Constellations Strung With a Shooting Star | Sherliam

Chapter Twenty-Seven

This is it.

This is the time that William has been awaiting his entire life; with some minor tweaks and changes, this is the finale. The final remaining hour of what'd been the life and legacy of the Lord of Crime. After all this time, there's something unbelievable about it; a nagging thought prickling in the side of his head, talking about how it's finally here. What'd only been a plan, all but a well-constructed thought, it's what's here right now.

However, his thoughts and opinions on it are nothing but secondary at this point. Albert already took initiation in successfully burning down their London manor, their one at Durham sold off at this point. And the rest of his colleagues are out and about around London, helping out the people and striving them in the right direction.

If the flames across the city are any indication, then he would say that his plan is working out quite well. Just as he calculated and predicted that it would be. And it delights him, in an odd sense; it's so pleasant to think that, once the Lord of Crime is dead, this country — no, this world — will progress towards the better. His brothers, everyone he's worked with, and his soulmate will all be able to live in a more ideal world that they've worked so hard to build. Although he won't be able to see it himself, the payoff will be simply brilliant; he's sure of it.

But, no doubt about it, this ending will be rough until the final breath that William takes. Especially when Sherlock arrives. That will hurt more than anything else, even worse than the inevitable death he'll come to face.

He silently wonders to himself; does Sherlock hate him now?

Presuming that he did end up reading the letter William left for him, that's been a reoccurring thought. Maybe soulmates are simply unable to despise each other, but at the same time, he can't imagine why the detective wouldn't. After all, Moriarty is working to destroy what was gifted to the two of them, which isn't fair to Sherlock in the slightest. It would only make sense for Holmes to come to loathe him for that, even if it's a sacrifice for a better cause. The guilt panging at the blond's entire being is immeasurable, and for so many different things all at once.

He sighs quietly to himself. That's nothing to think about now, nor ever again. In not too long, Sherlock will meet him on this bridge, and he's sure that the question of Sherlock's feelings will be answered there. A part of him hopes that he does hate him, so that he can just go through in eliminating the Lord of Crime without any issues proposing a challenge to that.

And even if it ends up being the opposite, then he has Moran to back him up. With the colonel propped up high above in a perfect shooting range, he'll be able to shoot and break the bridge if need be. But he also made Sebastian swear that only William would be able to fall; if the detective were to die in the process of all of this, then the ex-professor would truly never, ever forgive himself. The guilt that he'll be dying with would only be increased tenfold, and he'd wish to be sent to the deepest, darkest pit within hell.

Slowly, he gazes upon the fogged ground below him, observing how the fires are gradually beginning to die out, killed off by the significance of the wealthy and the poor working together with one another; all with the same goals, all with the same hateful opinions on the Lord of Crime. With one final fire ceasing, that's the cue that's needed to signal Moran to shoot the small and carefully placed explosive on the bridge.

It only breaks a small portion of it, and it's only the space behind William. Therefore, Sherlock could have the chance to perhaps push him off, or he could push himself off — either way, the effect will be the same. The explosion is enough to catch the townspeople's attention, all heads turning in the direction of the bridge towering over the Thames. And only seconds later, he takes note of Sherlock's figure emerging through the smoke and fog surrounding them, right on time as asked. He couldn't have asked for any better moment, any other second, rather than this one. It's just as he hoped for.