As Sherlock got off the phone with John and walked to the edge of the building, his phone rang again.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and looked back at Moriarty, was bleeding profusely on the ground in a rather dead sort of way, waiting patiently. He answered. "Yes. John?"

"Look, I think you're mad. Bloody mad. But according to Ford Prefect, this really makes sense in the grand scheme of things. There's even an entry in the Guide for 'the (supposed) death of Sherlock Holmes'. So I just have to let you know, that first of all, my real name isn't John, it's Arthur. I got my military training on board a Vogon ship and the S.S. Heart of Gold. And the secret to flying is throwing yourself at the ground and missing. It took me several tries, but as you keep pointing out I'm fairly ordinary, and you are the Great Sherlock Holmes after all."

Dialtone. Sherlock looked off the building half with a sneer, half with a scowl. "WHAT?" He could see John below. There was no way John had managed to hide the name Arthur from him for a good year or so. And why on earth would John/Arthur be talking about a guide with a car from the 40s and 50s?

But still, Sherlock was a desperate man, and desperate men do desperate things. He knew the sniper had the rifles trained on John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He had to jump to call them off. The only way I can miss as I throw myself at the ground, he realized, is if I am distracted by something halfway to the ground.

So instead of the melodramatic tumble he had been planning on, he tossed himself light heartedly off the edge of St. Bartholomew's walls. Oh, that's nice, a bird, he thought to himself, looking at the cloud. A robin. Right on time for the season.

A soft laugh rose from the rooftop behind him. Sherlock half twisted around in surprise, and saw Moriarty peering down at him, no worse for wear, an almost cat-like grin on his face. Sherlock wasn't expecting this, and was so surprised that he didn't realize he was floating in mid-air. Moriarty's gloating face was replaced by shock when he saw his nemesis, well, flying, and jumped off the building himself, grabbing onto Sherlock's coat to find the gimmick. The world's only (flying) consulting detective shrugged the coat off, and smirked as Moriarty tumbled to the ground, a look of awe on his face.

Sherlock shrugged and wooshed his way through the rooftops of London. Flying was… fascinating. But John (or Arthur as it stood now) had a lot of explaining to do.

And Sherlock had never wanted to meet an old fashioned Ford motor car so much in his entire life.