A/N: By the way, to explain a bit, there are three people. Holmes, Watson, and the villian. When Holmes says "Him" he doesn't automatically mean one or the other. He switches alot.

I cannot believe that it has come to this. There must be some mistake. This cannot be how it ends. I will not be the cause of his end. Of my end. For if one is ended, surely the other must follow. For I cannot imagine a life knowing that he is not in it. I guess I might just find out how he felt at Reichenbach. But even then, he cannot have borne this sort of guilt. I sent him away. There was nothing he could do. This has come entirely and squarely down upon my shoulders. If this is to be our end, it will be solely upon me that the blame rests.

How was I to know of it? That a chase through the alleys of London would cumulate here, in a standoff beneath the streets. How was I to possibly know that two hundred pounds of stolen dynamite would be found in the hands of such a maniac? I couldn't have possibly known. But I was supposed to. It was my job to know. And I failed. Now he must pay the price for my failures. It is not fair. He has done nothing wrong! Yet, he is the one to pay.

I have never hated a man so much in my life as I hate him right now. He stands there so smugly, fingers on the hair-trigger of a dead man's switch. He stands there knowing that he has backed me into a corner. That he has backed both of us into a corner. How are we to get out of this one? And he stands there, so calmly, watching me with that complete trust in his eyes. Knowing that I will somehow find a way out of there. I cannot! There is no way out! The devil has gone and cut off all possible escape routes.

My hands are trembling. The gun is heavy with the weight of the world. I cannot do this. There is no way that I can do this. But there is no way that I cannot. He has won. Either one man dies, or all London will be in flames. Anyone would make that decision in a heartbeat. Spare the populace. What is one man in the face of such a holocaust? Yet I cannot make that decision. I cannot choose which is the lesser evil. Many lives are indeed a heavy burden. Especially when compared to the life of a middle-aged widower. The world would scoff at him. 'Such a man is surely not worthy of such a high cost!' But who would be? What the world fails to see, I do. Such a man is an inspiration to others. He heals the sick and tends the broken, often refusing payment. He puts up with the worst behavior from a roommate with nothing but a sigh. A more patient and long-suffering man I have never met. What the world doesn't know about such a man is the way that he takes his morning tea. Before eight he always adds two scoops of sugar and after eight it is only one. His morning tea is accompanied by a slice of toast with marmalade. This is what makes him human. Without knowing how he takes his morning tea, the world simply sees him as a number. One versus thousands. But then you think of how he has a roommate, friends, a landlady. He has a client list the length of a city block. He is worthy of more than just a brush-off from the world.

But the question is, is he worthy of a thousand lives? I think so, but then, I may be a bit biased. But there is no one else to make such as choice, so it must be me. I think he is worth a thousand Londons. For there is no one quite like him in the whole world.

The villain is tapping his foot. He looks impatiently at me. I must decide quickly. The choice is a difficult one, not to be underestimated. On the one hand, I shoot him. The villain lets me and London live, so he claims. On the other hand, I refuse. All of London burns. We would probably end up dead anyway, in the ensuing chaos. Even so, I would rather chance it than shoot him.

All the escapes have been blocked. I shoot to wound; he releases the dead man's switch. I shoot him; he releases the dead man's switch. I hesitate too long; he releases the dead man's switch. The only way to avoid that eventuality is to shoot him. Shoot the one man who's put up with my violin playing at three in the morning. The one man who hasn't complained of my smoking fits and black depressions other than a request that I open the window and not set the house on fire.

"Holmes."

I look up. He is looking at me. Still with that look of absolute trust. But now determination is there as well. He knows what is coming. What has to come. He can see it in my eyes that I have no way out. He faces it standing tall, a soldier to the end. He can see the good bye and the regret, sorrow, grief, guilt, and loss in my eyes. I can see it mirrored in his. This truly is the end.

I raise the gun and point it at my dearest friend in the world. It is a trade that I do not relish. I hope London knows what was sacrificed for her. I sight down the gun, seeing the determination, acceptance, and peace in his face.

I take a deep breath, and squeeze the trigger.