But he hadn't even pulled the trigger. They were still there, locked in stalemate, John's gun aimed by Sherlock at Moriarty's bomb. This didn't make sense; it wasn't logical.
But it was.
You've rather shown your hand there, Mr Holmes.
And because he knew that he had, because he knew that Moriarty knew what he would do anyway, he went with the instinct.
The gun clattered to the floor as the hand holding it simply disappeared, its owner tearing away, coming to rest just a second later.
A choked gasp. And its echo:
Footsteps, so soft, ignored.
"You didn't see that coming, did you, Sherlock? I surprised you there."
He had, and Sherlock will never deny it.
"I will kill you."
"Ah, but I've already killed you, haven't I? You wouldn't be committed otherwise. You would get bored. I thought I'd better provide a little… motivation for you to find me."
"I'll kill you!"
But not now. Not in that moment. There wasn't enough of him.
"You'll try. And I look forward to it. Ciao for now. I'll leave you alone with your bleeding heart, shall I?"
His bleeding heart. I will burn the heart out of you. But not so soon, he hadn't expected it so soon. And anyway, his heart wasn't bleeding.
Dead men don't bleed.