I've been meaning to write this now for a year, but I've just only just had time to x I seem to be on a Sherlock roll... I know I only really focused on John, but I'm leaving it open for later chapters - depending on the feedback I get x Please read and review x

"John?" Lestrade asked cautiously.

"Yes?" John replied wearily, sounding far too old, far too tired. he didn't even sound like this after coming back from Afghanistan and knows that says an awful lot about him, more than he is happy with his therapist saying out loud.

"There's been a development."

John sat up straighter, hoping the evidence was for what he thought it was.

Without waiting for a reply, Lestrade continued, "It seems that Sherlock had some kind of audio attached to his coat - it's been recovered from...the body..." Lestrade choked out.

John still didn't speak, instead listening intently.

"We have listened to it yet, it's still being checked out. But would you like to hear it? I though you deserved to."

John nodded tersely, before remembering that Lestrade couldn't see him down the phone. "Yes," he whispered.

There was nothing more to say, so John hung up and the silence on the other end feels like home.

He rushed down to the station, to find Lestrade waiting for him. "It's just finished being checked out."

John nodded tightly, unsure as to whether he wanted to hear this.

Lestrade put a comforting hand of the soldiers shoulder, because guiding him gently down the hall, to the empty room they were using. John gritted him teeth at the presence of Donovan, Anderson and Mycroft, but smiled gently at Molly.

"They needed to hear this as well."

John hated it, but knew it was necessary.

He settled into a chair, over in the corner of the room, and clutched the arm rests, knowing that this recording would change everything - the circumstances of Sherlock's death, how all of them thought of him.

Was he really ready for all his misconceptions to be torn apart like that?

He had to be.

Sherlock's reputation depended on it. Maybe even his own sanity.

Lestrade was the one who reached out with shaking fingers to press play.

"Yeah, speaking." John started at the sound of his own voice, tired and then getting clearer and louder. "What?" It was more an interrogative than a question. "Wh - what happened, is she okay?" His voice was panicked, but steady. The sound of movement, pacing footsteps. "Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming."

A beep as he ended the call, and then Sherlock's immediate question, "What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs Hudson's been shot." John's pacing footsteps echoed in the recording.

Sherlock's reply, which had seemed too quick and impassive, "What? How?"

"Probably one of the - the killers you managed to attract - Jesus..."

John flinched at the reminder of his words, his cruel, cruel words and the memory that he could never take them back.

"She's dying, Sherlock, let's go."

Before the words were even out of his mouth, Sherlock cut in with "You go, I'm busy.

"Busy?" John asked incredulously, the tension and disbelief present in his voice.

Again, before he'd even finished speaking. "I'm thinking, I need to think." The words were sharp and clipped, bordering on harsh.

"You need to - Doesn't she mean anything to you?" John flinched again at his own words, knowing he would do that numerous times. Lestrade sent him a worried look, and Molly squeezed his hand gently before letting go. The John in the recording sounded surprised and tearful, because despite all Sherlock's proclamations that he was a sociopath, he'd never really believed it. "You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!"

"She's my landlady." Sherlock sounded confused from the idea that he should care, but his words were still coming too fast.

The memory of those words caused John to tense up again, and even Mycroft looked wounded by the casual tone Sherlock was using, prickly and cold.

And then John words, confused and angry. "She's dying, you - machine!" A harsh breath, from both the audio and the room, and then, "Sod this. Sod this. You stay here, if you want, on your own."

"Alone is what I have, alone protects me." Again the words were out faster than John had finished speaking, and out of the corner of his eye, John caught Mycroft twitch like he was going to shake his head.

"No," accompanied by the sound of the door being wrenched open, "friends protect people." And then the faint slam of the door closing before a chirp from his phone. He could still see Sherlock, feet propped up on the bench.

John knew the text read, 'I'm waiting,' because Sherlock had never gotten round to deleting it. He'd never had the chance to.

Then the rustle of fabric and the shuffle of feet against the floor and John slumped back further in his seat, already trembling. Molly moved her chair closer and re-took his head, this time not letting go.

Footsteps hit the stairs, not wavering even slightly as he made his way up to the roof. The creak of a door opening and then a blast of music Staying Alive.

John, remembering their last encounter with that particular song, shook slightly.

And then, "Well... here we are at last," Moriarty slurred, the music continuing to play in the background.

Sherlock's footsteps on the roof, tapping out into the silence of the audio.

"You and me, Sherlock; and our problem, the final problem." Moriarty's voice was still slurred, the words rolling together. John could just imagine him seated up on the roof, waiting for Sherlock like a hunter waits for his prey. "Stayin' alive..." Moriarty drew the words out, almost singing them himself, before continuing, "so boring, isn't it?"

A sudden click, and the music stopped. No sound from Sherlock, not yet; just the footsteps making their way across the roof.

"It's just - staying." Moriarty seemed angry at the mere thought of just, staying alive. After all Moriarty lived to prevent others from staying alive. What fun was it without the game? "All my life I've been searching for distraction. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you, because I've beaten you."

John could just imagine Sherlock's indignant glare at the thought of being beaten. "You know what?" Moriarty persisted loudly, as though wanting the whole world to know that he'd beaten Sherlock Holmes, "In the end it was easy."

John stiffened at the implied insult and even Mycroft twitched angrily.

"It was easy." Moriarty repeated. "Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people, and it turns out you're ordinary, just like all of them." A muffled sigh. "Oh, well."

"Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get ya?" The smirk was audible in his tone.

A pause, and then Sherlock spoke, the words sinister and angry. "Richard. Brook." And the sound of footsteps circling.

There was a gasp and for the first time John looked over to Donovan and Anderson, both of whom seemed confused by their presence in the room and were paling even so steadily at the recording.

The taunt was audible in Moriarty's voice. "Nobody seems to get the joke. But you do."

"Of course."

"Attaboy..." The tone was mocking, like praising a dog.

Sherlock spoke over the top of him, forcing the words out, "Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach - the case that made my name."

Lestrade was the one to gasp that time, paler than ever.

"Just trying to have some fun." Moriarty said nasally.

Another rustle of fabric, obscured by the never stopping footsteps on the roof. Moriarty spoke again, the first word drawn out. "Good. You got that too." He sounded unsurprised, but approving.

Sherlock continued. "Beats like digits. Every beat is a one, every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me, hidden inside my head, a few simple lines of computer code that could break into any system." Sherlock was in deducing mode again, but John could see Mycroft's shake of the head even from where he was seated.

"Told all my clients, 'Last one to Sherlock is a sissy'."

"Yes but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records." His voice rings out, firm and confident, "I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty." The tone is almost cruel, snide.

There was a long silence. "No." Moriarty said mournfully. John could picture him turning away in disappointment. "No, no, no, this is too easy, this is too easy..." He sounded on the verge of tears. "There is no key, DOOFUS!" The last word was screamed angrily, and John jumped and felt Molly release his hand as she jumped as well.

"Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless. You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are going to crash the world? I'm disappointed, I'm disappointed in you... ordinary, Sherlock." Moriarty certainly sounded saddened, or as much so as he was capable of.

Again, almost before the previous sentence had ended. "But the rhythm - "

"Cartesian number one, thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach!"

"But then how did you - "

This time it was Moriarty who broke in, seeming to have finally run out of patience. "How did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison? Daylight robbery! All it takes are some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it." Moriarty continued, "That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever. Now shall we finish the game? One - final - act." He finished slowly, "Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it."

"Do it? Do - do what?" There was an edge of confusion in Sherlock's tone, one not often heard. "Oh yes, of course. My suicide," Sherlock continued hoarsely after a split second pause, his mind catching up with Moriarty's.

Moriarty sung happily, exposing his twisted mind to the recording. "Genius detective proved to be a fraud. "I read it in the papers, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales. And pretty Grimm ones too."

Sherlock was getting worried now, his words tumbling from his lips faster and faster until they were almost unintelligible for the recording. "I can still prove to the police that you created an entirely false identity - "

"Oh, just kill yourself, it's a lot less effort." The words were blunt. "Go on now. For me. Pleeaa - "

Another movement, the clatter of footsteps and Moriarty's high pitched whine cut out suddenly. "You're insane," Sherlock panted.

"You're just getting that now?" Once again, Moriarty seemed disheartened by Sherlock's obvious deduction. "Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."

John leaned forwards, desperate to know what he resulted in his best friend jumping off the roof of, as Mycroft had once put it, his home away from home.

"Your friends will die if you don't."

John's breathing hitched, and he shook his head furiously. Not Sherlock, please not Sherlock, not for them. By his side Molly's fingers were leaving marks in his hand but he couldn't feel them, not yet.

He caught Lestrade's eye and was surprised to see the tears welling in them until the detective looked away and stared down at the floor, and the utter shock on Donovan's face. He slumped back in his chair, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

"John - "

"Not just John. Everyone."

"-Mrs Hudson-"

"Everyone," Moriarty repeated cruelly.

" - Lestrade - " Lestrade's head snapped up, eyes still shining.

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now."

John whimpered. Not Sherlock, not for him. Not for him.

Please no...

"Unless my people see you jump."

Molly had tears of her own sliding down her face, her free hand squeezed into a fist until her knuckles shone white and her nails drew blood.

"You can have me arrested. You can torture me. You can do anything you like with me. But nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die, unless - "

"Unless I kill myself. Complete your story."

"You've got to admit that's sexier." John snarled in fury.

"And I die in disgrace." Sherlock sounded so sad, so desperate.

"Well of course, that's the point of this." The Consulting Criminals voice sounded vaguely surprised, perhaps even impatient. "Look, you've got an audience now. Off you pop. Go on. I told you how this ends." Footsteps, moving on the roof.

John knew how this ended.

"Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers. I'm certainly not going to do it."

A sharp inhalation. "Would you give me - one moment, please. One moment of privacy. Please." Sherlock had said please. The only other time John had heard him say please was when Irene Adler was involved.

A considering pause. "Of course."

Another moment of silence, Moriarty's footsteps as he moved away, and then Sherlock's voice ringing out in incredulous laughter. John's breathing caught, wondering what Sherlock had worked out, not that it had saved in the end.

"What? What is it? What did I miss?" Moriarty didn't sound at all please by the turning of the tables.

John can see the feverish gleam in Sherlock's eyes as he snaps another piece of the puzzle into place, and beside him he hears Mycroft's understanding murmur of agreement. There is a thud from the recordings, Sherlock jumping off the very edge of the roof.

"You're not going to do it. So the killers can be called off then, there's a recall code or a word or a number... I don't have to die, if I've got you."

"Oh. You think you can make me stop the order, you think you can make me do that?" Moriarty says cockily.

"Yes. So do you."

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do something I don't want to do." John bares his teeth in fury, because this might have all been Moriarty's game, but Mycroft gave him the tools to succeed.

"Yes but I'm not my brother, remember?" Sherlock's voice was quiet and passionate. "I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in Hell, I shall not disappoint you."

"Nah." The response is disbelieving, already too disappointed.. "You talk big. Nah... you're ordinary. You're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one - second - that I am one of them." And John can see that now, every time that Sherlock has insisted he is a sociopath.

"No." Moriarty agreed. "You're not." Another pause. "I see. You're not ordinary. No... you're me... You're me. Thank you... Sherlock Holmes."

A drawn out silence.

"Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out..."

John can see Moriarty's body on the roof, the gun in his head, the blood flowing across the roof in little rivulets.

Molly inhales sharply, her hands trembling.

"... well good luck with that."

A flurry of fabric, a harsh exhale, a muffled shot. And all that is left as proof is Moriarty's body left lying on the roof, the gun in his own hands.

The thump as the body hits that ground, and then the terrible breaths that Sherlock is taking, unsteady and reedy.

Steady steps make their way over to the edge of the roof, the clacking on his shoes against the unyielding stone.

Then there is a beep.

"Hello?"

"John." Sherlock's voice is not at all normal, he realises that, ignoring the initial signs when the call had actually been taking place in his panic and worry.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came - " Sherlock orders him.

"No, I'm coming in - "

"Just - do - ask I - ask!" Sherlock insists, frantically. "Please!"

A moment's pause. "Where?"

"Stop there."

"Sherlock - "

"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh... God." John can hear the panic in his own voice, how disturbed he sounds.

"I - I - I can't come down, so we'll - we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock sounds uncertain, almost about to cry.

John's heavy breaths are audible even in the recording. "What's going on?"

"An apology. It's all true." Sherlock tells him.

"What?"

"Everything they said about me... I... invented Moriarty..." Sherlock says shakily.

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock - "

"The newspapers were right all along - I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly - in fact tell anyone who will listen to you... that I created Moriarty... for my own purposes - " John can hear the plea in Sherlock's voice, desperate for none of them to die.

"Okay shut up, Sherlock, shut up - the first time we met, the first - time - we - met, you knew all about my sister, right - "

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could." John's own voice is sure, because he is sure. His faith in Sherlock has never wavered. Listening to the audio, to the firmness in his tone, another tear rolls down his face.

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It was just a trick, just a magic trick." Sherlock sniffed, a move so unlike him.

"No. Stop it. Stop it now." John said flatly, and he can remember himself edging forwards, terrified by what he was seeing.

"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move!"

"Alright."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" John shakes his head, shuddering, and Molly moves off her chair onto the floor to keep him grounded.

"Do what?"

"This phone call, it's ah... it's my note. The poor people do, don't they, they leave a note?"

John can remember his own disbelief, his terror. "Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye John." The finality in his tone is clear, and he can hear his own breathing speed up.

"No - Don't - " he can hear his own surprised tears, brimming just beneath the surface. The rattle of the phone as it hits the rooftop.

"Sherlock!"

The word echoes in their ears as there is a loud thud and the recording clicks to end.

John quivers in his chair, the tears running unashamedly down his cheeks and Molly still holding to his hand. Donovan looks wan and Anderson has her hand in his, something like horror in his eyes.

Lestrade himself is trembling and even Mycroft has lost some of his usual impeccable composure.

"My brother was innocent," he says into the silence, and John restrains his fury at the fact that Mycroft was the first one to speak. "I expect he will be cleared." There is a warning in his voice, telling them all exactly what would happen if Sherlock wasn't. Mycroft sweeps out, gripping his umbrella even tighter than usual.

None of them say anything into the silence.