Falling...

Chapter One - A Way Out

"Well, good luck with that," Moriarty said. For a split second, Sherlock was confused to what he meant: then he saw the gun.

It could end it two ways. Sherlock could step back, let Moriarty shoot himself in the head, and avoid getting any brain matter on his coat. If that happened, he'd be left with no choice but to go along with Moriarty's plan - then it'd be his brain matter on his coat.
There was no ending where Sherlock wouldn't save his friends.

However, there was the other ending, where Sherlock could stop Moriarty from killing the only person who could call off the hit-men: himself. Though if Sherlock did manage to get the gun away from him, there was the possibility he'd just jump - like he'd intended Sherlock to. Still, it'd give Sherlock more time...

He hastily grabbed Moriarty's arm, keeping the gun at stomach level. They pulled to and fro, fighting for it; Moriarty trying to move his wrist to point the gun at himself, while Sherlock pulled it away again with the hand that wasn't keeping his arm low.
Deciding his grip on the gun was too tight, Sherlock stopped pulling toward himself, and rather turned it to the side. Not expecting it, Moriarty was slow to react. This allowed Sherlock to pull the trigger. He performed hastily, aware he'd had to take a maximum of ten shots before the cartridge would be empty.
It was a poor move to use such a widely known pistol. Having been used in multiple forms of media, the Beretta 92 FS Inox was recognisable, even to those who weren't experts like Sherlock.
Seven shots: and the gun was empty.

Moriarty took a step back, letting Sherlock hold the empty gun. He set his jaw, taking a deep breath which made his chest visibly rise and fall.
A teasing smile slowly crept onto his features.

"Would you like someone to jump with, is that it?" He asked. God, he had a mocking comment for everything.

"Call off the hit-men," Sherlock ordered, watching Moriarty carefully.

"Oh! Oh, ok!" Moriarty replied with false enthusiasm. "Wait," He paused, "What's the magic word?" He tilted his head, a sweet smile on his lips.

"I'm done playing your game." Sherlock stated angrily, stepping toward Moriarty. "I'm ending it."

"That's the thing, Sherlock: the game doesn't end. At least, not until your life does," Moriarty answered. He straightened up, not faltering under Sherlock's approach.

"It ends when you call off those hit-men," Sherlock argued. Moriarty furrowed his brow, averting his eyes to the ground. Even when he looked back upward, it wasn't toward Sherlock, it was to the side - imitating thought.

"No... No. No it doesn't." He said, finally looking Sherlock in the eye. "You see, even if you hypothetically managed to somehow get me to call them off: I'd come back. I always come back, Sherlock." Moriarty worked his way around Sherlock. He circled him fully, Sherlock not moving from where he stood, though keeping a close eye.

Once more, he stood in front of Sherlock. A silence between them.
It was Sherlock's move.
He didn't want to jump, not if he didn't have to.

They were back where they started. The only difference being that Moriarty no longer had a gun to pull on himself.
The scenario where two men stood before each other, but either one walked away, or none. At least that was how Moriarty saw it.
To Sherlock, it was the scenario where there was a way out. There had to be a way out. Though he didn't know how...

"I know I said to take your time, but... This is boooring." Moriarty rocked back on his heels, looking around. His face depicted his disinterest in watching Sherlock try to think. "I expected things to be at least a little quicker," He muttered.

That was it!

Moriarty always expected everything. He thought through all of the endings, all of the scenarios, all of the outcomes. The only way to beat him was to do the unexpected. For example, pointing a gun at a bomb in a swimming pool.