The detective cast one last glance at Moriarty. There was no time to check if he was really dead. The tubocurarine Sherlock had hastily jabbed into his thigh during his allotted moment of privacy was already starting to take effect. Given his skewed muscle-to-fat ratio the drug would be at peak efficiency in less than five minutes. It was strange, Sherlock almost...regretted...tricking the consulting criminal into taking his own life. He had won the game by playing the Irishman's only weakness...impulse. It felt like cheating.

He recalled that strange soft-pitched declaration "I'm so changeable!" Moriarty was ruthless enough to do anything to win. Even eat his own gun. But it was more than that. Sherlock shook his head – a stiff, minute action. Moriarty had thought he had won. And as Sherlock was all too aware, for a bored genius, winning was almost as intolerable as losing.

Sherlock feared the man huddled in his own blood on the concrete roof more than anything. Moriarty had taught him the very meaning of the word. Dangerous, unbalanced, he had to be killed – no jail would ever hold him. Yet Sherlock knew as he looked at those expressive eyes that would never dance again, that small hunched form in his brash Westwood suit, that on some level he would miss Moriarty. They were strange kindred. Did everyone of their rarefied mental ilk succumb to their own chaos in the end?

He swallowed. All this sentiment. No doubt his brain was flooded with endorphins in anticipation of what yet he had to do. He stepped up to the ledge where John would be arriving, his limbs already feeling rubbery. He tightened his scarf around the neck brace he was wearing. The bounce after the fall was more likely to kill him than the initial impact. He tried not think about brain damage. Paralysis. It was this – this calculated chance to survive – or John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were all dead.

He repeated the instructions methodically to calm himself as John pulled up. Interlock fingers and bring elbows forward in 'crash' position to reduce head and neck injury. Bouncing in the side position may dislocate shoulder but will protect vital organs. With his muscles chemically relaxed he would sustain far fewer injuries – it was usually the tension in one's muscles that caused bones to break. If he could fight against animal fear and not tense or struggle, he might get away with fractures to his hip, some broken ribs.

Coat unbuttoned so it flutters, move limbs to prevent locking and increase wind resistance. Landing stomach-first was essential to lessen and spread the force of impact. He had to cushion the bounce with his internal organs, protecting his back and spinal cord, making use of the concealed body padding he was wearing. St Bart's was only four flights – the outlook was promising. People had certainly survived worse. He felt an odd need to remind himself of that. Why? Ah. He was, indeed, scared.

He patted the squash-ball in his pocket.

Strangely, he didn't find himself having to act much on the phone to John. Real tears surprised him. He tried to avoid an adrenaline spike that could undo the tubocurarine's good work. But the look on John's face. He could see John's body language even from here. Tight jaw. Military posture. But also something unhinged about the stance of his shoulders. Sherlock knew, this would be...cruel to him. But this act was not just about fooling John. It was about fooling three snipers. Which meant it had to be believable enough to fool everyone.

If I don't live, it doesn't matter what they think. Sherlock told himself...but he couldn't help but lace a hint or two into the phone call: "tell anyone who will listen" and "just a magic trick"... He knew John would replay those words a thousand times in the days to come. He hoped they would be enough to plant a seed of doubt in the one mind that truly mattered.

He threw the phone away. He had to ignore all the danger-bells of instinct and trust logic. Logic had rarely let him down.

He jumped.

The impact winded him and he bounced on his right side.

Moving hurt...his blood was slowly seeping into the pavement. Face grazed. Better than skull. Cracked ribs and right clavicle. Hairline fractures to pubis. The "medical team" he had hired were already there, milling around him, making sure John didn't get too close. Head, neck and back all fine. He was elated – but he tried to avoid the adrenaline spike that could send him into shock which, aside from possibly killing him, would ruin the ruse if he started to shake. He prayed that his neuro-muscular junctions remained inhibited. Fingers fumbling, he slipped the squash ball from his pocket into his armpit.

The young man from the homeless network clipped John with his bike, giving him a few vital seconds for his pulse to stop in his left arm. The interferences of both innocent bystanders and the "medical team" made sure John didn't get another chance to check his pulse properly. John was hunched over, heavy breathing – he'd know John's breathing pattern anywhere...Sherlock had to keep his eyes staring and glassy, his body passive. He could hear his friend's shock and grief – the panicked scramble of a doctor too late to heal. He concentrated on laying passive, trying not to hear the suppressed whimpers on the edge of John's breath as he was wheeled away. Tried not to hear the keening of his own heart.

They whisked him away a little too quickly – Sherlock silently cursed them and hoped John was too badly in shock to notice that this was suspicious – away to Molly who was standing by in the morgue to treat his wounds. The "medical team" – merely trusted members of homeless network who cleaned up well and of course had no medical training whatsoever – left Sherlock on the wheeled gurney under the cold, bright lights of the morgue, and disappeared, their job done.

It felt strangely anti-climactic. Hollow.

Molly fussed about, staunching his bleeding with the over-proceduralising airs of someone who feels less competent than they are. "How did it go?" she asked, as pleasantly as she might ask about an awkward birthday party. She shone a flashlight in his eyes to check pupil dilation. Sherlock blinked and tried to squeeze the tears from his eyes, but to his horror, he was close to sobbing. Voice gravelly, he ground out "Right shoulder needs plaster. The hip just needs rest."

"We'll take some x-rays, just to be on the safe side – the equipment's ancient, but my usual patients don't complain." Molly accompanied her terrible attempt at humour with a concerned smile and she gently touched his left shoulder and probed his right clavicle. "But I meant...how is John?

There was a pause. Sherlock reminded himself: John's a terrible actor. The grief needed to be real. Avoiding her gaze, he whispered "Molly, what have I done?"

She squeezed his shoulder, then coughed awkwardly as she moved down the gurney to probe his pelvis. "Seems intact...you should be able to heal without plaster, just rest and gentle walking."

"Hairline fracture." He said dismissively.

She covered the bottom half of his torso with a mortician's cloth and unbuttoned his shirt so she could apply the plaster. Sherlock flinched, irate. "If John asks to see the body – "
"I'll only uncover your face. It's procedure." Molly said. "Besides, the sooner this sets, the sooner you can get on with the job and get back to Baker Street." The plaster was wet and cool against his skin. He sighed, glad to have a confidante. Dear Molly and her horrendous lumpy sweaters. He would need to rest for at least six weeks before travelling abroad, he gauged from his injuries, hiding at Molly's apartment in case he needed to make a guest appearance in the morgue. He also planned to drop in on his funeral.

It would all have run much smoother with Mycroft's involvement, of course, and he would likely need to let his older sibling in on the ruse in order to access resources long before Sherlock could make his way back to London. But for now, he was rather enjoying punishing his brother. There would be time later to plan contingencies. For now, it could only be people he trusted. People who could keep a secret.

Impulsively, he grasped Molly's hand as she passed him and squeezed it.

She blushed.

"Thank you." Was all he said.