A Moriarty problem

Chapter 1

'As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. Well, good luck with that.' Mocked Moriarty.

'NO!'

That eternal memory and image lingered in Sherlock 's mind. Sadness, hatred, humility had all been shared on that roof. For once sherlock felt heartbroken. He had never felt this feeling before. Well since 2 years ago.

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Moriarty's funeral was... How should I describe it. Intimate. I don't know why Sherlock wanted to go. Guilt? Empathy? No, Sherlock can't feel those emotions. He has a heart of ice, steel and in-sentimentality. For what I presumed was difficulty of love and companionship was fear. Fear of friends, of feeling and of any human emotion. It was all a mind game. I am like a puppet to sherlock. I wait eagerly like a servant while he plays at my strings. I can't help but love him. His cheekbones, (boy, I could cut myself slapping them. I once did!), his manner, his wisdom, his safety.
Apart from us, Mrs Hudson went, Molly, Greg and various homeless network tramps. Likely the same ones that had helped sherlock survive his 'death'. The room was tense, it was like everyone knew some thing. But yet I couldn't determine what. Something strange has happened and I can't put my finger on it.

I knew what it was when I saw Moriarty's face on every screen in London...

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'He blew his own brains out! How can he be alive!' Exclaimed John.

'We don't know, reassured Mary, anything could have happened..'

'Sherlock, did you notice anything strange on the rooftop.?'

'Moriarty shook me with his right hand and shot himself with his left. But..oh, oh!' Thought sherlock.

'What! Sherlock, we've discussed this before, the showing off thing.'

'I've been a blind idiot!' Are you right or left handed John?'

'Um...right Sherlock.'

'Do you pick up your phone with your right hand?'

'Um..yes.'

'And if you were to shoot yourself.' John looked horrified.' IF you were to...would you use your right hand.'

'I presume so?'

'Exactly!' Sherlock then left John and Mary hanging and he sprinted off out of Speedy's cafe, down Baker Street and into Waterloo Station. He knew exactly what Moriarty had done.

Or so he thought...