Oh, my stomach. Focus. Answer the phone, John.



Assassin camped at 35 metre distance, mid-staircase, second hall window from the right. PSG1 sniper rifle with telescopic sight and silencer, standard. Trajectory angle 37* on tripod. Clumsy. Amateur. Driven by a fat paycheck, no doubt. No-one to pay him now.

"Hey, Sherlock. You okay?"

You're walking the wrong… Assassin 34 metres, 32.5, 31… John, you idiot.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came, now."

"No, I'm coming in…"

"Just… do… As I ask."

29.5 metres, closing, no, no. I can't breathe. Why can't I breathe? I did this to him. I led him here. This is my fault. Focus. 28 metres, 27. why does it have to be such a clean shot. I'm trembling. Stop it.



Yes, John, walk now, fast as you can. Good, stupid John, let me lead you, one last time. Clean shot, clean shot, oh, my kingdom, my palace for an errant lorry, John. I'm shaking. One, two, three, six, eight paces –

"Stop there!"


"Okay now look up, I'm on the rooftop."

Can you believe it? What a laugh this is. I wish I had a glib remark on hand.

"Oh, God."

"I… I… I can't come down so we'll…We'll just have to do it like this."

John, I don't like heights. I'm afraid. I'm such a child, John. I can't think. I wish you could tell me how to be strong. I wish you could carry me, for once. But you can't. No, you mustn't. You have to leave me.

"What's going on?"

"An apology."

You're about to lose me, John. If only you knew how sorry I am. Thick, blind, wonderful John.

"It's. All. True."

You were right after all. I'm a bastard. I'm a machine, I'm a child.


"Everything they said about me."

Every word you said was true, for better or worse. But…

"I… invented Moriarty."

…Forget me now, John. Erase everything you know of me; turn your back on it. Live. There's no reason to die for it, John. It's just a little shred of humanity, that's all. Moriarty turned the world inside out to find it, and it killed him. I won't let you die for it, too.

"Why are you saying this?"

I can't lose you, don't you see… I wish you could see. I'm crying… I'm crying. I have to hurt you, John. I'm a liar and a serpent, and I would have killed you one day, with all my cleverness. Stop crying, stop it.

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock" –

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade…"

I owe him my life, so many times over. The prick. Why did he trust me?

"I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson…"

I'm dying for her too. Call it penance, if you like. I love her. I always have.

"and Molly…"

Stupid, bumbling, noble Molly Hooper. She matters; of course she matters.

"In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty. For my own purposes…"

I have to send you all away. Run. Leave me. Hate me. Please, John. My Captain. Hate me.

"Okay, Sherlock – Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met."


"The first time. We met. You knew all about my sister. Right?"

You followed me into the unknown with all the faith an idiot can spare. Why?

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

Oh, god, John. You stupid spaniel of a man – Why do you love me?

"I researched you. When we met, I discovered everything that I could, to impress you…"

That's it. Hate me, because you care. I'm too clever, too cold to let you closer. You're the better man, John. You always have been; I have to prove it to you, now. I wish there was another way, John. I can't stop… crying.

"It's a trick, It's just a magic trick."

"No. All right, stop it now!"

Where are you going – John -

"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move!"

"All right."

Why are you sothick. I'm dying. I can't lose you.I'm so afraid… Hold my hand, John.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me…"

John, my Captain, my friend - don't leave on my own. I'm afraid. I'm sorry.

"Please – will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

Love me, remember me, forgive me, John. If …if you can.

"This phone call – it's, er – my note. It's what people do, don't they? …Leave a note?"

"Leave a note …when?"

Oh, my dear. Can't you see we're dying, the both of us. I have to hurt you, John. I have to break you to save you. Because you'restupid, and no matter how you run to keep up with me you will always be So. Beautifully. Stupid… John Watson. My Captain.

"Goodbye, John."

"No… don't…"

Whatever has brought me here – cause and effect, rationale, madness, impulse, instinct, love – whether angel or machine, I need to speak with it. I don't pray, and I don't believe; belief is idiocy. I only observe, and I can only make a request of all these things I've never cared to know, as I'm dragged to this ledge, this impossible chess game, this sorrow.

Deliver Him.


Deliver John Watson. And if love does exist in me – please – leave him with that much.