Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. That credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

AN: This is just a one shot that wouldn't leave me alone. Hope you like.

Sherlock was waiting.

He was waiting, balancing perfectly, on the edge of Saint Bart's roof. He was waiting for John Watson. Waiting for his best friend. Waiting for the man he loved. Waiting for the moment he would have to let go, to fall.

To fly.

He'd seen everything. He'd analyzed every possible way to get out of this situation. He'd come up with 14 possible scenarios, and he'd chosen one to help him survive so he could take down Moriarty's web and return to Baker Street. And John. He was prepared. He was ready. He'd even popped his collar up.

The slight breeze picked up, pulling the edges of his coat around. He blinked, holding his eyes closed as he breathed.

Inhale.

One, two, three.

Exhale.

One, two, three.

Sherlock pulled his eyes open, blinking in the sunlight. There. The car. The car that held his flatmate, his blogger, his John. But the cab sped on past the hospital, not even taking notice of the man standing perched, like a bird ready to fly, on the rooftop.

"What? the detective whispers, turning. "What?" His voice rose, even though there was no one around to hear it. "John was... John was supposed to be in that cab. John was supposed to be here. He was supposed to be here." He couldn't do it, couldn't leave his note, without John. John was his note. He raised his voice louder, his cell phone, clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, in his sweaty hand. And he called out to him. "John!"

He hadn't expected a response. But he got one.

The door leading up to the roof creaked quietly. Without any warning, Sherlock spun, his phone almost slipping out of his hand at who he saw. It wasn't Moriarty - he was dead. It wasn't his brother - he was gone. His mind being spinning, darting around the man who had made an appearance. The man he had called out for. Doctor John Watson.

Sweeping forward, Sherlock approached the man. He got nothing from his deductions that he didn't already know. What was John Watson doing on this roof? He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be down there, on the pavement. He was supposed to be standing on the roof across from his lover.

"John," Sherlock said sharply, alarmed. "John, why are you here?" His eyes were darting around the surrounding buildings and windows. A sniper was supposed to have his gun trained on John Watson's skull. And here was John.

John smiled sadly. "Sherlock," he said quietly, taking a few more steps past Moriarty's body to stand across from the great Sherlock Holmes. "You aren't supposed to be here, John. Get down. Back away. I've - I've got to jump. His squeezed his eyes shut when he felt the tears pricking them. No, he didn't cry. He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't cry. He wouldn't. But he felt a salty tear sliding down one of his cheeks. Maybe he was even partially human after all. "No, no, Sherlock," John said shaking his head.

"You don't have to jump. i know about your plan. You don't have to jump."

"Yes, I do!" Sherlock exclaimed. His voice cracked as it raised. He had to jump. He didn't want to 'die', but he had to. "They'll kill you, and they'll kill Mrs. Hudson and-and Lestrade and I can't let that happen!" With that burst, tears escaped his stormy eyes. John shook his head. Slightly, he moved his arms apart. He held them open, and Sherlock flew into them. He embraced the short blonde man that meant so much to him, the man he loved immeasurably. Innumerably. "I love you, John, but I have to do it," he said, finally pulling back.

If he didn't do it now, if he didn't let go, didn't jump, he would never be able to let go, and everyone he loved would die. He stumbled backwards, the tears tracking down his pale cheeks, a few steps from the edge of the roof. "I have to go. They'll kill all of you."

John shook his head ever so slightly. "No, they won't kill me, Sherlock," John said, calm. He almost smiled. The right corner of his lip tilting up ever so slightly. "no, you don't understand! Yes, they will!" Sherlock exploded. "I have to do it. I have to jump, and I have to leave you my note." He swallowed. "Because that's what people do, yes? Leave notes."

John shook his head again, and he laughed. But it was a sad laugh that didn't reach his beautiful blue eyes. "No, they won't kill me, Sherlock. You see... I am they. I am Jim Henry Moriarty."

At that moment, screw logic, Sherlock Holmes' heart stopped. No. No, it was impossible, he was lying. John was not Jim Moriarty. John was John Watson, the man he loved. He was not a consulting criminal. In that moment, his entire body froze. "No- No, no you can't be, that's Jim, that's Moriarty, he's dead, it can't be you, you're John." When Sherlock finally stopped and took a breath and staggered those last few steps to the edge of the roof. "You're my John. You can't be him."

This time, when John smiled, it was barely his own.

It was Moriarty. "Don't tell me, Sherlock, that you never saw the similarities between our names? Jim, John - J. Henry, Hamish - H. Moriarty, Watson with the W flipped - M." Sherlock started shaking, because he had noticed it. He had figured out the similarities ages ago. He didn't believe in coincidences, so he didn't think it was a coincidence. He just shoved it into the far, far back room of his mind palace with all of the things that he didn't want to remember. There were no such thing as coincidences, so that fact simply couldn't have been one, simply couldn't have concerning the two biggest men in his life - his best friend, and his greatest enemy. But he'd ignored it. Because he simply didn't want to think about it.

"I am Jim Moriarty," John said. He lifted his arms before letting them fall back to his sides. Sherlock shook his head, his curls flying, and denied it. "No. No. No no no no, no you aren't. You're John Watson. You're my John. We were going to get married in then spring and we were going to take a holiday in Scotland in the nice quiet country and then I was going get bored and start crawling around on the ground looking for all the different kinds of bugs that lived on the hill with my magnifying glass and you were going to shout at me for getting grass stains on my knees and then you weer going to laugh at me and then ever though it would be hot outside we'd drink hot tea next to the fireplace and we would be happen and you just can't be Moriarty. That's Moriarty." He gestured at the body slumped to the ground a few feet away, blood dripping from his mouth sluggishly. After all, dead men didn't bleed. It was gravity pulling the blood to the roof.

John sighed. He shook his very slightly. "I am Moriarty, Sherlock. Jim... He was just a man. A back-up - but he was also me. Because you were clever. Because I needed a distraction. Someone to keep you off my trail. So you wouldn't find out my secret." John smiled - but it didn't reach his eyes. "It's me. I am the orchestrator of the web. I am the spider. I spun it all. I am the leader. I am the consulting criminal. I am Jim Moriarty." John pulled another grin.

"John, shut up," Sherlock snapped. "Shut up shut up shut up. You are not Moriarty. I refuse to believe it. There's not enough evidence to support it. I..." He shook his head again. "No. No, you aren't Moriarty. You're my John Watson, and I love you." John sadly smiled. "Listen. Sherlock... I love you. That's real. I really, truly do." And when he smiled, this time, it was real. Because he did love the great Sherlock Holmes even though he apparently was not who he said he was.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Sherlock," John said, taking a step forward and exhaling steadily. "There is something I need to do. But first... It's up on my blog. The evidence, proving that Moriarty was not a figment of your imagination, your own creation, but... me. So you'll be able to walk free." He pulled another strangely John-like, sad smile. "I love you, I do, truly," he said. "I might be a psychopath, but I love you. "

Hello, all.

Unfortunate news, I've got to post on here. I'm not going into detail about the whole business with Richard Brookes and Moriarty, as I'm sure you've all kept up with the news. But there is something I'd like to say about him. He is real. Sherlock did in no way make him up. It hasn't been Sherlock planning all these murders and all these crimes.

It's been me.

I'm Jim Moriarty.

You probably don't believe me, but I swear on the name of Sherlock Holmes that he is me. I'm Moriarty. Richard Brookes, Jim, the man you all saw... He was just that. Just a man. Just a double. Just a fake.

I am very disappointed none of you caught on with the names. John, Jim - J. Watson, Moriarty - flip the w. I don't actually broadcast my middle name, so it doesn't surprise me that no one caught on. Really, I am disappointed. Sherlock caught on, but then again, I shouldn't be surprised. He is Sherlock Holmes. And I'm his biggest and greatest enemy. Have you ever heard that quote, "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?" Perhaps that's what I've been doing. But you see, Sherlock Holmes is both to me. I love him, truly. And he loves me. He's told me numerous times. He's told me that he loves me countlessly. Innumerably. Immeasurably. But he still won't go and fetch the milk.

Sherlock won't find out about this until later, a while later, when he finally convinces himself to check my blog, as I will be telling him that my testimony to him is here.

He is good. He is clean. It's me you should be arresting.

Of course, a lot of you won't believe me. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Harry... All of you. I am truly sorry about this. I did care about you lot. Even psychopaths can love. We just don't normally.

Sherlock could tell you, if you don't believe. He could explain to you that I'm Moriarty. Only he probably won't. My consulting detective will cling to the last threads of hope and goodness that he thinks I am. He will ignore it, the fact of who I am. What I am. But he knows. He does. And maybe, maybe he'll explain once I'm gone.

Because that's where I'm going.

I won't be around anymore to do anymore of those terrible things I've done. And once again, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for I've actually begun to care about some of you lot.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go to my detective.

Goodbye.

- Jim Henry Moriarty

"Now, Sherlock, I've got to go." John raised his head up, meeting the sun's glare straight on. Sherlock had begun shaking, shaking more vigorously his left hand. "John, John, stop it," Sherlock said, his voice quiet but strong. "Stop it now, John! You can't be Moriarty. You can't. The evidence - the crimes - the cabbie and the banker and the pool and you can't be him because he's dead." With a sad look on his face, John took another few steps closer to Sherlock. Frozen, the detective didn't move as John came closer. "I'm not going to hurt you, love," John said softly. For a moment, he looked and sounded like the old John. The real John. With the last step, he had drawn close to Sherlock Holmes. He still looked the same. His hair was still curly, his eyes still that frustratingly beautiful shade that kept switching between gray and green and blue. But he looked scared. John Watson could see it in his eyes.

"I love you. I won't hurt you. And I can't not hurt you while alive. It will hurt, when I'm gone, but you'll be better off. You'll be safer without me. And after all, I've committed so many crimes, so many murders at my hands. But... it's been getting ever so boring. And although I will miss you, I need to die. I need to die so you will be safe. Make sense, 'lock?" With a smile, he took a side step and Sherlock moved. His arm shot out, grabbing John's wrist. And when he spoke, it was almost a growl. "Shut up, John. Stop talking. You are not Moriarty and you are not leaving me. Our wedding, remember? And Scotland? You told me that we would go together some day. And we can't go if you're dead." John shook his head, pulling his arm from Sherlock's grasp, but relishing in the touch. "Sherlock," John said quietly. "Stop."

At his love's command, Sherlock's arm slowly fell to his side and his next words died at his lips. "Sherlock, stop it. Just accept it. One of us is not getting out of this. And it's going to be me. I have to die so that you can live and be safe." John's frustrations were growing. Why wouldn't Sherlock accept it? But slowly, they melted away. He took those last steps, his last steps, to the ledge, he met Sherlock's eyes. And as he met those frustratingly beautiful orbs, he mouthed one single word. It was so quiet it almost wasn't there, but Sherlock heard it loud and clear. It undermined everything Mori - John - had just said.

"Believe."

John Hamish Watson stepped up on the ledge of the roof. He spread out his arms - his wings - and when he leaned forward, dropping into empty space, he didn't fall.

He flew.