Chapter Text
"Well, good luck with that," Moriarty said. For a split second, Sherlock was confused to what he meant: then he saw the gun.
It could end it two ways. Sherlock could step back, let Moriarty shoot himself in the head, and avoid getting any brain matter on his coat. If that happened, he'd be left with no choice but to go along with Moriarty's plan - then it'd be his brain matter on his coat.
There was no ending where Sherlock wouldn't save his friends.
However, there was the other ending, where Sherlock could stop Moriarty from killing the only person who could call off the hit-men: himself. Though if Sherlock did manage to get the gun away from him, there was the possibility he'd just jump - like he'd intended Sherlock to. Still, it'd give Sherlock more time...
He hastily grabbed Moriarty's arm, keeping the gun at stomach level. They pulled to and fro, fighting for it; Moriarty trying to move his wrist to point the gun at himself, while Sherlock pulled it away again with the hand that wasn't keeping his arm low.
Deciding his grip on the gun was too tight, Sherlock stopped pulling toward himself, and rather turned it to the side. Not expecting it, Moriarty was slow to react. This allowed Sherlock to pull the trigger. He performed hastily, aware he'd had to take a maximum of ten shots before the cartridge would be empty.
It was a poor move to use such a widely known pistol. Having been used in multiple forms of media, the Beretta 92 FS Inox was recognisable, even to those who weren't experts like Sherlock.
Seven shots: and the gun was empty.
Moriarty took a step back, letting Sherlock hold the empty gun. He set his jaw, taking a deep breath which made his chest visibly rise and fall.
A teasing smile slowly crept onto his features.
"Would you like someone to jump with, is that it?" He asked. God, he had a mocking comment for everything.
"Call off the hit-men," Sherlock ordered, watching Moriarty carefully.
"Oh! Oh, ok!" Moriarty replied with false enthusiasm. "Wait," He paused, "What's the magic word?" He tilted his head, a sweet smile on his lips.
"I'm done playing your game." Sherlock stated angrily, stepping toward Moriarty. "I'm ending it."
"That's the thing, Sherlock: the game doesn't end. At least, not until your life does," Moriarty answered. He straightened up, not faltering under Sherlock's approach.
"It ends when you call off those hit-men," Sherlock argued. Moriarty furrowed his brow, averting his eyes to the ground. Even when he looked back upward, it wasn't toward Sherlock, it was to the side - imitating thought.
"No... No. No it doesn't." He said, finally looking Sherlock in the eye. "You see, even if you hypothetically managed to somehow get me to call them off: I'd come back. I always come back, Sherlock." Moriarty worked his way around Sherlock. He circled him fully, Sherlock not moving from where he stood, though keeping a close eye.
Once more, he stood in front of Sherlock. A silence between them.
It was Sherlock's move.
He didn't want to jump, not if he didn't have to.
They were back where they started. The only difference being that Moriarty no longer had a gun to pull on himself.
The scenario where two men stood before each other, but either one walked away, or none. At least that was how Moriarty saw it.
To Sherlock, it was the scenario where there was a way out. There had to be a way out. Though he didn't know how...
"I know I said to take your time, but... This is boooring." Moriarty rocked back on his heels, looking around. His face depicted his disinterest in watching Sherlock try to think. "I expected things to be at least a little quicker," He muttered.
That was it!
Moriarty always expected everything. He thought through all of the endings, all of the scenarios, all of the outcomes. The only way to beat him was to do the unexpected. For example, pointing a gun at a bomb in a swimming pool.
So what was unexpected? What would catch Moriarty off guard? There had to be something...
Sherlock looked at Moriarty. His eyes scanned his face. His brown eyes were wandering around the rooftop, his mouth in a frown of boredom. He noticed Sherlock looking at him, focusing his eyes back to him, raising his brow in question.
After a while, his brow fell in exasperation.
"What now?" He questioned flatly. Sherlock reached a hand to the side of his face. "If you're thinking about killing me, be my guest," Moriarty stated, clearly assuming Sherlock was planning on breaking his neck, "Anything would beat standing here watching you try get out of dying!" He leant forward, grinning like the madman he was.
Sherlock said nothing. He simply slid his hand to the back of Moriarty's neck.
Moriarty's smile faded, his brow furrowed, as he moved his head slightly to glance at where Sherlock's hand had gone to.
He opened his mouth to ask a question or make a stupid comment; Sherlock's mouth against his stopped him saying from anything.
It was one-sided, vulgar, and so wrong in so many ways.
Yet Moriarty didn't react at all. He didn't push him away, didn't step back, didn't kiss back; he didn't even tense.
His lips were so soft, which made it worse - since it wasn't supposed to be enjoyable, it was supposed to be horrible, similar to the man he was kissing.
Sherlock pulled away.
"Still your move." Moriarty sounded as if nothing had happened at all. Sherlock leant in to kiss him again, but Moriarty placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to stop him. "Don't kiss me again." He looked at Sherlock confusedly.
"Why not?" Sherlock asked. Moriarty peered around him at the ledge. He pointed to it with a small smile.
"Because you have a suicide to commit," He stated in a hushed voice.
"Hmm, I don't want to." Sherlock replied, leaning slightly on Moriarty's hand.
Moriarty looked at him. He squinted his eyes. Then turned his head to the side. Then turned back and leant forward, still looking at Sherlock through squinted eyes. Then he leant back again.
He shrugged his shoulders in defeat.
"No. I don't get it." He admitted.
"You don't get it?" Sherlock asked in turn, adding a small tone of innocence to his voice.
"You'd rather let the people you care about die?" Moriarty removed his hand from Sherlock's shoulder, looking at him with an amount of curiosity. Sherlock didn't reply; he simply kept his eyes steadily focused on Moriarty. "You let me down, Sherlock. I didn't think you were that arrogant... You're not... I know you're not..."
"Come with me," Sherlock ordered, walking past Moriarty and toward the door. It was risky, but he was fairly sure he'd go along with it. Before going down the stairs, Sherlock stopped and looked back to Moriarty.
His mouth was pressed in a flat line as he looked around, slowly nodding.
"Alright," He answered, sighing as if it were some burdensome chore. He followed.
The two of them went down the stairs: Sherlock leading, Moriarty in tow. When they reached the last flight of stairs, Sherlock glanced behind him.
Moriarty was on his phone.
Sherlock looked away, not wanting to make it obvious that he'd seen - since he was likely calling off the hit-men, even if just temporarily.
He called a taxi, muttering the address as he went around to the other side to get in. They rode in silence, without even looking at each other.
"You boys want the radio on?" The driver asked, glancing back.
"No. And for God's sake, keep your eyes on the road," Sherlock replied. He then noticed Moriarty smirking ever so slightly to himself.
They were silent for the rest of the journey. They were silent getting out, and they were silent on the street, and silent up to the door, and silent up the stairs - until they met Mrs Hudson.
"Ooh! Sherlock, that nice man who fixed the-"
"Not now, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock interrupted, going straight past her. She turned her attention to his guest.
"You're- you're that man! On the television!" She gasped, pointing at Moriarty in shock. Moriarty simply flashed her a brief smile, before continuing to follow Sherlock up the rest of the stairs.
Once in the flat, Sherlock closed the door and hung up his coat.
"Sherlock, you-" Interrupted again by Sherlock kissing him, Moriarty rolled his eyes. However, this time he actually responded to being kissed. His arms snaked around Sherlock's waist, his mouth moving in sync with Sherlock's.
Sherlock pulled away, breathing heavily.
"I have a feeling you enjoy interrupting me," Moriarty stated, putting on a face that imitated sulking.
"Well, you rarely say anything significant," Sherlock replied. Moriarty's jaw dropped in false appall and offence.
Taking hold of his chin, Sherlock kissed him again.
Stood in his living room snogging a serial killer: what a way to end the day.
Though it wasn't the end of the day, and it wasn't the worst thing he was going to do to a serial killer either.
Skip about half an hour - Sherlock was on his bed, fists full of said serial killers hair, mouthing his neck. Their skin rubbing together, sweat mixing, breaths heavy.
Sat in his bedroom fucking a serial killer: now that was a way to end the day.
It had to be, without a doubt, the dirtiest thing Sherlock had ever done; it was utterly exhilarating.