherlock stepped onto the edge, the points of his shoes just surpassing the lip of the granite.

"I told you how this ends," Moriarty whispered. "Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered anxiously. One step would do it. Sweat slid between his shoulder blades. "Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy?" He was no longer confident. The words shook from his mouth as his throat closed up. He glanced behind to his enemy. "Please?"

Moriarty looked disappointed as he said, "Of course." Sherlock was just one of the ordinary, boring people now.

Sherlock took shallow breaths as Moriarty stepped away. He couldn't think if Clara, of how this would destroy her. He couldn't think of how Mrs Hudson would sob into her tea towel. He couldn't think of Lestrades' future frustration with easy cases. He couldn't think of John, who would be gutted beyond belief. But maybe living, with each other there, would be better than not living at all, however terrible. Suddenly, a sharp thought seemed to strike Sherlock. His eyes switched from sad to alert. A slow, careful smile spread across his face. He smirked at the grey sky and couldn't help chuckle.

"What?" Moriarty's furious voice pierced the moment, but Sherlock didn't care. He continued to laugh merrily. "What is it?" Sherlock stepped off the ledge, almost skipping away. Moriarty glared daggers, "What did I miss?"

"'You're not going to do it.' So the killers can be called off, then – there's a recall code or a word or a number," Sherlock smiled, circling Moriarty. How the tables had turned. "I don't have to die...I've got you," Sherlock said, singing the last part.

"Oh!" Moriarty laughed, seeming relieved. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied simply, "And so do you."

Moriarty shook his head, looking at the ground. "Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" He countered. "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."

Moriarty scrunched his nose in reproach. "Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock stepped closer to Moriarty. He was mere inches away; two predators - one about to become prey. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

They locked eyes - ice on obsidian. Moriarty blinked in disbelief. "No, you're not," he agreed, shocked. His face twisted from surprise to pure insanity. "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." Moriarty grinned as if this was Christmas. "You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes."

Moriarty extended his hand as if to shake Sherlock's. "Thank you. Bless you," he whispered, blinking back tears. Sherlock frowned, slowly reaching out to return the gesture. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out," Moriarty explained, mellow with his defeat. "Well, good luck with that."

Moriarty's wide eyes flicked to Sherlock's. He grinned manically and pulled Sherlock closer, reaching for the gun hidden in his waistband. Sherlock lurched back, shouting in alarm as the barrel clicked on Moriarty's teeth. He pulled the trigger, sending Sherlock backward in shock. Moriarty's body crumpled to the rooftop. Blood immediately pooling from the wound on his head. Sherlock stared in terror. His emotions flooded through him just as fast as his thoughts. Moriarty's dead eyes and mouth were frozen in victory.

Sherlock spun away, ripping his hands through his hair in panic. He turned to look again at Moriarty. Even with him dead Sherlock had still not won. His breathing slowed as the only option to save them struck a clam cord inside him. Sherlock swallowed, stepping onto the ledge. He spied a taxi whizzing to a halt below. Silently, with only the wind howling in his ears, Sherlock took out his phone and dialed a number.

.

"Sherlock?" Clara almost shrieked. She stopped still on the pavement, John halting too. She pressed the phone to her ear uncomfortably, as if one millimetre between the device and her eardrum would somehow bring him closer. "Oh thank goodness - where are you? I've been worried sick!"

"Clara," he said, by way of answer.

Clara breathed in relief at the sound of his voice. Two syllables uttered in that famous deep voice. She started walking again. "Please tell me you're okay."

"Clara, turn around and walk back the way you came now. John too."

Clara ignored the desperation in his voice. "No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask. Please," Sherlock said frantically.

Clara bit her lip. He never said please very often. She walked backwards, dragging John by his jacket. "Clara, what's going on?" John demanded. Clara shook her head worriedly.

"Stop there," Sherlock told her, so she did.

"Sherlock, you're scaring me," she murmured. He'd never done anything like this.

"Okay," his voice sounded strangled as he said it as if he couldn't find the words. "Look up. I'm on the rooftop."

Clara's face filled with horror as she saw his silhouette on top of the hospital, coat flapping in the wind. Her legs wobbled and she nearly fell over if it wasn't for John grabbing her by the waist. "Oh God," John uttered, his face growing paler.

"Sherlo..." Clara could hardly say his name.

"I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this," he said, slightly breathlessly.

"What's going on?" Clara asked, her voice slightly stronger. She felt tears washing down her face.

"An apology," Sherlock said, after a pause. "It's all true."

"Wh-what?" Clara stared up at him, her brows tugging together in confusion.

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

Lies. Clara shook her head, even if he couldn't see it. "Why are you saying this?" She sobbed. It wasn't true, it couldn't be.

"I'm a fake," he choked out.

"Sherlock..." Clara said, it was a warning. Her voice was a mix of anger and sadness and confusion. He wasn't a fake, he was the most real human being she had ever met. He was the only one who made any sense in this world.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell John, Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly...in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." He was rambling now, the tearful words falling out of his mouth like a waterfall.

"Shut up," Clara hissed. "Just shut up Cheekbones..." a sob smashed against her ear at the sound of the nickname. Clara swallowed, wiping her nose. "The first time we met...the first time we met, you knew everything about me. You told me," a little smile escaped her, "You told me that married people flirt differently, you knew I'd just moved to London...at Dartmoor, you knew I was arguing with my dad, you even knew what I'd had for breakfast."

"Nobody could be that clever," Sherlock dismissed easily, his voice shaking.

"You could," Clara insisted, sniffing loudly. John's hands around her tightened as her knees clacked together.

She heard Sherlock laugh, but it sounded desperate, sorrowful. "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you," he whispered. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

Clara sucked in a shuddering breath. "No. Stop it. Stop it, now." She lurched forward, even though her legs couldn't carry her.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move," Sherlock said, his voice rising.

Clara stepped back fearfully. "All right." She'd do anything just to make him come down, so she could wrap her arms around him and never let go.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me..." He was so scared. Clara could read the terror in his voice, even though the cracking phone. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Sherlock," Clara uttered, combing back her hair. What was going on? She closed her eyes, chin on her chest. Oh, Sherlock. "Do what?"

He paused and it felt like a century had passed. "This phone call – it's, er...it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"

Clara felt numb. No, no, no, no, no. She shook her head, taking the phone away from her ear.

"Clara?" This time it was John, giving her a frightened look.

She ignored him, bringing the phone back to her ear. "Leave a note when?" She said, the tears washing away her words. She knew he meant, but couldn't comprehend it.

Sherlock was looking at her, she could feel it. Those icy eyes staring into hers. She wanted to smooth her hands down his face and fix the cracks in his heart. She wanted to tell him it would all be okay.

"Goodbye, Clara."

"No - don't."

It was too late, he'd already dropped the phone. Clara watched his arm fall limp at his side. Clara felt her own phone slip out of her hand. Her eyes were latched on him. Please...

"No, SHERLOCK!" Her screams filled the overcast sky.

Sherlock spread his arms wide, Clara started running, John sprinting too. Sherlock fell forwards, his coat buffeting as gravity pulled him down, down.

"Sher..." Clara stared in horror.

A deathly quiet filled her ears. Sherlock. Breathlessly, Clara ran towards where he fell. She didn't see his body hit the ground. She didn't hear if he yelled or cried out. Clara halted, shock reverberating through her bones. She could see his body, curled up on the cement. Her gut dropped. No.

Clara started to sprint, but a force slammed into her side. She heard John shout as he went down in front of her. A group of bike riders had skidded on the wet road, straight into them. Clara winced as her head started ringing. She blinked groggily, realising a group of nurses or doctors had surrounded the body. Sherlock's body. She stumbled to her feet, following John, her head pounding. "Sherlock, Sherlock..." she whispered.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please." Clara realised it was John, his voice wounded as he shoved through the crowd. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please."

Clara pushed people aside, finally kneeling next to Sherlock. Her stomach twisted. His beautiful curls were slathered in blood and pushed to one side. Streaks of his blood were dripping across his cheekbones, across his nose. His chilling grey eyes were fixed in a painful stare. Clara reached forward, at least to smooth his hair and wipe the blood from his chin, but a nurse pulled her back. "He's my friend, he's my friend, let me go!" She sobbed, the shock rendering her useless.