I am not writing a story, the story is writing itself. It is merely using me to find its way out into the open. I have no idea, how long it will be and where it will end up. The rating might chance, the genre might shift. Ideas, feedback, inputs of any kind are highly appreciated!

Chapter 1

Sentiment.

What a useless thing. What a dangerous thing.

But even though he had always thought it to be a useless and dangerous thing to have, even though he had tried his best not to and for a long time had been convinced he had succeeded, he had without a doubt succumbed to it.

Playing the game had been about the thrill, about the challenge, about not being bored. He far preferred being on the winning side simply because he preferred being right. He did also prefer not seeing innocent people die, but it was certainly not high on his list of priorities. People served a purpose to him, they did a job. Getting used to new people was always a nuisance, but people could be replaced.

If not for sentiment. He had felt it creeping up on him, but had always shaken it off, disregarded it. Feelings, caring - sentiment was not something he was privy to. It got in the way. Cluttered the hard drive. For a long time he had been denying it happening to him, to his superior mind. But Moriarty had pushed him to a point where he could no longer deny his feelings for the people around him. He could have easily outwitted him earlier, he could have had the upper hand until the very last moment, even simply overpowering him on the roof, throwing him of the building. That would have been the end of that game. He would have won. Only he wouldn't have. He would have lost three of the people closest to him. People he trusted, respected, cared for.

Sentiment to him was a completely new experience. He had blatantly disregarded it for most of his life, but with the arrival of Doctor John Watson it had started to linger ever so discretely at the back of his mind. Slowly it had intruded into his life, had been pushed back by him only to reemerge stronger than before until it would not be pushed back anymore. Being associated with John Watson had put him in social situations that were unfamiliar to him, had made him see a side of things he had previously paid no heed to. John had let in the sentiment. Moriarty had made him openly acknowledge it. For in the end Moriarty's game had no meaning to Sherlock anymore, he was no longer playing. He was fighting. Fighting for the people he cared for, fighting to not have his heart burnt out of him.

He had always known how sentiment affected people. How it made them say foolish things, clouded their judgment and led to imprudent actions. He knew how to use sentiment for his own good, how to manipulate people with smiles, flattery and tears. But standing up on that roof, acting out a carefully constructed plan, for the first time he was absolutely and undeniably no longer in control. His feelings were. In the days and hours leading up to this moment, he had known those feelings to be bubbling to the surface, but he had been able to hold them in, push them down. Sometimes only just. But standing up on the edge of the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, saying goodbye to his first and best friend, the dreaded sentiment took over. His voice faltered, knowing what was to come. He felt his heart ache at the thought of losing his friends, and for the first time he understood. And he was about to inflict this pain on them by making them lose him. But the alternative was so much worse.

Saying goodbye to John, preparing to hurt him in the worst way he could now imagine, he could not help the tears from falling. And for the first time they were not a ploy, an elaborate ruse. They were entirely his own.