How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 47: The Rooftop

Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath.

Mary and the other snipers were in position in the windows of buildings near Bart's. John and Lestrade were a couple steps down from the detective, guns and radios ready. They had confirmation that both Moran and Molly were present on the rooftop. The tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a knife.

The detective fingered the gun in his pocket, the cool metal soothing the burning of his over-agitated flesh.

Sherlock glanced once over his shoulder at John, nodding slightly, and pushed open the door, not caring that it slammed shut after him, the sound breaking through the stillness of morning on the roof. He blinked in the stark sunlight, his eyes adjusting from the darkness of the stairwell, before he slowly strode out into the line of sight of the other two occupants of the area.

Moran stood at the opposite end of the roof, away from Molly, who was standing near the edge on Sherlock's right. She wasn't restrained at all, and Sherlock wondered briefly why that was. He dismissed it, deciding it was all the better for them that she wasn't. He examined her out of the corner of his eye, not taking his attention completely off of his enemy, but got a good enough look at Molly to see dried blood from a cut above her eye and several large bruises blooming on her ivory skin. His jaw and eyes hardened as he turned his full attention back to Moran.

"Well, here we are." Moran was staring down at the place where Moriarty's body had fallen all that time ago. He looked up at Sherlock, malice in his gaze. "Once again, at the final problem. Drop the gun."

The detective obliged, pulling his handgun out of his pocket and tossing it in his enemy's general direction. "Well the last one was hardly my final problem, was it?" Sherlock quipped, keeping his handsome face void of all emotion. He couldn't afford to lose it now. Not when there was so much at stake.

Moran let out a sharp bark of a laugh and shook his head at Sherlock, casually twirling his gun around a finger.

"No, I suppose not," he agreed. "Though, James would have had a good laugh if he'd been here to see how you fooled him. Or rather," he corrected himself, "how she fooled him."

Sherlock tried to think of some way, any way, to keep Moran's attention away from Molly and on himself.

"Surely you don't think it was her. You know she isn't nearly intelligent enough to formulate a scheme like that and make it actually work." He winced as the words sprang from his mouth, sounding cold and calculating, and prayed to a God he didn't believe in that Molly knew what he was doing. He couldn't afford to look over at her to see if she did or not.

"You know I don't believe that for a second. James wouldn't have been so fascinated with her if she was stupid." He nodded in Molly's direction. "No, that one there is a smart one." He paused and shrugged. "But obviously not as smart as Jim, or you, or your brother, for that matter. Ah well, not everyone can be a genius."

"Not even you," Sherlock said, "You were just the hired gun."

"I hold my own." The man replied with a slight shrug.

"No you don't," Sherlock taunted. "Everything you've done to me was either master-minded and set up by Moriarty or a copy of his style. You are just a child playing with your big brother's toys. You'll never be my equal."

Moran shook his handgun at the detective. "Watch it, Sherl. I will still burn you, James' plan or not.

Moriarty's words, so full of hate, ran through Sherlock's mind.

"I will burn the heart out of you."

Please, please, let him believe I don't love her.

"And we both know I was far more than muscle." Moran continued before he laughed again, the bitterness seeping through his composed demeanor. "We both know." He looked back down at the ground.

"Moriarty didn't have to act very hard to pull off being gay." The observation popped out of Sherlock before he really thought about it. Seeing Moran stiffen, he wasn't sure it had been a good idea. After a moment though, his opponent let out an actual, amused chuckle.

"Yeah, I told him he should do that when he met you. The best lie has a grain of truth in it, doesn't it Sherl?" He glanced again at Molly, the expression in his eyes feral.

"That's why it was easy for this bitch to believe you cared for her." He grinned evilly at the little pathologist and Sherlock heard a sniff from her. "Did he tell you pretty things, Molly? He wasn't completely lying. He does like you. But he isn't built like the rest of us. He'll never really love."

Sherlock couldn't resist glancing at Molly to gauge her reaction to Moran's taunting. Her lips were pursed and eyes narrowed, and she looked a bit like she wanted to make an obscene hand gesture at their tormentor. Sherlock's brow furrowed, trying to make the connection between the shy woman he knew and the (apparently) fearless one before him. There was a blankness in her gaze though, that sent a chill down Sherlock's spine. No light could be found in Molly's eyes, like hope had been sucked out of her. He hated himself for letting that happen to her. After a little more scrutiny, Sherlock noted with a great bit of surprise that she'd moved closer to him during the course of the conversation and wondered exactly what she hoped to accomplish.

"The rest of us poor mortals, we love."

Moran had gone back to staring at the ground, tears of anger and hurt in his eyes. He blinked up at Sherlock and out of nowhere began screaming at the detective.

"You took him from me! You were supposed to die! You're going to die!"

He swung the gun up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw a blur of movement. Before he could react, Molly jumped into his arms, her body a shield for his, just as two shots rang out.

Suddenly, cold realization overtook Sherlock. He knew why Molly had not been restrained and was allowed to move closer to him. Because Moran knew exactly what she would do when Sherlock was threatened.

Everything slowed down. Sherlock howled in pain and rage as Molly crumpled in his arms.

"Stupid, stupid," he kept muttering, talking to a barely conscious Molly. "Why, Molly? Surely you knew I'd have a vest on? Why did you do it?"

Her words just before losing consciousness shattered his heart into a million pieces.

"I don't, count," she whispered softly, managing to lift a hand and cup his jaw before going completely limp.

John ran out from the stairwell and frantically began trying to staunch the blood flow from her lower back. Lestrade appeared, casting a worried glance to Molly, before hurrying over to Moran and putting a heavy foot on the man's chest. There was a ringing in Sherlock's ears as he gently eased Molly to the ground and stood, his face murderous. He stalked towards his fallen enemy, retrieving his gun along the way. Lestrade fell back a few steps as the detective approached the semi-conscious man on the ground.

Moran gazed up at Sherlock from the ground, blood seeping from the wound in his chest and trickling out of his mouth. He flung a limp hand up towards Sherlock, motioning feebly at Molly's blood, which stained Sherlock's clothes.

"You'll have to get a new coat," he coughed, grinning triumphantly, despite the pain that wracked his body. "Even if she survives, she'll never believe you love her. I took good care of that. But you and I," he gulped, trying to speak through the blood pooling in his throat, "You and I know that you do love her. You really do. The great Sherlock Holmes brought to his knees by a little doe-eyed girl. I told you. I told you I'd burn you." He coughed again as he tried to laugh at Sherlock, blood spraying from the mouth.

"Tell James hello from me," was Sherlock's only reply before pulling out his gun and emptying it into Sebastian Moran's head.