Disclaimer: For the very last time, I do not own anything affiliated to Sherlock Holmes.

A/N: A heartfelt thank you to all my loyal readers out there, and a special thanks to those who've left such sweet, wonderful reviews. It's with a bittersweet aftertaste I leave you with this epilogue and the end of our long journey.

It is not the end most wished for, but the end I felt fit better than the other options. I apologize to none for my choice, but offer tissues to those still in need.

I guarantee the biggest heartache was my own for putting an end to this in my own final way.

Chapter 21: Epilogue - The Beginning of the End

Sherlock searched the woman's eyes for everything he needed, and everything he feared he would not receive. He knew that this time searching her soul would not be enough. She would not lower her defenses for him unless he gave her something in return. He could but offer her the one thing he had left to give her: Vulnerability. At length, he implored, "Help me."

Irene nodded slowly and he felt relief wash over him as he saw her walls visibly crumble at her feet. "I'm not playing anymore. I can't. Too much is at stake… for us both. I meant what I said, you're in more danger than I am at the moment."

"Does this mean we're on the same side again?"

"For once," the shorter woman shrugged. Mischief flashed through her vibrant eyes as her smirk widened and she stepped into the man's personal space.

Sherlock hesitated as he felt her body heat and soft, creamy skin press against his. His hands hung in limbo for another second before he wrapped his arms around her slender back. He held her close as she tucked her head beneath his chin. The show of sentiment was uncharacteristic for them both, yet this time it did not feel distant or strange. Instead his mind filled with gratitude to have her in his arms after everything they had been through. That she still cared for him despite the storm around them. The fact that she allowed that sentiment to take physical form meant something to him that he could not put into words. He exhaled and let his thoughts scatter as he reveled in the simple truth instead.

Sherlock didn't want to disrupt the moment that was already frail as glass, but knew that time was not on their side in this wicked game. He pulled back far enough to meet her gaze and cleared his mind. He needed to rein everything in except his brilliant machinery. "You know what he's planning next."

She tilted her head to the side. Her long locks spilled over his hands that still rested against her lower back. The windows to her souls were clear like a cloudless sky and piercing in its perceptiveness. "As do you."

The man nodded as he steered them onward, "The evidence is in the systematic approach. As you said: Norton favours brute strength over brainpower. It makes him relatively easy to read. He hides very little behind a veneer, and elects to hold the entirety of his reprisal on a superficial level."

Irene's voice dropped an octave as she tried to steer him towards the heart of her own concern. "You know he's tried to kill you twice already. Once by running you over, and once with an assassin at Baker Street."

Sherlock stepped back from her embrace and waved off the insinuation. He put some space between them as he sighed, "Yes, yes, I am Norton's next target... I won't underestimate his next move, if that's what you're implying."

A faint smile echoed across her angled features as she crossed her arms over her chest and sat back down on the bed. She seemed at once both relaxed and stiff as a board as she waited on the scale of justice. "You don't like being the pawn, do you?"

"Did you with Moriarty?" he countered with a snort.

"Not the slightest."

Sherlock turned his back to her as he exhaled slowly. He didn't want her to believe he was having doubts. There was but one option ahead, and he had neither regret nor remorse about it. In truth, there was no real decision to make. The man glanced over his shoulder at the woman and hoped his voice conveyed the sincerity of his pledge, "I'll the play the part, Irene. I'll do what necessity requires of me."

A teasing smirk spread on her slim lips as she met his gaze. "… And you'll only object a little."

He bit back his childish dismay and stayed on track. A plan began to take shape inside his mind palace and he needed to sell it, "Let's both play along. Keep the truth between us, in case his scouts overhear or the word inadvertently slips. We both know what Norton intends."

Irene nodded shortly. "My death."

"Which he will not get."

"Meaning he'll try for yours instead."

Sherlock ignored her words this time. The warning was getting rather old, after all. 'Villains' wanted him dead most of the time, wanted to dine with him in the pits of hell, and this was no exception. "He won't have that gratification either. I believe he'll abduct me to get to you."

Something flashed in her cobalt gaze and she rose from the bed to face him. Intrigue and realization danced a waltz in her body language as she took a step towards him. "… And we'll let him."

He inclined his head, grateful to hear she approved of the plan. "Let him believe he has the upper hand. With me as his captive, he'll expect your arrival through the main entrance and leave all other options unguarded before the final confrontation. He's too simple minded to see the bigger picture. I trust you to play the game with all your cleverness and infiltrate his league without trouble. I believe I have a fitting, yet deceivingly simple, disguise for you to get inside; I'll hide it at Baker Street tonight. Use it to work your mischievous wonder and destroy his plans while I… play the damsel."

"This might actually work, Sherlock," Irene spoke, but her voice paradoxically filled with doubt even as she pointed out all the benefits, "We know the location of his hideout already. In fact, I believe Godfrey will keep you close to the evidence he's using to uphold this game. He won't want it far from his sight. If I find it… I could use it as leverage against him."

"That will do fine. Leverage is all we need in the end," the man smiled proudly of the suggestion. "Deprived of his evidence he'll have nothing to bargain with. He'll be a desperate, lone man without protection and lower his guard, easy to take down. No more visceral power to prevent MI6 from action."

"If this doesn't work and he forces my hand to destroy the evidence first, if he doesn't lower his guard… He will shoot you in retaliation," Irene pointed out and Sherlock was surprised to see her wear her heart on her sleeve so plainly. "Then I'll have to shoot him and his henchmen will probably shoot me before MI6 can even bat their eyes."

The man squinted. "We're not aiming for that end, are we?"

"Certainly not," she breathed but the weary tone gave her away.

"Fear is a treacherous rival, Irene. Strip him of substitutable opportunities and he'll have but one alternative: Surrender," he assured but when she lowered her gaze, he closed the short distance between them once more. He needed her to believe in him and remain in her rightful place by his side. There were two options, but he needed them both to believe in the one suggestion that would win them this war. "All will be well in the end."

She flashed him a disarming grin all the sudden and the man was taken aback, "It has to be. We have a wedding to plan."

Sherlock exhaled in amusement and threw her a semi-anxious glare. "I'll talk to mommy when this is all over, I promise."

"The fall wedding that never was…" Irene remarked with a wistful air. "It has a certain ring, doesn't it?"

"Word play?" the man asked as he turned to open the door. They both knew their time was up for now and that things were sorted out for the inevitable feud to come in the days ahead. It was time to resume acting the parts destiny had chosen for them and there was no time like the present to get back to business.

"Not intentional," The woman grinned. As Sherlock raised his foot to step outside, her enthralling voice pulled him back one final time. "For what it's worth, Sherlock… You're quite unique yourself. If you'd been anything less than what and who you are, I would never have cared about you. Regardless of what happens next... we can make it. And after it's over, I'm willing to give whatever this is a real chance."

"I am, too. Besides, you could try to fake your death and run with your tail between your legs again, but that's so last year," Sherlock winked and walked out.

Sherlock pulled himself from the memory with more effort than he wished to admit as his keen ears made out a soft sound behind him. The detective stood by one of his windows, glaring out at the pale world outside. The rain splattered against the window sill and the ground below. He noticed several people rushing to get inside and out of the unexpected chill of the winter rain. He couldn't fathom why anyone would want to escape its fresh sting and cold relief from reality, and envied them as he stood trapped inside.

His gaze lingered on the outside world another second, before he glanced over his shoulder at the stoic figure that lingered in the open doorway to the living room.

Mycroft stood there with an umbrella resting in his left hand. His impeccable suit stood in stark contrast to his younger brother's pj's and navy blue robe. Despite the circumstances, it was Mycroft who hesitated awkwardly in the background. Mycroft Holmes never hesitated. He was like the relentless sea god that controlled the tides and the storms at sea, controlled who lived and who died between his thumb and index finger. Mycroft Holmes was not the hesitant demi-god who took a step back and knelt before the other gods.

Sherlock saw the uncharacteristic flaw but made no motion to put his brother out of his unease. Instead he let the older man sweat as he leisurely turned back to glare at the bad weather outside.

"Five days," he said at length and his voice cut through the tense silence with a sharpened edge.

There was a slight pause before Mycroft's mellow voice replied, "Yes. Five days. I would have come sooner, but I-"

"No more lies."

"Sherlock…" the air filled with the sound of a weary sigh, echoing between the brothers like a ghost to haunt them for eternity. "I've come to-"

"-mend fences."

Mycroft's words seemed to get stuck in his throat before he tried again, this time with a most impassive voice, "Irene Adler has been publicly exonerated. I'll spare you the details for now, but it's over, Sherlock. The police and press have been told a truth that exonerates her and gives her redemption in death. Everyone knows the culprit was Godfrey Norton. I even cleared her name from most of the other charges against her, - true or not - at least those that took place after she joined forces with you."

The words crashed against Sherlock's defences and would have knocked him to his knees if he hadn't been prepared for them. He still barely managed to conceal the emotional tremble that crept into his low, rumbling voice, "Is that your attempt at an apology? It came too late, don't you agree? Emphasis on late. It makes no difference to Irene."

"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?" the voice was filled with bitter disgust, but still the government official mentally knelt with a weary breath, "Very well. I thought she would set your world aflame and leave you burning... I was wrong, Sherlock. Ms Adler clearly held genuine affection for you. In the end, she proved better than all of us. In trying to protect you, I put her in the crossfires. Mea culpa…"

"Yes. Your fault," Sherlock hissed and spun around to face his brother at last. His heart swelled with dismay and fury as he beheld the man and saw the real him. He felt he could see past Mycroft's shining armor and awesome powers. The man that stood before him was worth nothing beneath it all. "The woman deserved more than this."

"Back to the honorific, are we?"

The younger man scoffed and his features darkened at the other man's insolence. "Is this the time?"

Mycroft took pause but soon lowered his gaze in mute reply. Once more, he took a mental step back and knew when not to cross the threshold. Wise, for a fool who'd played all his cards and lost everything along with his younger brother.

"I have but one question," the detective growled and fixed his brother with a piercing glare that none other could hold a candle to. He craved to know this particular truth more than he'd ever wanted to learn anything in the past. "If she'd been wearing a bullet proof vest, would you have shot her in the head instead?"

The older man's eyes flew up to his then and the shock was clear as day. Slowly, Mycroft shook his head and breathed, "… I didn't kill her, Sherlock."

"Didn't you?"

The silence was deafening in response to the hostile inquiry. Evidently, Mycroft still kept some things guarded close to his heart. There would be no more secrets and Sherlock decided to wait him out. It didn't take long before the truth that gnawed at his soul came spilling over Mycroft's lips, "…It was MI6 that pulled the trigger."

The younger detective nodded sharply. To hear the words spoken aloud freed him in a way. His hatred faded into apathy and there was no more words to say. He turned his back on his kin and exhaled heavily, "That's all I needed to learn."

"Sherlock-"

"You know your Shakespeare, brother mine. What has been done, cannot be undone. Leave."

Mycroft didn't wait to be told a second time and Sherlock listened intently to the sound of the man's steps descending the stairs, and eventually walking out of Baker Street and his life. The detective watched the man with the umbrella step into his car and drive away down the grey, narrow street.

There was no compassion, nor remorse ,when it concerned his failing relationship with Mycroft. This was simply the way the world turned for them, and there was no going back this time. Too much water on the bridge had at last collapsed it entirely.

A month passed mysteriously swift for Sherlock. He'd been cooped up in his flat for most of it, with little to no socializing with the outside world. Without his guiding light, he was lost in the dark and had no intention to crawl into the sunlight. He much preferred the cool shadows, where he was safe and out of reach.

Still, some things mattered more and one day he found himself clad in his coat and scarf, standing only a few meters away from a grave. He hadn't been there for the funeral, and he'd never seen the tombstone before either. It was simple and dark-grey, with her name in bold latter written across - IRENE ADLER. The name seemed to blind him like the sun and even when he closed his eyes, he saw the carved letters in the darkness. His mind could not be free of her.

"I didn't think you'd come..."

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to the sound of the voice.

Molly lingered a few feet behind him. John had told him that the woman had been released from the hospital only a few days earlier. Sherlock knew her recovery was going smoothly, despite the grief that had overwhelmed her and everyone else so bluntly. He said not a word as she stepped up to his side and both looked down at the grave.

"I come here every day, you know," the young woman spoke at length, her voice a low rumble of heartache and vulnerability. She held her head high even as the cold breeze swept past their exposed position. "I talk to her. At her... I just miss her."

Sherlock nodded but kept his lips pressed together in a tight line. He couldn't think of any words, and none seemed needed at the time. At length, he managed to at least admit one truth he'd only recently allowed himself to understand, "... I do, too."

Molly hesitated but ultimately her voice carried strong over the breeze. "I know John and everyone else must have told you that it will fade in time. The pain, I mean. The words stem from a will to help... but they don't, do they? They only remind you that the distance to those you've lost will grow with each passing day. The pain doesn't fade in time, only the memory of them. Who wants to be reminded of that in their darkest hour?"

At her words, the man actually allowed himself to smile for the first time in forever. He lowered his head as his fingers twiddled with the flower in his hand. "... She once said we were 'star-crossed lovers'. How true it turned out to be. One star burned too bright, and fell swift and hard. The other, left alone on their heavenly throne, will slowly fade without its companion to shine the way."

"I don't believe that, Sherlock," the woman firmly disagreed even as her voice broke and her hand reached out to clutch his bigger, calloused one. "She loved you. I don't know everything that happened... but I do know that. Whatever she decided and did in the end, it was for you. She may be gone, but her light isn't. I won't let it be, at least... You shouldn't either."

The man processed her words and felt them settle within his heart. The sentiment was enough to move him and he actually had to blink away tears. He took a step forward and raised his hand toward the tomb stone. He placed down the lone, red rose, and it perched there as if on top of the world. It offered some much needed color and light against the dull stone and this time he didn't stop the single tear that rolled down his cheek and left a wet mark.

His fingers lingered another second and he bowed his head. "... Till the next time we meet."

John climbed the steps to 221 B on heavy legs. He'd been by the flat more times than he could count since he'd first received the news of Irene's sudden passing. They'd all been heartbroken and wept for her loss, but he'd shared several tears for his best friend as well. Despite his attempts, he had yet to pull Sherlock from his stupor. The man was cast in such sad iron, nothing seemed able to break the chains of sorrow and remorse that shackled him to Baker Street.

As he neared the entrance, he could hear his friend's voice from above and stopped to listen.

"Hello, mommy," Sherlock's voice feigned a carefree air that nearly fooled John as well. "Nothing's wrong... Except, there won't be a wedding this fall. No, she didn't leave me. Actually... she did. No, she's... never coming back. Yes. I'm fine. I'm fine... I'll talk to you soon. Give my love to dad. Bye."

The room before him fell silent once more and John hesitated on whether or not he ought to leave and come back a better time.

His mind was made up for him, however, as Sherlock spoke up from inside the living room. "I know you're there, John."

The blond man exhaled wearily and stiffly stepped inside to do damage control. With any luck, he'd see traces of real emotion and not impenetrable armor as usual. The sight that met him did take him by surprise.

Sherlock looked... like himself. He was dressed in a sharp suit as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The only clue that everything was not as it seemed was the Vertu phone John caught a glimpse of in the detective's creamy, big hand.

He cleared his throat and chose a more careful approach as he faced his best friend, "Didn't feel like telling them the whole truth?"

Sherlock shrugged as he twiddled with the Vertu. "Not really."

Though he hadn't intended to ask, John couldn't help it as the question poured from his mouth, "I know we've discussed this before, but... are you... okay?"

"Yes," the taller man brushed off with more energy than the previous weeks combined. He still didn't sound quite human, but more like the robot John had first met in the early stages of their friendship. Sherlock held out his hands in a disarming fashion as he cocked his head to the side. "Don't I look fine?"

John frowned and slowly shook his head. "... You don't actually."

"Well, I am," the man insisted petulantly. Seemingly like an afterthought, he added, "Mostly."

"Listen, I know it's wrong to even try and get your hopes up, but... I feel I have to ask," the doctor hesitated and felt this idea might not have been his brightest. Still, the detective stood before him seemingly on the road to recovery, and he wanted to know what had caused this change. "Is she really dead this time? I mean… she's done it a couple of times already. If anyone can fake a believable death, it's her."

He knew he'd made the wrong choice immediately as any trace of character was wiped from the man's face in a heartbeat. Sherlock squared his shoulders and responded mechanically, "You can only fake your own death so many times, John. Eventually it's the real deal… no matter how good you are. The woman is dead. I saw it with my own two eyes."

"She could have tricked you?"

"She didn't," Sherlock's tone was short and frosty. The man paused and glanced down at the Vertu phone before he put it back in its drawer and breathed, "It's easy dying for someone if you care about them…"

"What was that?"

The detective glanced at his friend and hesitated, "It's just… something you told me once."

"What's different, Sherlock?" John asked as he took another step towards his best mate. "After you got the verdict from Mycroft, you closed yourself off in your shell. None of us could get through to you. Did something happen recently that I missed? I only ask... because I care about you. A lot of people do. A lot of people are worried."

"...I went to her grave today."

"Oh?" the doctor blinked. a few times. He felt afraid to move, in case he'd scare his friend back into hiding and so simply inclined his head slowly. "Was it alright?"

"Yeah... I didn't think it would make a difference, but surprisingly I believe it did," Sherlock admitted with a shrug. The simple movement seemed to discard all of his past anxiety and worry but also stripped him bare of sentiment and warmth. It seemed he had opened his heart to enough heartache, and now closed it off once more. Closed everything into a locked room in his mind palace that no one would ever get the key to.

John could see it all so plainly in the man's eyes, and hesitated as he breathed, "... What now?"

"Work," the detective spoke enthusiastically. He stretched tall before he opened up his laptop and pointed down at his inbox. "1,206 emails since The woman's death. Which guarantees at least seven interesting cases good enough to work. With any luck: eight. What do you say?"

"... Work?" the doctor repeated like a parrot. "You just lost-"

"I know," the man's voice was almost threatening before he reined himself in and threw his friend an apologetic glance. "This is what I do, this is who I am."

John bit back his retort. He wanted to tell his friend that there was more to him, that he'd grown and become someone else during the past years. That Irene had helped shape him into someone stronger and warmer. This wasn't the time or place to confront him with this. There was still a trace of that man beneath the surface, John knew.

Irene would always be the only woman for Sherlock Holmes, that much was certain. Though there'd never be another one, Sherlock had friends who would never abandon him. He'd be alright, eventually. For now, if he needed to lose himself in intricate cases and murder...

"I'm in," the blond man sighed with an encouraging nod. Sherlock had a point, perhaps. This was what they did best, after all, and perhaps it was time to return to that.

Sherlock positively beamed and seemed to heal another fraction at his friend compassionate reassurance. "Thank you. Work is, after all, the best antidote to sorrow, John... The game is on, my friend. The game is on."

The End.