AN: Yes, it's the final chapter! I have been spurred into action by irish gal 2's lovely review, and though I've had it half-finished-but-I'm-not-sure-if-I-like-how-it-ends-and-is-that-too-cheesy-or-does-this-even-make-sense for a while now, that review gave me the kick up the arse I needed! Lazy, laaaaazy B.

Also I've been writing a cheeky bit of angsty AU on the side - it's an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind fic called 'Stranger' and it's currently four chapters in.

So, enjoy this final chapter, and let me know what you think, as always! News about the sequel at the end. - B.

A thick, small panel of double-glazed glass was all that stood between Dr. John Watson and his friend, who inhabited the pool room, begging that his friend be returned in the most forceful tones he could muster.

"What are you waiting for?" Sherlock Holmes inquired to the dark galleries above, his arms at his side, as he span slowly around, surveying the gallery above where he stood in the vain hope that he would see a face through the inky blackness. "You asked me here – I've done my bit. Where are you?" He called out, his face as steely and his eyes silver, as if he were totally constructed from metal – malleable, and breakable, but strong. John thought he was strong, anyway.

He hoped he was, or he wouldn't be able to stoically cope with what was about to happen.

John's legs carried him reluctantly through the door, his shoes making echoing clicking noises on the tiles, like the ticking of a clock counting down. It was hideous to even walk, but not as hideous as to see; to see Sherlock's face when he saw that the man who had brought him here – his nemesis – was apparently his best friend.

John stared ardently; he would have gaped in surprise, if only he could have. Sherlock's face twisted into a sad expression: anger, ruined hope, betrayal, and hurt scrawled their ugly signatures across his features in an instant. His mouth turned down at the corners, open slightly with the knowledge that he should say something, but ignorance of what exactly he could say. His eyebrows rose, and arched together slightly, displaying his inner turmoil and anguish.

John observed that, for a moment, he appeared to be shaking . . . But then it was gone. The whole expression of weakness was obliterated, and his face was the Holmesian alloy it usually was – even stronger, more hardened than usual, in the face of the perceived betrayal.

John wanted to be sick. He wanted to run to Sherlock, and simultaneously run away. He wanted to scream, and beg, and plead. He didn't feel much like a soldier, weighed down by the many pounds of Semtex adorning the vest he'd put on seemingly willingly.

John felt himself smiling.

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?" His mouth said, his tongue wrapping gleefully around the syllables, eager to say the treacherous words.
"Doctor Watson," Sherlock acknowledged, and it broke John's heart that he'd been downgraded from his previous level of familiarity to this, this . . . Ignominy, just like that.
"Bet you didn't see this coming," John's face smiled, and he removed his hands from his pockets. "What would you like me to say next?"

He unzipped the parka he was wearing, and saw Sherlock's eyes widen as a sniper site settled on the bomb he'd just revealed to the consulting detective. He saw the man consider what to say; saw the bulky shape of his own Browning in his pocket, and drew his own conclusions.

He drew the gun, and aimed in squarely at John's head. His eyes narrowed, and he took aim, as John continued to smirk, his facial muscles twitching in glee.

John paid close attention to what he was now saying, though he hated every word of it; it pained him as much as the physical torture he'd endured so far today:
"You didn't think I'd every do anything like this, did you? Stupid Doctor Watson, he'll follow me around forever, like a worthless dog, always at my beck and call . . . How does it feel to be wrong, Sherlock?"
"What do you want, Watson?" Sherlock asked, bringing his second hand up to support the first with his demand.
"To stop you. Stop your heart – you see, if this bomb goes off, I'll live. I'll be in pieces, but I'll survive, and I'll have one of my men up there collect the pieces of my body and bring me back. You, however – you're not getting out of this one, Sherlock," He spat.

That was the final straw: if John could do anything to get out of this, he would. He just hoped Sherlock would notice what he was doing, and understand. He deliberately began to blink: a methodical pattern – Morse code. The most commonly used, well-known phrase he could manage, so that Sherlock couldn't miss it, under normal circumstances. John prayed that he hadn't deleted any information about Morse code from his hard drive.

There was a long pause. John hoped it was working, but he couldn't be sure, as Sherlock's furtive glances at his face were short-lived. It was almost as if he couldn't bring himself to look John in the eye, which worked against the former soldier's plan spectacularly . . . But there was always a chance.

. . . Yes! Sherlock finally summoned the strength to stare into John's eyes, as he had at the observatory, and John made sure he got a whole repeat pattern done in the small amount of time they connected eyes.

Please, Sherlock. Please realise that it isn't me. He's going to get away with it. Please, Sherlock . . .

. . . SOS . . .

. . . John, are you . . . Is that – an SOS?
Yes!
You're being controlled.
Yes, Sherlock – I'm so sorry, I should have been more careful -
Not your fault. Stick to the plan, and I'll try and get him out of your head.

With that, the sleuth began to look visibly distracted, at least to John, who was looking intently for signs that he was going to give them away. In reality, he reasoned, the occasional twitch of an eyebrow with concentration both on the conversation and the mental navigation was probably not easily noticed.

"Oh, really? . . . Well, if I'm not getting out of here alive . . ." Sherlock replied calmly, suddenly connecting with the right mind, just in time.

Then why don't you come out and face me yourself?

"Oh, good! Very good!" Cried an Irish voice from behind John, whose eyes desperately tried to turn all the way round in his head in the vain hope of trying to see the man who had captured and was now controlling him.
"Leave him out of it – he's insignificant," Sherlock indicated his blogger with his head, swivelling to aim the Browning at the man who had just entered the room.
"Insignificant? . . . Then why are you so concerned? You should have seen your face, Sherlock," He laughed, pretending to wipe away a tear of jubilation.
"Let him go, then we talk," Sherlock demanded.
"Don't be silly. Someone else is controlling him," The Irishman told him, tilting his head to the side. Sherlock noticed that his hands were in his pockets; he looked carless, almost as if he didn't really care what happened next. "Jim Moriarty, since you didn't ask – who knew that taking your pet away would make you so tetchy?" Asked Moriarty in mock-annoyance, sidling up top Sherlock. "But seriously, Sherlock – you don't recognise me? . . . I came and visited you . . . When you were feeling a bit poorly," He made an exaggerated unhappy face, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

He looked down at the shorter man's face, but still, he didn't recognise him.

"I made such a fleeting impression, didn't I?" Moriarty considered in a silky tone of voice, as he drew nearer.
"Perhaps if you'd wanted my full attention," Sherlock growled through gritted teeth, "You wouldn't have made me sick,"
"Oh no, no no! That was the point, you see! I didn't want you to suffer, and not be there to see it! – I knew you'd test it out, Sherlock. Test to see if I was being serious, and what I could do to you if you went against my orders. Looks like curiosity killed the cat this time, didn't it?"
"So is that it, then? You sense when others are using their powers? . . . Or you make people sick, like at the hospital? Or you send false thoughts into my head, like when-"
"Like when you thought Doctor Watson wanted to jump you? Yes, that one was particularly funny – I mean, they all were, but that kiss – hilarious! I'll treasure the CCTV footage forever,"
"What's your power?" Sherlock insisted loudly. The pauses between the words were filled with impotent rage, which only intensified with Moriarty's antagonistic smirk.
"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty muttered, leaning in to whisper into his ear with a malicious smile, "One of these days I'll tell you, Sherlock . . . But not today,"

He quickly turned around, and snapped his fingers. John perceptibly relaxed, his face falling from the perpetually sinister expression he'd worn as a puppet to the expression of worry and anger and fear he'd been forced to hide all this time.

John?

Sherlock called out quietly to his friend, trying to see whether his mind had been damaged by whoever had been controlling him, but all he saw was relief and fear: oxymoronically opposed feelings, simultaneously felt by the doctor, as he moved his gaze between the detective and the criminal.

I'm fine. Stop him.

"How can you be so sure you'll survive today? – What if I were to shoot you now?" Sherlock asked the criminal, who turned around with an amused glint in his dead eyes.
"Then you'd get to treasure my look of surprise," He paused, turning around sharply like a model at the end of a catwalk. He misshaped his face so that his eyes were two shining chasms, and his mouth a third, but darker; infinitely dark . . . "Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock. I really would, because you secretly loved it, didn't you? . . . The game? Despite the rules, and the humiliation, and how very naughty I was being – it was built for you. And you loved it,"
"But what was the point?" Sherlock asked, anguish momentarily claiming his face, as his complete bafflement of why Moriarty would even target him in such a way overcame his bravado.
"To get your attention . . . And warn you,"
"Against what?"
"Let me finish! – So impatient!" Moriarty tutted, and Sherlock shifted where he stood, completely uncomfortable by now, and looking to John every few seconds.
"I'm going to make you an offer, Sherlock,"
Sherlock snorted: "What, an offer I can't refuse?" He asked sarcastically, exploiting one of the only pieces of pop culture he had stored in his hard drive. John raised his eyebrows for a minute.
"Mmm, something like that . . . Join me," Jim offered, one eyebrow raising; a boast, if ever Sherlock's wide eyes had seen one.
". . . Why on Earth-" He began, but was cut off.
"Because you get bored. Don't you? Very, very bored, in your boring life, with your boring friends," Jim spat the last word, as if the word itself were poisonous, his eyes narrowing and flicking to John. "Come and play the game, Sherlock. We can play it forever . . ."

Sherlock stood, completely rigid, his mouth opening and closing, wondering what to make of the offer. He found himself tempted, despite all the awful things the man and his organisation had done, just to investigate, to just, to see what it was like . . . From the other side . . .

Sherlock, you're better than that. You don't have to do anything like that.

Sherlock's eyes shot to John, whose head was shaking from side to side slowly. His eyes were sad, not angry. Sherlock cursed himself internally for even considering the offer; for disappointing his blogger. He'd been kidnapped by Moriarty, and probably beaten or tortured, too, and now Sherlock was considering working for the man. He wasn't an expert, but he was pretty sure friendship didn't work like that.

"People have died," Sherlock pointed out to the criminal mastermind, by way of an answer.
"That's what people do!" Moriarty all but screamed, anger flaring up in his black-hole eyes. Both Sherlock and John flinched, the former almost accidentally squeezing the trigger in the process. He thought, bitterly, that John would never have made such a rookie error, if he were the one holding the firearm.

". . . And if I don't?" Sherlock asked quietly, looking at the floor. "What if I don't join you? What happened then? To me, and – and John?" He asked, tentatively.

Anger washed in a second from formerly-furious eyes, as Moriarty stroked his chin in mock-consideration.
"Well, Sherlock, I said I'd give you a warning, too – but you've already had one of those, haven't you?"
"What do you mean?"
". . . Andrew West? – Care to enlighten John about what it means when Mycroft offers you the Andrew West case?"
"How did you-" Sherlock spluttered.
"I have a team of super-powered criminals, Sherlock. Though we don't have a mind reader – yet – we certainly have a lot of thugs," Explained the consulting criminal.

Sherlock sighed, and dragged his eyes up to meet John's inquisitive gaze.
"A long time ago, when I first began working as a consulting detective , Mycroft worried that I would endanger myself, so . . . We agreed that whenever he foresaw that I would be in a situation where I could potentially die, he would offer me an ersatz case – Andrew West isn't a murder victim, John. It's code, for you might die," Sherlock explained in a low, quiet voice, and broke eye contact.
"-Warning enough, don't you think?" Moriarty said,

John paused for a moment, before frowning and trying to once again initiate eye contact with Sherlock; the sleuth appeared too ashamed to look at him anymore, or too distracted with his decision.

So . . . You continued with the case . . . You came here, even though you thought you might die?
. . . He had you, John. What was I supposed to do?

"Ooh, are you having one of your little conversations?" Moriarty asked with a gleeful expression; it immediately dropped, replaced by the angry one of earlier, temperamentally changing on a knife edge, as he told them in a hollow, deathly voice: "That means you've broken the rules,"

John gasped, and immediately Sherlock knew something was wrong. He looked down, and sure enough, he had a sniper site to match his friend's, emblazoned on his chest. Slowly, creeping, it moved silently to his head. He lowered his gun, and looked up, as if he thought he could see the dreadful thing from that angle.

"So, what's it going to be, Sherlock? Are you going to come with me, or are you going to stay and get killed?"

There was no choice in it; none at all. When he looked at John, and saw his minute shake of the head, his decision was made for him. How could he say yes, after all the time his blogger had saved his life? After all the times he'd killed for him?

But then how could he say no? He'd witnessed all the horrible things Moriarty could do to him if he chose to disobey: the criminal's sinister countenance communicated that they were mere child's play, compared to what he would do this time around. But death was final, and it would certainly be quick, by gun or by bomb. John would live on – he had more than a little faith in the doctor, when it came to catching Moriarty. He would never die in the course of his investigation, so he was the perfect man for the job.

And that was it. He resigned himself:
"I refuse. I will never work for you, but I will catch you. And if you kill me now, John will hunt you down. Either way, we'll stop you . . . So if you're going to kill me, do it now,"

The face of the criminal because wholly unreadable. With interest, he tilted his head to the side, and focussed on the gun still in Sherlock's weakened hand. His eyes flicked up to the sleuth's, and saw that they were shut in anticipation.

So, slowly, he smiled.
"Mmm . . . No,"

Sherlock lifted his head, and opened his eyes in pure surprise.
"No, no! Too obvious . . . You deserve something else – something worse," Moriarty turned around, and began to walk casually out of the room, sidling as if he were taking a stroll through the countryside. He reached the door, without saying anything else, until he finally turned around, allowing his eyes to linger on Sherlock, and then to John, and back to Sherlock again:
"Sherlock Holmes . . . I will burn you . . . I will burn, the heart out of you,"
"The fifth pip?" Sherlock called, with a frown.
"Oh, it's coming, Sherlock . . . You'll be hearing from me again, very soon . . . But right now?"

He paused dramatically, just before he disappeared, along with his snipers and henchmen, in the blink of an eye; teleported out, Sherlock's experience told him, while John remained simply baffled.

However, the criminal mastermind left them with one parting sentiment:
". . . I've got to see a man about a dog,"

He winked, and was gone, far away in darkness and distance.

AN: Ta-daaa! Right, then. About the sequel. Until the 29th May, I have exams to revise for and sit, so I shan't be starting on the EPIC Hound AU until then, aside from perhaps a prolgue but I can't promise anything more. Thanks for your understanding.

I may update this to tell you when the sequel's been put up, or you can put me on author alert.

Once again, thanks for being so faithful and reading this! It's been a lot of fun to write, so far.

Cheers! R&R - B.

P.s. The final part of this series - a collection of oneshots from different characters offering their perspective on this universe's version of 'The Reichenbach Fall' - is now available on my profile, under the name 'The End'. Thanks for sticking with the series!