A/N: Oh. My. God. It's finally here. I can't believe only ten or so chapters until this is finished. I think most of the Reichenbach Fall will be up soon as I've already made edited the transcripts from ArianeDeVere (thank you so much. This wouldn't have been possible without you) to suit Brilliant. I'd like to make shoutout to grayxpression (who's writing is absolutely amazing) and gemmcross (for all her support). And now...onto the tears...
CHAPTER THIRTY: THE REICHENBACH FALL
Amelia let out a cry of anguish, knocking one of Sherlock’s many beakers off the table where it shattered on the floor, the iodine staining the tiles. She ran a hand through her hair, her chest tightening. She collapsed into John’s seat as tears began to stream down her cheeks, her eyes locked on Sherlock’s empty seat. The air still lingered with the smell of cigarette smoke and the faint scent of Sherlock’s soap, only causing Amelia to sob even more.
She glared at the seat as she said, “You heartless bastard.” The lie caused a twinge of pain to shoot through her heart as she pulled her knees into her chest, crying silently. “I know what you think was right, and maybe it was, but you could’ve told me.” She whispered, continuing on although there was no one to hear her. “That’s what you’re supposed to do, you know. Sentiment and all that. But you and I were never good at that, were we?” She laughed humourlessly, her eyes flicking down to the carpet. “John tried me to go see Ella with him. I hit him with a book.”
She could almost imagine Sherlock chuckling and replying with a witty retort. Amelia looked at the back of her left hand where the engagement ring nestled snugly around her ring finger. “We can’t even have a wedding because...” She choked, unable to continue. Amelia took in a deep breath, her entire body shuddering with the effort. “Because you’re dead. The great Sherlock Holmes is dead.”
~Three months earlier~
“A small token of our gratitude.” The director said, handing Sherlock a small gift wrapped box. Sherlock took it, frowning. Sherlock glanced at Amelia who was barely containing her laughter.
“You know,” She whispered, standing on her toes to say it in his ear, “other than the half a million pounds they already gave you.”
John whacked his sister, silently warning her to behave.
“Diamond cufflinks,” Sherlock said simply, looking at the box and rustling it slightly. “All my cuffs have buttons.”
“He means thank you,” John reassured to the director.
“No, he doesn’t,” Amelia muttered.
“Ames,” John said dangerously.
“Do I?” Sherlock said quizzically, looking to John for an answer.
“Just say it.” John sighed tiredly, shooting Amelia a glare as she flicked his shoulder. Some days he didn’t know why he had invited his sister to live with them in the first place, not that Sherlock was against it. Amelia and Sherlock had grown rather close the past year, speaking in hushed tones when John was around as if they were keeping a secret from him.
“Thank you,” Sherlock said insincerely, lacing his fingers through Amelia's and starting to walk away. John caught them both, forcing them to smile for the photographers as the cameras flashed, taken dozens of photos of the trio.
~~~
“Back together with my family,” A man whose name Amelia had long forgotten said, “after my terrifying ordeal; and we have two people to thank for my deliverance—Sherlock Holmes and Amelia Watson.”
The gathering crowd clapped excitedly as the young boy handed both Amelia and Sherlock a wrapped box. Sherlock took it and rattled it. “Tie pins,” He said to Amelia in a hushed tone, “I don’t wear ties.”
“Maybe you should,” Amelia said vaguely, winking.
John hushed her condescendingly.
~~~
“Isn’t this illegal?” John hissed between his teeth, not approving Amelia’s course of action on how to search a suspect’s house for clues. Which she’d done by picking the lock.
“Shut up, it’s quick.” Amelia snapped, continuing her actions, oblivious to the sense of déjà vu that had struck her brother. “There.” She pushed against the door, stepping into the house. “See—shit!” The house’s alarm set off, causing her to stiffen in frustration. She took out her gun, shooting the alarm’s control. “All better.”
“What the hell—” John started.
“What is it this time, John?” Amelia sighed, “And for the record, I do have a permit. But this is much more fun, isn’t it?”
~~~
“Peter Ricoletti,” said Lestrade in an almost sarcastic tone, “number one on Interpol’s Most Wanted list since nineteen eighty two. But we got him, and there’s one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads…with all his customary diplomacy and tact.”
“Sarcasm.” Amelia and John said at the same time, leaning in towards Sherlock.
“Yes.” Sherlock agreed with a slight nod.
The press and crowd applauded gratefully as Greg Lestrade walked over to Sherlock, handing a gift-wrapped package to the consulting detective, grinning with false cheeriness. “We all chipped in.”
Sherlock tore into the package, wary of its contents as he saw Anderson and Donovan's grin. Sherlock pulled out a deerstalker hat. “Oh!” Sherlock said, feigning a smile.
“Put the hat on!” A reporter yelled.
“Put the hat on!” Agreed another.
“Yeah, Sherlock, put it on!” Lestrade said eagerly, almost too excited.
Sherlock glared at the reporters and Lestrade with a murderous glare. John coughed, clearing his throat, “Just get it over with.” He said quietly.
“Ooh,” Amelia said excitedly as she took out her mobile phone, “I’m so going to take a picture.”
Sherlock glowered at Amelia in mock anger, unhappily placing the hat on his head. Lights flashed like strobe light frantically, spots appearing before Amelia’s eyes. Sherlock eyed Lestrade as he forced a smile to his mouth, silently promising Lestrade that he’d get his revenge, Lestrade knowing that he'd deliver.
~~~
Amelia tried to contain a laugh as Sherlock in his blue dressing gown paced across the room in anger, throwing the Daily Star onto the pile of newspapers she and John were going through. She arched her eyebrow at Sherlock, leaning back into the sofa back.
“‘Boffin,’” said Sherlock angrily, quoting the newspaper, “‘Boffin Sherlock Holmes.'”
“Everybody gets one.” John said with a small half shrug.
“One what?” Sherlock questioned.
“Tabloid nickname.” John answered as Amelia started to examine her chipped nail polish, “‘SuBo,’ ‘Nasty Nick.’ Shouldn’t worry—I’ll probably get one soon.”
“Page five, column six, first sentence.” Sherlock said, John immediately turning to the page. Sherlock picked up his deerstalker, punching in a barely contained fury. “Why is it always the hat photograph?”
“Bachelor John Watson?” John said, reading his nickname, elbowing Amelia in the side as she let out a loud guffaw.
“Sherlock!” Amelia whined, rubbing her side in fake pain. Sherlock looked at John sternly, John raising his hands in surrender. “John’s hitting me!”
“John don’t hit Amy.” Sherlock chastised.
“Jesus! You two are like a married couple!” John grumbled.
Amelia shrugged halfheartedly, “Do you see a ring on this finger?” She asked, raising a hand.
Sherlock shot her a glare, continuing his rant about his hat. “What sort of hat is it anyway?” He grumbled.
“Bachelor?” John said again, “What the hell are they implying?” He cuffed Amelia as she covered her mouth with her hands, trying not to laugh.
“John! Stop hitting me!” Amelia said, pouting, “I do have a knife and gun on me, you know!”
“Is it a cap?” Sherlock said, turning the hat back and forth, “Why has it got two fronts?”
“It’s a deerstalker,” John answered Sherlock’s questioned before going back to reading the newspaper, “Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson…”
“You stalk a deer with a hat?” Sherlock said, making assumptions, “What are you gonna do—throw it?” He added sarcastically just to see the smile on Amelia’s face. Amelia laughed, rolling her eyes slightly.
“…confirmed bachelor John Watson?!” John said loudly.
“Do I have one?” Amelia asked, taking the newspaper from John and scanning it quickly.
“Page seven, column one, third sentence. You won’t complain.” Sherlock muttered, still examining the hat.
“What? Why?” She cocked her head in confusion before turning to the page. A small smile crept its way onto her blood red lips as she read aloud, “Sherlock Holmes is rumoured to be engaged to British beauty Amelia Watson.” She smirked, “British beauty. Hmm. Don’t mind the sound of that.” She lowered the newspaper, turning to Sherlock, “Does everyone think we’re engaged?”
“Talk about not fair.” John grumbled.
“Some sort of death frisbee?” Sherlock said quizzically, still looking at the hat.
“Okay, this is too much.” Amelia sighed, finding yet another article about her and Sherlock supposed engagement, “We need to be more careful.”
“It’s got flaps…ear flaps. It’s an ear hat, Amy.” He threw it across the room to Amy, who lifted a hand and caught it easily, placing it on her head with an ear flap covering one eye. “What do you mean, ‘more careful’?”
“She means this isn’t a deerstalker now; it’s a Sherlock Holmes hat.” John explained, “I mean that you’re not exactly a private detective anymore.” He held up his thumb and pointer finger less than an inch apart, his eyes on Sherlock, “You’re this far from famous. “
“Oh, it’ll pass.” Sherlock reassured, collapsing into his chair, holding his hands in a prayer-like position before his mouth.
“It’d better pass.” Amelia said, walking over to Sherlock and perching on his bony knee, combing through Sherlock’s curly mess of hair with her hand, “The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they’ll turn on you.”
“It really bothers you.” Sherlock observed suddenly, leaning backwards to look Amelia in the eyes.
“What?” Amelia said, furrowing her brows and lowering her hand from Sherlock’s hair.
“What people say,” Sherlock answered her question, not understanding quite why Amelia reacted this way to the press.
“Yes.” Amelia said in a “duh” tone, rolling her eyes and resuming combing through Sherlock’s hair.
“About me?” This time it was Sherlock that was confused, “I don’t understand—why would it upset you?” Amelia had been teaching Sherlock how to read people’s emotions but Amelia carefully hid her emotions behind a mask, giving no clue to Sherlock what she was thinking. Sherlock clenched his jaw in aggravation.
Amelia held his gaze for a moment, trying to think of a reasonable explanation for her odd statement, “Because I care for you, dimwit. Just-just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news.”
Sherlock smiled, “You care for me?” He pecked her on the lips, taking her by surprise. Usually it was her that initiated the romantic gestures. She laughed, wrapping her arms around Sherlock’s neck and pressing her forehead against his with a smirk.
“For God’s sake!” John groaned, “Get a room!”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow at John and picked Amelia up bridal style. He tickled her when she protested, causing her to become out of breath due to her uncontrollable giggles. John could’ve sworn that Sherlock shot him a wink before the detective kicked the bedroom door shut.
John stared at the door with wide eyes, dialling his newest girlfriend—a blonde Scottish girl named Iona Murray—up in a desperate attempt to leave the flat for a few hours. “Hey, Iona, would it be too terrible if I came over for a few hours?”
~10:15 AM, Baker Street~
Amelia sat outside of Speedy’s café not long after, the rain drenching Sherlock’s purple button up shirt she wore, the cold seeping into her bones. She like London when it was rainy. Hardly anyone came out, believing that they’d catch a cold—which isn’t true as you cannot catch from being cold, you get it from bacteria that is more likely to grow in the cold, something Amelia liked to point out often—which meant that Amelia could calmly observe her surroundings without anyone giving her odd looks.
She glanced down at her watch, surprised that it was only ten fifteen. Is it really that early? Amelia thought, mildly amused. How early did I get up?
“I thought I’d find you out here.” Sherlock said, causing Amelia to look up at him. He too had no umbrella or raincoat to shield him from the downpour. Sherlock squinted against the pelting raindrops, his face raised to the sky as lightening cracked across the dark clouds.
“If you tell me to go back inside because I shouldn’t be outside during a thunderstorm, I’ll personally use your ‘death frisbee’ against you.” Amelia said, her tone slightly teasing but otherwise completely serious.
Sherlock snorted, “However difficult it may be to believe, I do have more common sense than to do that.”
“Sure you do.”
The two sat in silence for a moment, the freezing water causing their hair to plaster to their foreheads, water dripping off of the ends. “Amelia—” Sherlock started.
Amelia sighed, “What is it, Sher?”
“I think-I think I have feelings for you.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes. Good. You heard me.” Amelia stated, raising both her eyebrows and turning to face Sherlock, “Because although it may come as a surprise to you, I care about you too.” She paused, “C’mon. We better get inside to shower off the pollution.”
“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, realising what she’d said as she started to walk off, “I can help.”
“Trust me.” Amelia said, pausing in the doorway to look back at Sherlock, “I know.”
~11:00 AM, 221B~
Amelia walked out of the bathroom and to the kitchen, drying the back of her head with a towel. She smiled as her eyes fell upon Sherlock who was examining another slide beneath a microscope. As Sherlock’s phone alerted him of a text, Amelia loudly said, “It’s your phone.”
“Mm.” Sherlock said, disinterested and not caring, “Keeps doing that.”
Amelia quietly laughed, “That’s what they’re supposed to do, Sher.” She walked into the living room, paying no heed to the mannequin in a suit hanging from the ceiling of the living room, swinging back in forth in the remnants of the thunderstorm’s breeze. “So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?”
“Oh.” Sherlock said, briefly looking up, “Henry Fishgard never committed suicide.” He picked up a hardcover book, slamming it shut violently, a cloud of dust materialising into the air. “Bow Street Runners; missed everything.”
“Pressing case, is it?” Amelia said sarcastically, braiding her wet hair into a fishtail braid.
“They’re all pressing ’til they’re solved.” Sherlock muttered.
Amelia shrugged, “Fair enough.”
~11:00 AM, Tower of London~
James “Jim” Moriarty put on a neutral expression, thankful for the acting courses he’d taken. If he wanted to achieve his mission—to slowly take down Amelia Watson piece by piece—he’d have to have the utmost concentration. He made his way to the White Tower disguised as a tourist to see the crown jewels. Which wasn’t exactly a lie since he was going to see the crown jewels, but he had much, much more in store.
He nonchalantly strolled through the security detector, the alarm beeping. “Excuse me, sir.” A security guard said. Jim stopped—still chewing his gum—and backed up through the detector. “Any metal objects—keys, mobile phones?”
Jim smiled apologetically, taking out his mobile phone and placing it in the offered tray.
“You can go through.” The security guard said, waving Jim throat. He handed the tray to Jim who took the phone, “Thank you.” The security guard nodded.
Jim walked in confidently, his plan falling in place. He’d calculated every possible outcome and the ways to avoid the situation. He came to a halt before the large glass display case located in the centre of the room, admiring the contents inside.
An ornate crown sat atop the red velvet cushion of the regal throne, a sceptre resting on one arm with a delicate orb balanced on the other. Jim placed a pair of earbuds in his ear, “The Thieving Magpie” beginning to play. He cracked his neck to prepare himself for the plan to take place; and what a magnificent outcome it would be.
~11:00 AM, surveillance room of the London Tower~
Two surveillance men sat before the computers displaying the CCTV footage. One turned to the other as Moriarty lifted his hands up in the air above his head and slowly lowered them. “Fancy a cuppa, then, mate?” The first surveillance man proposed.
“Yeah, why not?” The other replied as the first one got up and walked off.
~11:00 AM, Bank of England~
“Gilts at seven,” The bank’s director said, his eyes on a computer screen, “Dutch telecoms in freefall. Thank you, Harvey.” He nodded slightly as “Harvey” set down a tea on a tray before him, quickly leaving the room.
~11:00 AM, Pentonville Prison~
The prison’s governor sat at his desk with a “Keep calm and carry on” mug full of tea, casually slamming down a stack of files onto his desk. Several wardens, guards, and police officers stood by, listening to the governor’s verdict, “What do you say: refuse them all parole and bring back the rope! Let’s begin.”
~Back at the Tower~
Jim raised his phone, scrolling through several app icons. He ignored the one with a carton prisoner behind bars and another with a piggy bank decorated with the English flag, clicking on a cartoon of a crown. The image unfolded into an unlocked padlock, sending streams of long codes out and warnings filling the Tower’s air.
“This is an emergency,” said the automated security system, “Please leave the building.”
Jim contained a smirk as the other tourists hurried out of room in a near-panic. Check number one off the list. He thought to himself as a security guard came over to him, probably assuming he couldn’t hear the insistent warnings.
“Sir,” The guard said, “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
Jim grabbed an aerosol can from his waistband—full of a chemical compound he didn’t know the name of as he wasn’t a chemist—spraying it into the guard’s face who collapsed, unconscious. The security door closed and lock itself as Jim took off his cap, smoothing out his slick hair.
I warned you, Amelia.
~Scotland Yard~
“Sir, there’s been a break-in.” Donovan announced, rushing into Greg Lestrade’s office, unfazed that her boss had his feet on the desk, drinking coffee while eating what appeared to be a donut-pastry hybrid.
“Not our division.” Lestrade said around a mouthful of food.
“You’ll want it.”
~The White Tower~
Jim lazily scrolled through the app icons once again, this time selecting the piggy bank. The piggy bank broke into two, revealing a pile of small gold coins as it too sent a long digital code. This was almost too easy, but then, that was rather the point. He was here to make an impression, nothing more.
~Bank of England~
“The vault!” The bank director exclaimed loudly, seeing the ripples from the vibrations of the vault opening in his tea. Alarms began to blare loudly, his computer screen flashing: VAULT OPENING as an image of the vault slowly opened appeared onscreen. His jaw dropped open at the nearly impossible feat, his tea tilting and pouring into his lap.
~Greg Lestrade’ police car~
“Hacked into the Tower of bloody London security?!” Lestrade said angrily, “How?!” As Sally’s phone rang, his face turned red, “Tell them we’re already on our way.”
“There’s been another one; another break-in.” Sally said, listening to the other end, Lestrade staring at her blankly, “Bank of England!”
~221B~
“Sherlock Holmes!” Amelia said sternly as Sherlock began to ruthlessly search through the fridge, searching for something, “What are you doing?!”
“I’m hungry.”
“What? Since when do you eat?” Amelia blinked, taken aback. “There’s some roast left in the freezer if you want it.”
Sherlock grumbled a quick thanks, grabbing the plastic container and eating the frozen roast. Amelia shook her head at Sherlock's strange behaviour, shrugging it off and turning back to reading Hamlet.
~The White Tower~
Jim scrawled four words on to the glass of the display case, exaggerating each movement drastically. He drew a smiley face in the “O” of the second word, giving his “art work” some character. He dotted the “I” of the third word with a small human heart with flames surrounding it. It wasn’t quite as romantic as the heart most children drew, but it got his message across.
Finishing his work, he clicked on the final app icon, the bars over the prisoner lifting away and the prisoner’s striped shirt turning into a plain black one. The last code streamed out into the air, heading to its destination.
~Pentonville Prison~
The governor lifted his mug of tea to his mouth, alarms beginning to sound. A prison warden burst into the room, his forehead beading with sweat. “Sir,” He panted, “security’s down, sir. It’s failing!”
The governor jumped to his feet, knocking his tea off the table, the hot liquid seeping into the floor.
~Lestrade’s police car~
Sally Donovan got another phone call, Lestrade looking to her in frustration. “What is it now?” He growled.
“Pentonville Prison!”
He stared at her in disbelief for a moment before saying, “Oh no!”
~221B~
“For the love of God, Sherlock!” Amelia yelled at the consulting detective as he picked up his violin and loudly started playing fast-pace tunes. “I’m trying to read!”
“I’m trying to play my violin.”
“Really?! I hadn’t noticed!”
“I thought you liked my music!”
“Not when I’m trying to read Shakespeare! It’s hard enough to read when you’re not playing as it is!”
“I don’t see anything wrong with what I’m doing.”
“This is getting ridiculous!” Amelia said, dialling Mycroft. “Mycroft, your brother is being an arse!”
“Amelia Watson, now is an incredibly inconvenient time to call.” Mycroft said with a sigh, “I’m in a meeting with the Prime Minister—a meeting you should be at.”
“Crap. Is that today?” Amelia said, “Give him my apologies, I—FOR GOD’S SAKE, SHERLOCK!” She trailed off as Sherlock suddenly started to shoot the wall, throwing one of John’s books at him. “As I said, Sherlock’s being an arse.”
“Goodbye, Amelia.” Mycroft said.
“Myc—goddammit! What’s with you Holmes boys today?!” She glared at the phone in anger, tucking it away.
~The White Tower~
Jim slowly pulled the piece of gum from between his teeth, sticking one end on the glass. He left the entire piece stuck there, retrieving a jewellery box from his pocket and taking out a small diamond. He pressed it into the gum with a maniacal grin. He slipped off his jacket, raising his hands in time to the song’s crescendo.
He could hear the police sirens outside, the police no doubt ready to charge in. Jim continued to dance around the room, pulling black leather mitts onto his hand. He picked up the fire extinguisher, slowly galloping to the display case.
He aimed the extinguisher carefully above the diamond, smashing the extinguisher directly into it, shattering the glass. He continued on his task as he heard the police—who were no doubt armed—charge through the metal detector, setting off the alarm.
Jim continued smashing in the glass until the entire pane had collapsed on itself, scattering the ground. Lestrade’s cruiser pulled up before the White Tower, running into the Crown Jewels exhibit room. His eyes fell upon James Moriarty sitting on the throne, the elegant fur cloak draped around his shoulders, the crown perched atop his head, the orb between his knees, and the sceptre laying across his lap. Moriarty smiled calmly, looking over the crowd of policemen, his earbuds still in his ear.
Moriarty’s eyebrow raised ever so slightly, “No rush.”