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"Shot the little brother? How kind of you."

"Sparing your snipers the trouble."

Jim laughed. "But I still got men on your little friends."

"I don't have friends."

"Mrs Hudson... Lestrade," Jim smiled even more once Sherlock started to realise the mistake he made. "The big brother too."

"No."

"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims." Jim smiled darkly. "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 three friends left in the world will die... unless..."

"Unless I kill myself and complete your story." Sherlock said, numbly. As if it were a play and he was merely playing his part. Because that is what it was - a play. And he was just a character. Just a character. "How dull."

"It's sexier."

"And I die in disgrace?"

"Of course. That's the point of this. Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."

Even though it was quite high, Sherlock couldn't help but stand on the edge and wonder how many broken bones he would have if he jumped. It wasn't rocket science, and it was not difficult either to predict several broken bones, surely a perforated lung and, obviously, his skull would end up broken in several pieces and, finally, death was highly possibly.

Death was highly probable.

Sherlock laughed. He had certainly tried to picture his death and over the years the scenario always changed. During his teens he imagined himself dying after a chemical explosion in university. During the early years of his adulthood, before he ever tasted cocaine or any other drugs, he had pictured himself dying at an old age, probably with a partner, probably with noisy children. Ha. He often remember that phase, when he once dated a girl in secret, told no one about her, and realised girls weren't his area and never would be. How could he ever picture himself having a family? Children? Sherlock Holmes a father? Really?

And then, when Sherlock met the famous white lady, that sweet powder capable of making you feel superior, flawless, invincible, and the young Sherlock pictured his own dead on the very hands of that white lady. A needle stuck on his arm, bottles of whiskey, yeah, that was more likely.

Then his fat brother had to put him into rehab and then his most favourite scenario changed. Having been living alone, with a cloud always obscuring his most inner thoughts and memories, Sherlock Holmes did not seek death any more.

And when certain man came along, Sherlock, for a moment, forgot death.

The clouds clouding his thoughts and memories cleared his brain and the man Sherlock Holmes had been sharing a flat with, and, the man Sherlock Holmes had fallen in love with was no one else than that boy his parents adopted many years ago, when he was still a mere child who liked to climb trees and experiment with the frogs he found on his mother's vast garden.

And that boy, who grew up an came back to Sherlock, John Watson, was not only his adoptive brother but his real brother, a child his father fathered after an affair and adopted when he came across him again, only Mycroft would know how, and decided to give him his name and take him to live when them.

They had kissed and Sherlock had craved John's body. Sherlock believed once Moriarty was out of the way, they could start all over again. He would forgive John for going to a stupid war and leave him alone. He would tell John all about his past and they would go back to their parents' house and visit their graves.

John liked men and Sherlock was one. There were not blood ties.

But they were. John had the right to know who his father was. John had the right over the properties left to himself and Mycroft.

And nothing could ever happen between them.

The man Sherlock had loved the most, first as his brother, and now as a man, was actually his real brother. And the man Sherlock had loved the most, was the man Sherlock was going to die for.

No matter how much about codes Sherlock knew, Moriarty's plan was a fake. There was no code, the killers couldn't be called off and what was worst, Moriarty was lying dead on the floor.

He had to jump.

John was safe, in a hospital fighting for his life, surely, but safe. Moriarty's men couldn't harm it.

But they could kill his landlady, Lestrade, and Mycroft.

John had already lost many members of his family - he didn't need to lose one more.

Sherlock Holmes took his phone and sent his older brother a text. Just one line. That was all he needed. And then, he dialled John's number and realised the phone was turned off. It didn't matter. John was fighting for his life, Sherlock knew he was going to get out of it safe, and he also knew he was going to listen to his message someday.

Hopefully.

It wasn't difficult to find the proper words. It wasn't difficult either when he knew he would never see John again, and, therefore, he could say whatever he wanted. This moment was meant to say truths, and not lies any more.

Heavy tears fell down his face when he finally said good bye, threw his phone back, opened his arms and embraced death.

It didn't hurt at the end.