Seeing the popularity of my first two perspectives ("All the Difference" and "All That Matters"), I just had to complete the trilogy. This, then, is the pool scene from Moriarty's perspective.

Remember that writers like feedback (good or bad). Hope you enjoy!

"John…what the hell?"

It was the disbelief that warmed him the most. The great Sherlock Holmes, so cold, so unflappable, so bloody brilliant, paralyzed with disbelief.

It merited response.

"Bet you never saw this coming." The sound of his words echoed over the pool deck, set in the low baritone possessed by Dr. John Watson. The sight of them, the staid doctor and the self-described sociopath, so close and yet so far, brought a thrill to his spine.

The sight of his puppet and his quarry, united and yet at odds…now this was worth all of his planning. Why not have a little fun?

"Open the coat, and repeat: What would you like me to make him say next?"

His words floated over the gently lapping water, broken in places. The look on Sherlock's face, once he realized the truth, was priceless.

Then, a curious thing: Sherlock edged closer. Closer to the condemned man before him. Didn't he realize?

Too much gravity. Time for a little fun. He uttered nonsense, working the frayed nerves of his pawn; cracking the low baritone voice he had grown so familiar with over the previous few hours.

How he wished that voice could be his. Only the voice, however.

"Stop," Sherlock called out. Even from his distance, he could see, could feel those bright silver eyes flittering in pursuit of answers. He exhaled, biding his time.

"Nice touch this; the pool, where little Carl died," he whispered, hearing his comments loud and clear across the length of the deck. "I stopped him." Then he smiled. "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart." His stolen voice cracked again, and he could see the little tip of the small man's head—a movement that seemed relay his puppet's resignation to his fate, unwanted as it might be.

Ah, fate. Chance brought John Watson and Sherlock Holmes together; choice kept them that way. Had it not been the good doctor, it would have been someone else. Perhaps that Detective Inspector of Sherlock's; now that was something to think about…

"Who are you?" The sound of impatience. Well, it was only fair. Sherlock had waited long enough.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call." The sound of his own voice, high and ill-fitting, resonated towards his polar opposite.

The look of realization; that little glint of surprise warmed his heart. He had been so waiting for that. He made his introduction, but then…

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" As though he would have missed that. Silently, he tutted a bit. The weapon had been getting so much use of late; and he knew Sherlock wasn't the kind to care for it properly.

His heart fluttered at the thought. What would Sherlock do, once he was finished with his current plaything? Obviously, Dr. Watson was good for the consulting detective. A pity he would have to dispose of him.

In good time, of course.

The Browning bared, he began his discourse. Such a thrill, to have a captive audience—but Sherlock's eyes would not focus properly on him. He saw it, ever so slight; the fleeting glances at the doctor's form and bindings. The careful, inching steps towards what amounted to a dead man standing still.

Sherlock parried, of course. He found the consulting detective could spar verbally as well as he could compose the massive intellect he possessed.

"Consulting criminal…brilliant."

It was. There they were, the two of them; two sides of a single coin. There could only ever be the two together at once; equal parts intellectual challenge, cleverness and wit.

Then Sherlock's focus deviated. "Are you all right?"

Oh, yes. The good doctor. He had forgotten, in the midst of their stimulating conversation. Odd, though, how the small man said nothing.

"You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead."

Permission granted. The silent nod of a blonde head was all that was offered in response.

"Take it." Sherlock's long limbs extended, the little 'getting to know you present' in his grasp.

"Oh, that." He stepped closer. He liked how simple it all was; how Sherlock had put two and two together and gotten five. "The missile plans." He took them, giving them a little kiss. Important they were, but…

"Bor-ing. I could have gotten them anywhere." The sight of them skipping into the chlorinated water sparkled in his eyes. The sight of Sherlock's face, clouded with puzzlement and fear, though…that was the real prize.

His head jerked violently back, the shouts of the mute doctor ringing in his ears. Well. This was so unlike the man, so unexpected, and so exhilaratingly brilliant…

"Good!" he cries in joy. "Very good!"

The sound of measured breaths of determined desperation patter in his ear. The full weight of his captive wrenches on his neck—a pity the man is one of the shortest in all London proper. He manages a glimpse of Sherlock, taking in the sudden severity of the doctor's actions. He drinks in the surprise, the determination, the absolute fear.

It is utterly brilliant.

"If your sniper hits us, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." John Watson is brief and to the point. He suspects it's the training in him.

Such is the way with pets.

He points this out to Sherlock, whose determination has only grown in the few short seconds that have passed. To the doctor, he points out the flaw in his logic—just as his plethora of sharpshooters change their target.

It would be a pity to destroy such a brilliant mind. Alas.

The weight shuffles off his back; the doctor knows his place. Well-trained, indeed.

"Do you know what happens, Sherlock, if you don't leave me alone?"

A pause.

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed." It seems Sherlock has learned a bit from John Watson as well. Resignation is a decent look for him.

"No, don't be obvious." Really now. The scenario is a given. Death must come for Sherlock Holmes; death by his hands, but not on swift wings. There is so much fun to be had yet.

"I'll burn you. I will burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock smiles, that Mona Lisa smile that is sympathetic and patronizing all at once. He hates that smile.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

Pity. The brilliant genius does not realize…

"But we both know that's not quite true." And it isn't. He has seen it all; seen all of Sherlock's moves since the unfortunate case of his cabbie. There are so many: the affection and warmth Sherlock shows the old landlady of Baker Street; the respect and sense of professional camaraderie the consulting detective shows the Detective Inspector, though through biting sarcasm and wit.

There is also the affection, the respect, the loyalty, and the outright love Sherlock shows for a particular ex-army doctor that shares his flat. The younger man's actions here in this pool serve as base of proof of that.

Time, then, for him to take his leave.

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?"

He smiles.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. ´Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And, of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."

It is merely the truth. He has it all figured; it is all according to plan.

He takes his leave; allows the two unlikely comrades to breathe easier.

Only for a moment, however. It simply can't last.

He won't allow it.