The Inevitable (The Untrue) - 5/8
V.
Sherlock was several inches taller than Moriarty, but that didn’t mean the little man wasn’t scrappy. In fact, as soon as he set foot on the path above the Falls, Moriarty was there and ready to confront him. There was more rage in his face than he remembered finding last time they met. In fact, last time, Moriarty still saw their interactions as a game, something amusing to spend money and time on when he was bored. But now, there was sheer loathing in those eyes. Sherlock wondered vaguely if he himself had become boring. He wondered if his success in finding him, in tracking him down, in thwarting him wherever he could, had become tedious.
Sherlock approached slowly. “Well, here we are.”
Moriarty pressed his lips together. “Quite. I didn’t imagine you’d come.”
Sherlock wasn’t sure why he would have made that assumption. The hotel concierge had slipped a note into his hand early one morning with a time and a place and a warning that if he didn’t come, didn’t follow instructions to the utmost, “your pet might disappear.” If there was anything one could count on from Sherlock, it was that John was not something he was willing to risk. “You’re not as clever as you think you are, then.”
Moriarty’s eyes flashed. Just like that, he was at him, pressing him up against the cliff face, connecting a harsh punch to the crown of his cheekbone. Sherlock saw it coming and allowed it. His position now allowed him to push back: knee to groin, fist to stomach, elbow to the back of his head as he folded further and further into himself, protecting himself. Sherlock drove him back toward the edge of the path. He pushed him with all the force he could gather, and Moriarty fell. His eyes were wide. It might have been the first expression of genuine surprise Sherlock ever saw on his face.
He stood there for a long time, his coat whipping around his legs. The wind was cold, cut across his cheeks, and the sting of the one solid hit Moriarty landed on him faded slowly to numbness. His brain was already clicking into gear, and he stared down at the water. Moriarty was dead. If the sheer impact of falling from that height hadn’t killed him, the jagged rocks at the bottom of the fall surely did.
He thought about the note he left for John - genuine, if now erroneous - and the fact that he had probably already read it. He thought about going back down into town and greeting him, just to see that look on his face, like he simultaneously wanted to murder him and kiss every part of him to make sure he was really there.
And of course, he thought about Moriarty’s network. He thought about the dozens, if not hundreds, of people he had beneath him, carrying out his work so that he didn’t have to get his hands dirty. He thought about the projects he had going that took little intervention from him, and the fact that they could probably continue operating for a long while without Moriarty to direct them.
And then he thought about the fact that a group of dangerous men and women with a sense of morality lax enough for them to feel no qualms about following the orders of Jim Moriarty. He thought about how easy it would be for another man as brilliant as Moriarty to come along, to step into the fray and take over, and how easy it would be for this network to accept their new leader and the orders he gave.
Sherlock made a decision more than a deduction. For him to be completely victorious, the all-around winner of this game, he had to take out all of the pieces, not just the king. It would probably take a long time, and it was probably going to be a worldwide venture. It was not impossible, but it would certainly be challenging.
One thing he knew for sure was that John would not be involved. The only way he could protect him now was to keep him ignorant. His stubborn, wonderful doctor would not be willing to let Sherlock take on this venture without him, especially when he was sure Sherlock couldn’t even hold a gun properly. So dead Sherlock would be for a while - just a while, just long enough to finish his business with Moriarty completely. Then he could return to John and their life in London.
He fished his phone from his pocket and shot off a text to Mycroft: I’m going to be dead for a while. Please make arrangements for my share of the rent and look after John.
The response was immediate, and in many ways both like and unlike he expected from his brother: Requests noted. Good luck.
As infuriating as his brother could be, as often as they were at odds about their lifestyles and the way they used their gifts and their time, Sherlock was certain he would do as he asked, if only because he had a certain stake in Moriarty’s demise as well.
Now that that was taken care of, he made his way back down from the Falls, and turned straight in the direction of the train station. The first thing he needed to do was get out of town. He won’t be able to help or protect John if he couldn’t get away from him first.
Mycroft texted him four days later to tell him that John had demanded the waters be searched for his body. Sherlock smiled slightly, satisfied, and tucked his phone back into his jacket. His wonderful doctor.
Part VI.
Sherlock was several inches taller than Moriarty, but that didn’t mean the little man wasn’t scrappy. In fact, as soon as he set foot on the path above the Falls, Moriarty was there and ready to confront him. There was more rage in his face than he remembered finding last time they met. In fact, last time, Moriarty still saw their interactions as a game, something amusing to spend money and time on when he was bored. But now, there was sheer loathing in those eyes. Sherlock wondered vaguely if he himself had become boring. He wondered if his success in finding him, in tracking him down, in thwarting him wherever he could, had become tedious.
Sherlock approached slowly. “Well, here we are.”
Moriarty pressed his lips together. “Quite. I didn’t imagine you’d come.”
Sherlock wasn’t sure why he would have made that assumption. The hotel concierge had slipped a note into his hand early one morning with a time and a place and a warning that if he didn’t come, didn’t follow instructions to the utmost, “your pet might disappear.” If there was anything one could count on from Sherlock, it was that John was not something he was willing to risk. “You’re not as clever as you think you are, then.”
Moriarty’s eyes flashed. Just like that, he was at him, pressing him up against the cliff face, connecting a harsh punch to the crown of his cheekbone. Sherlock saw it coming and allowed it. His position now allowed him to push back: knee to groin, fist to stomach, elbow to the back of his head as he folded further and further into himself, protecting himself. Sherlock drove him back toward the edge of the path. He pushed him with all the force he could gather, and Moriarty fell. His eyes were wide. It might have been the first expression of genuine surprise Sherlock ever saw on his face.
He stood there for a long time, his coat whipping around his legs. The wind was cold, cut across his cheeks, and the sting of the one solid hit Moriarty landed on him faded slowly to numbness. His brain was already clicking into gear, and he stared down at the water. Moriarty was dead. If the sheer impact of falling from that height hadn’t killed him, the jagged rocks at the bottom of the fall surely did.
He thought about the note he left for John - genuine, if now erroneous - and the fact that he had probably already read it. He thought about going back down into town and greeting him, just to see that look on his face, like he simultaneously wanted to murder him and kiss every part of him to make sure he was really there.
And of course, he thought about Moriarty’s network. He thought about the dozens, if not hundreds, of people he had beneath him, carrying out his work so that he didn’t have to get his hands dirty. He thought about the projects he had going that took little intervention from him, and the fact that they could probably continue operating for a long while without Moriarty to direct them.
And then he thought about the fact that a group of dangerous men and women with a sense of morality lax enough for them to feel no qualms about following the orders of Jim Moriarty. He thought about how easy it would be for another man as brilliant as Moriarty to come along, to step into the fray and take over, and how easy it would be for this network to accept their new leader and the orders he gave.
Sherlock made a decision more than a deduction. For him to be completely victorious, the all-around winner of this game, he had to take out all of the pieces, not just the king. It would probably take a long time, and it was probably going to be a worldwide venture. It was not impossible, but it would certainly be challenging.
One thing he knew for sure was that John would not be involved. The only way he could protect him now was to keep him ignorant. His stubborn, wonderful doctor would not be willing to let Sherlock take on this venture without him, especially when he was sure Sherlock couldn’t even hold a gun properly. So dead Sherlock would be for a while - just a while, just long enough to finish his business with Moriarty completely. Then he could return to John and their life in London.
He fished his phone from his pocket and shot off a text to Mycroft: I’m going to be dead for a while. Please make arrangements for my share of the rent and look after John.
The response was immediate, and in many ways both like and unlike he expected from his brother: Requests noted. Good luck.
As infuriating as his brother could be, as often as they were at odds about their lifestyles and the way they used their gifts and their time, Sherlock was certain he would do as he asked, if only because he had a certain stake in Moriarty’s demise as well.
Now that that was taken care of, he made his way back down from the Falls, and turned straight in the direction of the train station. The first thing he needed to do was get out of town. He won’t be able to help or protect John if he couldn’t get away from him first.
Mycroft texted him four days later to tell him that John had demanded the waters be searched for his body. Sherlock smiled slightly, satisfied, and tucked his phone back into his jacket. His wonderful doctor.
Part VI.