Title: the fall's gonna kill you

Pairing/s: Joan/Sherlock, dubious Joan/Moriarty.

Disclaimer: this is honestly such shit im so sforry

Summary: "And believe me to be, my dear fellow, very sincerely yours..."

It's their fifth day running when the message comes.

Help, reads the text. Joan, I need to talk to you. Please, it's urgent. I'm scared. I think I might relapse.

There's that word, Joan thinks. The word she's not allowed to ignore. The client (former) is named Jessica Hall and she was a heroin addict who sold and pawned until the only thing she had left to give were bony ribs and open legs, small smiles, hollow eyes. Jessica was loud at parties but quiet in person. She'd never call Joan unless it was an absolute emergency.

Joan ignores the text and puts her phone away.

It won't work a second time.

Five days ago they were screaming each other in the living room. Joan doesn't remember a lot of what was said: "get out," "i'm not leaving you," "i don't need you."

She remembers the parts that hurt, mostly. She remembers the scathing, "Your arrogance is at times exceedingly grating, Watson, as is your aimless chatter. What makes you think you could ever be anything but a hindrance to me?"

She remembers, "You need me," though she didn't know the words had tumbled past her lips until she'd seen the almost-tears in his eyes.

"I don't need you," he'd lied.

She'd known he was lying, hadn't known why he was almost-crying, hadn't understood the slight break in his voice. She hadn't known he'd thought those would be the last words he'd ever say to her (the first words, too, maybe, though she can't remember those, either. What were Sherlock's first words to her?)

She hadn't known, but the lie hurt her every bit as much as it hurt him, because how can you think that little of me? how can't you realize these words aren't going to make me leave you? how can you, of all people, not see how much you are loved?

Joan can't remember much else. The last she remembers of that conversation is Sherlock's hair between her fingers, his quiet mutterings of "i will never allow any harm come to you, never ever."

There's nowhere to hide in New York City anymore—surprising, all considering. Moriarty has eyes and ears everywhere, and they've taken to the countryside, running through the long hills of one his father's properties. It's on the second day that the first text comes: Henry Mills, former client.

Joan i need to talk to u. they offered me drugs. i think i might relapse.

Joan had hesitated, back then. Five minutes later she was shouting at Sherlock, demanding that he not lie to her, not now. Yelling that no matter how hard he tried, she was not leaving him, never ever.

Now, Joan puts her phone away. Help. Joan, I need to talk to you. Please, it's urgent. I'm scared. I think I might relapse. She turns it off and leaves it in her pocket, and frowns out at the rolling hills through the window

Sherlock's not stupid enough to try the same trick twice.

Joan isn't stupid, either.

"I'm going for a walk," she calls to him. "I'll be back in an hour."

Sherlock gives a curt nod. He's sitting in his chair, eyes drilling into a beekeeping book he found buried beneath one of the beds. "Gun," he says absently, and holds it out to her. She bites her lip; takes it, the metal cold and heavy in her hands.

"i don't need you," Sherlock's voice whispers in her head.

She grips the gun all the firmer, and takes to the hills.

Moriarty is waiting.

It's not ten minutes before Joan finds her, sitting cross-legged on an outcrop of rocks. Joan feels the gun's weight in her hands. She could kill Moriarty right here and now. It would be so easy. Quick. Simple. Bloody. Sherlock would be proud.

She doesn't doubt the presence of snipers beyond the hill.

"Sit," Moriarty says warmly. "Put that gun away, Joan, it doesn't suit you." She frowns, as with sudden enlightenment. "...Or perhaps it does? You surprised me last time, you know."

Joan sits cautiously. "That was kind of the point."

A placating smile. Joan notes the dynamic they've come to share: Moriarty is completely open, freely expressing any thought or feeling she experiences; Joan is a chest locked iron tight. She wonders at that for a brief moment. She's heard Moriarty called a treacherous snake, a spider spinning webs of lies and manipulations. But sitting here now, Joan knows Moriarty is neither of these.

Jamie Moriarty is muscled power running beneath fluid grace. Jamie Moriarty is sleeping in the wide open plains, lazy and unguarded, afraid of nothing. Jamie Moriarty playing with her prey; Jamie Moriarty is a mass of golden tangles and sharp teeth. Jamie Moriarty's prey does not know it is her prey until it is too late.

Jamie Moriarty is a lion.

It's a lion from which the next question comes.

"Shouldn't you be with your client, Joan?"

She's regarding Joan with piercing, curious eyes, seeking understanding and something else Joan can't quite name. Joan shakes her head firmly. "I'm not leaving Sherlock."

"Yes, I'd noticed you've become rather attached to him," muses Moriarty, clinical reflection. "But I'd thought your compassion and sense of responsibility would be the keys to unlocking you. I must admit, I'm disappointed to have misjudged you. Sorry for that."

"Underestimating me does seem to be a bad habit of yours," Joan says.

Laughter, like melting honey. "Underestimate you? Oh, no, Joan, I could never do that, after last time."

Joan thinks about lions. She thinks about their teeth and their claws, and the strange phenomena in them that scientists have never quite been able to explain: they purr while in combat. Joan looks at Moriarty and thinks she understands the reasons why—and the danger.

She quells the impatience, the jittery nervousness that makes the gun slick with sweat in her hands.

"Tell me why I'm here, Moriarty."

"Because I desired you to be away from him," is Moriarty's flippant reply.

"You know Sherlock tried the same thing a few days ago."

"Did he?" Raised eyebrows. "I suppose it doesn't matter. The result is the same. You are here, and he is alone."

(Something inside Joan breaks at that, some fleeting, internal promise—Sherlock Holmes is never alone.)

But the words don't find voice; Joan's fears and uncertainties and unspoken vows are like ice in her throat. "You must know he won't let you kill him." It's all she can think to say.

The dangerous purring stops. The smiles fade away. Joan feels a fear well up in her like she's never felt before. Fear like prey caught in a trap.

"Oh, my dear Watson,"—compassion, pity in the lion's voice—"whatever makes you think that was my intention?"

Memory, stabbing, the ache of snow on her wrists. Sherlock's voice without words. What she remembers of meeting Sherlock Holmes is not what he said but is his eyes on hers: cold, hard, grey like an overcast sky.

Joan sees heavy clouds rolling in on the horizon. She waits for rain that doesn't come.

"He'll kill himself, you know," Moriarty is saying somewhere behind her ears. (Words, meaningless, sound but no context.) "He nearly did, when he thought I had died. But he was weak—he turned to drugs instead."

("i don't need you," "i never wanted you to.")

"But this time… No, I don't think it will be as disappointing."

"I don't understand," Joan says, helpless with the knowledge that she does understand, she understands everything.

Moriarty is smiling. "It's about weaknesses, Joan Watson. You correctly deduced that he is mine. Haven't you ever wondered his?"

"I—"

("There are ways to hurt you without... hurting you.")

"The client whose number I texted you from—Jessica Hall—would have led you to her apartment in the city. There was a sniper there. You would have been dead before you could blink. But I think this suits us better, don't you?" She spreads her hands, indicating the green grass, the open hills, the waterfall that roars beyond the rocks. "We're people who crave freedom, independence. So it's here that your death will cause his. What is it they say?"—swift laughter—"two birds, one stone?"

"He won't kill himself," Joan insists, hates the desperation in her voice.

"Oh, I think he will. Before… I suppose he thought himself above such a thing. But it's different now. All your fault, probably. He doesn't want to disappoint you, see."

Joan fights violently against the understanding that threatens to overwhelm her. But it comes, it comes, it comes, and this knowledge with it: Sherlock won't relapse if she dies. Not because he's stronger, not because he can stand against addiction any better than before—simply because he will not allow himself to fall again. Sherlock will kill himself, and it will be because of Joan.

He doesn't want to disappoint you, see.

The words clang in her head, again and again and again until she feels like she'll never hear anything else. Until she feels like she's drowning in them and can't breathe for the fear in her heart.

But then, abruptly, the echoes of the the words fade, and she's left with something else entirely.

It's about weaknesses, Joan Watson.

"Why haven't you killed me, then?" Joan demands, suddenly fearless. "I'm standing right here. Go ahead and do it. I won't stop you."

Moriarty only looks at her.

Joan laughs. It's an alien sound, bitter and rough, bursting from her lips. All of a sudden she knows the answer and it's a heat like ash in her lungs. For the first time, for the last time, Joan unlocks the chest and bares her heart.

"You haven't solved me," she says, a whisper. "You haven't found my weakness."

Moriarty's eyes are strangely bright. "Then tell me, Joan Watson."

It's more than a request—it's less, far less than a bribe.

Joan says, "I need him, too."

Then the words are spilling out of her like the rapids beside them, twisting past every barrier and every key with which she locked her heart. These are the ones she remembers: "don't hurt him," "i'll do anything," "please." The last one is his name.

Moriarty asks: "What will you do to save him?"

And Joan knows there can only be one answer: "Anything."

The sound of their breathing sounds harsh and loud between them; it is the only noise Joan hears for a long time. The pause stretches into a silence that wraps around the air, thick and heavy and dark.

Moriarty's voice cuts into it finally. "Kiss me."

How improbable, those words on a murderer's lips. How inevitable.

It's about weaknesses, Joan Watson. And Joan is Sherlock's and Sherlock's is hers, and she's going to die and maybe he will, too, and that's where Joan Watson's weakness lies.

But Joan thinks about shaking hands and a scalpel, and knows that weakness can be overcome.

"Let me text him," she says.

The hesitation is brief—the phone is pulled out, placed in her hands. Moriarty's fingers are cold on hers. Joan swallows, and texts Sherlock the last words she will ever say to him. She does not spare a glance for the snipers beyond the hill.

Deep inside, she knows this is a power thing. Moriarty's face is one of triumph. She is revelling in Joan's weakness, in having solved Joan, in having broken Joan. (She does not understand that her own weakness is weakness itself.)

"Let her win," Joan told Sherlock once. Well, she's done that now. She sees the possession in Moriarty's eyes, hears the demand ring in her ears.Kiss me.

This is Moriarty's act of dominance, Joan thinks. It's how she says "you are mine" and how she says "i own you". She kissed Sherlock like a lover before she broke him like a predator.

What will you do to save him?

Anything.

Joan steps forward, slowly.

Then she's wrapping her hands around the back of Moriarty's head, then she's kissing her deep and tasting the victory on Moriarty's lips. She feels Moriarty's arms entwining over her shoulder blades, the small of her back, and they're tangled in each other; a mess of limbs and Joan's heart thudding like a machine gun against her ribs.

Joan Watson buries her face in the crook of Jamie Moriarty's neck.

Looks, at last, to the hills.

Then she pulls them over the crop of rocks to plummet to the water below.

It's 2:00 pm and storm clouds are fading on the horizon when Sherlock's phone dings. The message is simple—just one sentence.

He throws the phone against the wall and it shatters on the impact.

But the words still read clear, nestled between cracks that run through the broken screen like water. And even if they didn't, they're seared hot in his memory for the rest of his life.

Do you believe in love at first sight?

fin