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When Greg sees Moriarty’s face on the screen, he thinks perhaps—for the first time—he really understands the mad thrill that Sherlock experiences during every case they’ve ever worked together. Yellowed scraps of memory, logical leaps of this to that and that to the other; a seductive voice whispering in his ear, desperate to tell him the answer.
It's all there in Jim Moriarty's smile.
He tosses a fiver on the bar and races to the street where the cabbies wait, flashing his warrant card. The car flies through the city, screeching ‘round corners, honking at terrified pedestrians in its path.
A mass text will be faster than individual calls, if his hands can stop shaking long enough to get it right.
Molly Hooper in danger if Moriarty team knows what she did.
Send all available units to Bart’s.
Sherlock must be thinking the same. Maybe he and John are already there.
Greg races into the laboratory and sees her bent over the microscope, bright white lab coat freshly pressed. Unaware of the long-range rifle held by a steady, practiced hand taking aim from the window across the street.
She looks up and smiles.
No better way to die, he thinks, than wrapping a friend in a warm embrace.
Bullets and sirens.
He falls forward--heart pierced. She falls backward.