Author's Note: Been wanting to write this one for awhile - getting a bit into Sherlock's head as he stands on the roof and calls John. It was interesting to go back and analyse the scene bit by bit, taking in the characters' expressions and surroundings. Quite fun to write as well, though admittedly rather emotional at the same time. Anyway, enjoy!

Warning: Spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall".

One Final Act

"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends – you've got a way out."

The words are calm, matter-of-fact, filled with a quiet acceptance that isn't quite resignation. Sherlock looks down at the one who utters them, searching that unusually bland face before him, only inches away. Moriarty is nodding jerkily, his eyes slightly downcast behind lids that flutter erratically. An outside observer might think that he is trying to hold back tears, but Sherlock sees no trace of moisture, even despite the sunlight lancing past to illuminate the other man's face. He hadn't expected to, either; but that confirmation only confuses him even more. What's going on?

Moriarty is too calm, he realises suddenly, too at ease in the face of the idea that his grand scheme is on the edge of being thwarted. The beast has been driven into a corner, but isn't cringing in submission. There has to be something more; Sherlock is grasping at a desperate hope that his words have finally gotten through to this man, but a deeper instinct is screaming at him that all is not right –

As though in reaction to that thought, a terrible little smile twists Moriarty's lips. His next words are the fleeting signal before the eruption:

"Well good luck with that."

His eyes suddenly lift again to meet Sherlock's, a laugh of triumph gleaming within as they widen, and his mouth opens comically as if to say, "Gotcha!" Sherlock feels Moriarty's hand suddenly tighten its grip on his own, feels his arm pulled forward roughly, and a wave of confused surprise seizes him, dashing away his instinctive resistance. Then he sees the gun that Moriarty has pulled out from beneath his jacket.

Everything happens in a split second. Sherlock feels his breath lost in a sharp gasp, his gaze locked in horror on the gleaming metal that Moriarty forces into his own mouth. The consulting detective rips his arm from the other man's grasp and staggers back without thinking. He shouts a harsh denial into the empty air; it shivers there hollowly, and then is shattered by the gunshot that follows.

Moriarty's body hits the hard surface of the roof, and Sherlock watches it fall. His mouth is half open, his own eyes now as wide as Moriarty's, which are staring up at the darkening sky above the ghost of a smile. A rivulet of dark blood is leaking onto the roof behind Moriarty's head, swirling, as though unsure what to do with this newly found freedom.

No, no, no, no, no…

Sherlock tears his gaze away, his breath coming and going in loud, ragged spurts, his heart pounding in shock. He turns slowly on the spot, his jolted brain seeking something, anything – an answer, a solution – while his vision blurs in its wild circling of the sky. Think, think, but it's so hard to think, because whatever precautions he'd put in place, whatever steps he'd taken, he never expected the curtain to fall on anyone's act but his own –

He pivots again to stare at the form behind him, some part of him waiting for Moriarty to suddenly leap up again, even though he knows it's not going to happen. After a moment, he turns his gaze forward again. His body and brain have begun to ease back from their uncontrolled rush now, his mind slowing so that he can begin to perceive reality once more. His eyes fall closed as he stands there, feeling the sun grasping vainly at him as it slips behind the clouds. He's suddenly, painfully aware of himself, of the shallow breaths he continues to draw into his lungs, of the way his shoulders, so rigid moments ago, have slumped, of the breeze that whispers through his clothes and hair and quivering eyelashes.

Very slowly, he raises his head. He knows what will happen now, he's known all along that there would be little chance to avoid it, but for once, knowledge is no comfort to him.

"I told you how this ends!"

Sherlock shakes away the echo and stumbles forward, forcing himself to step, for the second time, onto the low wall that rims the edge of the rooftop. For a moment, he looks down, shifting his weight, like a diver preparing for the plunge. A flash of familiarity takes hold, a bizarre remnant of his childhood. As a kid, he had always enjoyed heights, climbing trees and rocks and occasionally buildings. The sense of being high up had given him a feeling of control, a feeling of being in charge and above anything or anyone that might try to hold him back. He could look out across the scene before him and view a horizon with the certainty that there would always be something just beyond that line that he could move toward. But here, standing three stories above the streets of London –

He had never been afraid of falling as a child. The exhilaration had always far outweighed the danger.

It's rather a jolt to realise that he's afraid now.

Sherlock glances down the street, his eyes following an approaching cab. Instinct, more than logic, tells him that John is inside. Drawing in a steadying breath, he pulls his mobile from his pocket and speed-dials John's number, his gaze never leaving the taxi. He watches as the vehicle slows, as his flatmate emerges and answers the incoming call while starting to hurry away.

"Hello?"

"John –" It's all Sherlock can force out at first after a short pause, but he needs to do this. He must be calm, and rational, and strong in his resolve, because in a few moments he knows that John is going to be none of those things.

"Hey Sherlock – you okay?" Even those few words make it twice as hard for Sherlock to continue speaking; caring John has no idea that his best friend was never in any danger. Sherlock swallows hard.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came." The order is harsher than he intended, but then, he's not maintaining control as well as he should. That will have to change, soon, if this is going to work.

John's protest is immediate – "No, I'm coming in –" but Sherlock cuts across him. "Just – do – as I ask," he says haltingly, and he closes his eyes briefly as he hears his own voice break a little. He watches John come to a stop, and knows that the other man noticed the strange note in his voice as well. The last word almost doesn't come. "Please."

"Where?" John has obediently turned around and is striding back now, his pace quick and slightly agitated, glancing around in search of his friend. It makes Sherlock cringe a little bit to see how easy it is, how unquestioningly John will follow when he's given reason to think that something is wrong. Every person has their pressure point… someone they want to protect from harm….

As John reaches the pavement directly across the street, Sherlock orders, "Stop there."

"Sherlock –" A note of confusion, but Sherlock presses onward regardless.

"Okay, now look up. I'm on the rooftop." He forces his voice back to steadiness, almost deadpan. He doubts he can maintain that feigned calm for very long, though.

"Oh, God…"

John turns again, face bewildered, lifting his gaze to the figure high above. Sherlock feels their eyes meet, and in that moment, his resolve almost disintegrates. The beginning of the end has come. He has only seconds left in which to stop it, in which to explain everything and avoid the approaching finale. But it's the one thing he cannot do, and he forces himself to let the moment pass. His lips part, and it is gone.

"I-I…" He needs to focus, he needs to say this. "I can't come down, so we'll – we'll just have to do it like this."

John is backing away now slightly, squinting, trying to get a better view as though in the hopes that it will help him understand. "Wh – what's going on?" Sherlock can hear his friend's quickened breathing clearly over the phone.

"An apology," he answers quietly, and he finds that once he's started, the words come more easily, more calmly. He pauses, then goes on, "It's all true."

"What?" John's exclamation is filled with incredulity.

"Everything they said about me," explains Sherlock, his voice low, and nearly as accepting as Moriarty's had been only minutes before. "I – invented Moriarty." His eyes travel of their own accord, back over his shoulder, to the sprawled figure of the consulting criminal, whose blood has now pooled over several feet behind his head.

There is a long, agonising pause from John's end. Sherlock tries not to imagine the thoughts that are now running rampant through his flatmate's mind, but he doesn't really have to. He can already tell what the other is thinking, just from the weight of the silence. He forces down a feeling of anguish, because with that admission, he has broken part of the bond between them.

"Why are you saying this?" asks John, sounding as though he has no breath left in him, only the faint hope that this is all just another manic plan from the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock can almost hear him silently begging for an explanation.

He stares down at John, at the face of the man he has come to care for in a way which he had always scorned. There is a burning behind his eyes now, forcing him to blink, twisting his mouth downward into a grimace.

"I'm a fake." He can think of no other way to put it, and the blatant lie is bitter.

"Sherlock –"

John still doesn't understand, but Sherlock continues on doggedly, unable to control the quavering of his voice now. "The newspapers were right all along," he says, his stomach turning at the thought, as he remembers the second encounter with Kitty Riley. "I want you to tell Lestrade – I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly – " He presses his lips together, but forces himself to go on. "In fact tell anyone who will listen to you –" Pulling in a deep breath, he finishes, "That I created Moriarty – for my own purposes –"

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up." John's words are gritted out between his teeth. "The first time we met – the first time we met – you knew all about my sister, right?"

John's determination to support him only tightens the knot in Sherlock's chest. Could nothing shake the man from his beliefs? It only makes Sherlock's words all the more painful, only makes him hate himself even more for what he is doing to his only friend. And all the same, a faint, meaningless smile finds its way onto his face as he replies, "Nobody could be that clever."

John's answer is immediate. "You could."

And suddenly Sherlock finds himself chuckling, even as the tears begin to wend their way down his pale face. He wants to disappear from the roof, and then suddenly be down there on the pavement beside his friend; bypass the cold technology that holds a barrier between them now, and instead pull the wonderful John Watson into a tight embrace to show that he really, truly cares….

But he can't. He can only stand here, far away, and hope that John will forgive him for these lies that he is tossing down like withered autumn leaves.

Sherlock shakes his head slightly, the bitter laughter fading from his features. "I researched you," he says softly, and even at this distance he can see John's face contort. "Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you." A pause. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick –"

Now John is shaking his head too, eyes closed in denial. "No – alright, stop it now –" His voice is forceful, and he starts forward across the street.

"No – stay exactly where you are!" The words are a command, halting John in his tracks. Sherlock needs him to remain on the other side of the street; it's the only way for this to work. "Don't move!"

"Alright..." John's immediate acquiescence makes Sherlock realise that the other is starting to get an inkling of the gravity of the situation. The hand that is not grasping John's phone is raised, shielding his eyes from a sudden break in the clouds as he looks upward.

Sherlock feels his pulse quickening. They're close now, close to the end of this, the final act, and it is up to him to play his part to perfection; this role that he despises, the role he has chosen for himself because there is no other way. He stretches out his arm, his fingers reaching through empty air, trembling in anticipation.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!" His voice is strong with desperation, his face still glazed with tears. "Please – will you do this for me?"

Please, this one last thing I ask of you – I need you to do this even though I know you will probably never understand why…

"Do what?" says John, his tone one of forced calm.

"This phone call, it's –" Sherlock stammers over the words, trying to keep control of himself for just a bit longer. "It's my note." He falls silent for a long moment, running through his own words in his head. When he speaks again, he finds that his voice is startlingly, shockingly normal.

"That's what people do, don't they?" he asks quietly, rhetorically. "Leave a note…" From the conversational tone, he might have been discussing it over tea. His face is suddenly, terribly calm.

"Leave a note – when?" There is suppressed panic beginning to make itself heard in John's voice now. Sherlock can still hear the sub-text as well, pleading for an explanation for these horrible words that are so terrifyingly out of character. He closes his eyes for a moment. In his mind, he gets the sudden image of a hand – his hand – tightening around the tasseled cord that will bring the curtain down before him.

Sherlock opens his eyes and speaks the words that are his final cue.

"Goodbye John."

John's voice breaks over the phone. "No – don't –"

Sherlock stands there for a long moment, the rising wind whipping around him. His mobile is still pressed to his ear, listening to John's loud, panicked breathing. He stares down at the other man, gazing into that distant face, and for a second or two his lips part as he struggles to suppress everything that his eyes are trying to say. Flashes of memories, of moments, pass in front of him like lightning, John's features prominent in every image.

This isn't the end, John. I am so sorry for all of this. I hope that one day you'll be able to forgive me for what I've done.

He ends the call, and his arm falls back to his side. A helpless flick of his hand sends the phone spinning onto the roof behind him. The wall under his feet, the edge of the roof, is suddenly looming beneath him, waiting, waiting….

Sherlock feels the sting of the oncoming rain dashing against his skin as he lifts his face into the wind. His heart is pounding relentlessly, and his body quivers with the effort of drawing in just a few more trembling breaths. He hears John scream his name in anguish – the sound tears a rent through his being.

The cry of his friend is like a release. Sherlock spreads his arms, his coat billowing around him, the scarf straining at his neck from the wind, and in one smooth movement, leans forward.

He falls, and the curtain falls with him.

Please tell me what you think, and leave a review! May the Force be with you.