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The wind was loud in his ears, buffeting off the nearby buildings, whistling shrilly through alleyways and towers and wires. But it was not enough to mask the heavy thump of his heart.

Fear.

Moriarty was still nodding, dark eyes downcast. “As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends; you’ve got a way out... Well, good luck with that.”

A manic smile crossed his face before he yanked Sherlock closer. With his left hand—his dominant hand, why am I shaking his non-dominant hand…oh!—he produced a pistol from within the folds of his coat and shoved it in his gaping mouth and—

Dead.

Moriarty is dead.

I’m dead.

The switch flipped, and a strange calm settled over Sherlock. Auto-pilot.

The plan. He had prepared for this eventuality, prepared for his own—

Cab. John. Phone call with John. An apology. I’m a fake. I researched you. Keep your eyes fixed on me.

Goodbye, John.

“Sherlock!”

Falling.