WARNING: Spoilers for the end of Season Two of Sherlock, do not read if you haven't watched the season yet.

The ground seemed closer, but it was only a trick from the eyes. Jumping off the roof of Bartholomew's hospital is quite enough to kill a grown man.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

In the moments before, Moriarty put a bullet through his own head. He landed on the ground with a sickening thud and blood covered the concrete beneath him, his eyes wide open and a smile frozen on his face.

By committing suicide, he lost the game. A game between him and Sherlock, a game played in secret, between the two of the most brilliant minds the world has ever seen. Sherlock had a hard time keeping it secret from John and Mycroft, they needn't know. They would have got in the way.

Sherlock faked his ignorance for more than he would have liked. Tying back his tongue was a lot harder than he thought it would be, especially in front of John. From the moment he saw Moriarty typing out the 'key', to the moment John first spoke of Richard Brooks, he kept silent.

He knew all along, that the 'key' never existed. The fingering of Partita no. 2 was incredibly obvious. He practiced the piece a long time ago, and still played it occasionally. He knew the identity of Richard Brooks the moment it was mentioned-a pun with the German language for Reichenbach.

The game is closing, it's edging towards the end. The final moves have been carefully prepared, and Sherlock was determined to make it look real.

'What?'

'You're doing the face again.'

'What face? … It's my face?'

'Yes, and it's doing a we-both-know-what's-really-going-on-here face.'

'Well, we do.'

'No, I don't. Which is exactly why I find the face so annoying.'

Sherlock's chest tightened. Why was he remembering this now? He didn't need it, he need to concentrate on the final act.

'Why would you care?'

'Because I'm your friend, maybe?'

Sherlock never did have a friend before, so he is rather confused from time to time as to what exactly is the function of a friend. He once tried categorizing John by the things he does, and found that he fits into a rather large range of categories. Doctor, assistant, blogger, cook… Clearly Sherlock has become very dependent on his new found friend, relying on him entirely too much.

'I would miss him,' Sherlock thought, 'horribly.'

He has often heard the phrase of 'hearts breaking', and overtime realized people didn't actually mean physical hearts breaking into pieces when they used this phrase. He'd never felt it before, so he always assumed it's a more psychosomatic case of chest pain… which is what he's currently experiencing.

He took out his phone, and for once, made a call instead of texting. He wanted to hear John's voice, his John's voice, for just one last time. He stepped towards the edge of the roof, saw the taxi pull in, saw the soldier figure rush out and head towards the hospital. Sherlock's voice shook as he poured the lies he so carefully planned out into the speaker of his phone, watched as John stared at him in confusion.

He reached out into thin air, and John did the same. For a slit second Sherlock almost felt the warmth of the doctor's hands, and in that instant, he wanted to stay by John's side. His determination quivered, all of a sudden he no longer wanted to leave.

In desperate attempt to break free from his new found attachment, he bid goodbye to John and threw away his phone.

'You never know how much people mean to you until you lose them.' He heard Mycroft's voice ringing in his head.

He threw open his arms, as if to embrace the pavement below. In the distance, he heard John shouting out his name.

Then he fell.

A/N: I felt the need to write some Reichenbach fics to redirect my Reichenfeels. Review if convenient, thank you for reading!