esmelocked: by the time you had reviewed chapter 29, I had already uploaded chapter 30. Fast enough for you?

And here is the final chapter of this story! FINALLY! Sorry it took so long and thank you so much for being here for me and my story this entire time!

There will be an epilogue after this. I will post it as a new story but it will only be one chapter. However, if anyone has any requests I can add them to that new epilogue story.

But first! More random speculation:

At the beginning of 'The Reichenbach Fall', Sherlock receives diamond cuff links and a tie pin as gifts for solving crimes. He says he doesn't "wear ties" and all his "cuffs have buttons".

Jim uses a diamond to break into the Crown Jewels case, and wears a tiepin on his tie when he meets with Sherlock.

Probably just a coincidence, but…

And also, in 'The Hounds of Baskerville' Sherlock says Mycroft's name "literally opens doors" and they use Mycroft's access to get into the lab. Then next episode, Jim is talking about "in a room of locked doors the man with the key is king".

Maybe Jim wasn't talking about himself, but instead about Mycroft. Especially because he also told Sherlock "your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to do".

In 'The Great Game' Jim's crimes were violent, killing and kidnapping people. However, in 'The Reichenbach Fall' all he did was pretend to try to steal, didn't actually take anything, go quietly to jail and court, and then later only kidnap but not kill the Bruhl children and threaten to have people killed but not actually kill them. The only people who really died were hitmen, not innocent civilians.

What if while Jim was captured by Mycroft, Mycroft tricked him into thinking that he hated Sherlock, pretended to hire him to kill Sherlock and set him free giving him permission and help to commit some crimes as long as no one was hurt. Meanwhile, Mycroft actually warned Sherlock about all that and then helped him fake his death. That way, Mycroft could get whatever information he wanted from Jim, and control him, and then have him 'take care' of himself by telling Sherlock how to create a situation in which Jim would have to commit suicide.

I'm not sure why this plan would need John not to know about it, but in 'The Great Game' scene in the lab it looked like both John and Jim had the same watch which may have had something to do with the military.

Or Maybe Mycroft never trusted John as much as Sherlock did, and ever since John was Jim's hostage he suspected that the two may have been working together but Sherlock just cared too much about John to even consider that. Maybe when Mycroft was telling John about all the assassins on Baker Street, he wasn't actually warning him but instead accusing him or trying to gage if John knew more about the situation than he was letting on. He did ask John "anything you care to share with me?" and "if not Moriarty, than who?"

Faking Sherlock's death could be the way that Sherlock and Mycroft settled if John could really be trusted or not, determining it from John's reaction to and behavior after Sherlock's 'death'.

I actually had plans for a fic about all that, but I decided not to start it since there is no way I could finish it before the next series airs and blows it out of the water with canon anyway.

Now onto the last chapter! It's a bittersweet one, and more bitter than sweet. Sorry.

Ludmila Dyachenko, a hitwoman from Russia who moved to London six months ago in search of keycode that her government could use to finally triumph against the capitalist Western powers (mainly the US and the UK), had moved into the flat across the street from 221b Baker Street (which she was able to buy cheap because it had been blown up two years before and so was damaged).

Having done so now had become pointless because not only was Sherlock Holmes dead and so no longer living across the street, someone had also released the code to the public making it useless because anyone could use it.

And so now Ludmila was stuck in England, hiding from her bosses because she had failed her mission, and on her way down Baker Street towards the nearest grocery store where she had gotten a job.

The sun was rising, orange but faint behind layers of gray clouds, pushing up and away the dark blue night. Most of the city was still a sleep, but every so often a car or person would putter by as Ludmila made her way to work.

Suddenly, one such car or person emerged from an alleyway like a long shadow.

He was a man, but not an average human-being. He stood towering and imposing in front of Ludmila, at least seven feet tall and dressed entirely in black.

The Golem.

(Ludmila recognized him by of his very recognizable size, as all hitpeople knew of each other.)

She reached for her gun instinctively, but realized she had stopped carrying it ever since the other two hitmen on Baker Street had been shot and she'd gotten a job at the grocery store.

Seeing her empty hand, The Golem smiled.

Seeing his smile, Ludmila turned to run.

She managed to sprint two steps before The Golem's long arms extended and caught her by the neck.

Instantly they began to squeeze. Ludmila could feel her face heat up as she was unable to breath. Her lung gasped for air that wasn't there. Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

She never had the chance to scream.

Doyle the criminal who had tried (and failed) to rob the Bank of England, managed to pay his boss back (with the help of James Moriarty (and not the one who had set him up in the first place)) and get back into said boss's 'good graces'.

He returned to working as the boss's second-in-command, committing whatever crimes he was ordered to without any problems (problems usually going by the name 'Jim Moriarty') and so all was right with the world…

…right?

Wrong!

Doyle had a one final problem. That final problem was that he knew Jim Moriarty was indeed real and so not an actor. Meaning, by logical deduction, that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud.

This was also a problem for Sherlock Holmes.

Which was why the 'fraud detective criminal' Sherlock Holmes hired a solution. A solution named Oscar Dzundza, more infamously known as 'The Golem'.

The Golem found the next 'loose end' on his list, Joseph Doyle, meeting with his unnamed secret boss in a residential neighborhood. It was mid-morning and most of the houses had been emptied by the occupants who'd already gone to work. The Golem found the one house where two people lived and were still inside, taking the back door completely off its hinges (setting off the home security system) and rushed inside.

He found his target in the sitting room, standing up from the armchair he'd been seated in across from his boss, an elderly woman who happened to be his mother, a table of still steaming tea between them.

Doyle pulled out his gun and pointed it at the intruder. His was big and had a silencer.

So did his unnamed secret boss (who remained in her armchair). Hers was purse-sized.

"Who sent you?!" Doyle demanded, "What do you want?!"

Golem said nothing.

"Whatever they're paying you, we'll pay more." His mother offered.

Golem said nothing.

Today was a day of firsts for The Golem.

Earlier that morning, he'd killed his first Russian (and, being Polish, he'd always wanted to kill a Russian) and now he would kill the oldest person he had ever killed (so as not to leave a witness) as well as two women in one day.

Again, Golem smiled. He always did before killing. (Oscar Dzundza, however, did not…)

"Last chance…" Doyle warned.

"Just shoot him." His mother ordered.

Golem said nothing.

Mother and son both shot.

They were thieves, not shooters, and so their aim was little-practiced and imperfect. Golem absorbed the bullets hitting his chest with the bullet proof vest he was wearing under his black clothing, bending backwards but not even fall.

Child and parent started aiming for his head, then, emptying their respective guns into the floral wallpaper behind The Golem.

"The security system is on." The old woman reminded, "The police will be here very soon."

Her son, in burst of adrenaline, rushed much larger man as his mother shouted "No!". He was grabbed and quickly choked in front of her.

When Golem dropped the limp Doyle to the ground, dead, the old woman sat in her armchair and waited, patient and polite, for her turn.

She didn't put up a fight.

The halfhearted light the late morning sun, obscured behind gray clouds, trickled in through the woven basket-like window of the mosque.

It fell on a robed, praying man, alone and on his knees. A curving sword hung on his belt.

He had been a part of an organization that had attempted to assassinate both Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. (They wanted to kill Sherlock Holmes because he had discovered that it was they, under the direction of a Pakistani Intelligence office, were responsible for the murder of an Indian embassy worker. They wanted to kill Irene Adler because she had slept with their leader's first wife.) And much like the Ludmila Dyachenko, he was in hiding from his former brothers for failing his mission to kill Sherlock Holmes.

He thought he was 'off the hook', now, because Sherlock Holmes had publically committed suicide, however he still knew that the detective was not a fraud and so remained 'on the hook'.

The praying man did not notice the tall figure, whose shadow was sliced symmetrically by the crisscrossing window light, approach slowly and silently behind him. He didn't even have time to draw his sword before the giant hands were wrapped around his neck.

His prayers did not save him.

"So, Mr. Holmes…have you decided whether you're going to have me killed or not yet?"

Mycroft Holmes stood (for what he hoped was the last time) in front of the (second only to his little brother Sherlock) biggest headache of his life, Jim Moriarty.

The insane criminal sat comfortable and confident in a wheelchair, smirking up at Mycroft.

Only hours before Jim had been silent and surrendering, shot in multiple places he was weak and in pain, not making any attempts at escaping the apartment building prison (which was soon to be demolished) or undermining the operations here.

Now, Mycroft could tell just from looking at his face, that Jim had a plan.

"Not yet." Mycroft smiled, politely but grudgingly, "I just came up here to check on you…and apparently Miss Hooper, too, I see."

He glanced the same polite (but not as grudging) over at Molly (who was supposed to be locked downstairs in Anthea's office) who smiled politely and awkwardly in return from where she'd tried to hide behind the window curtain when she heard the sound of Mycroft's voice (and the voice of the guard he'd come up with) from outside the room.

"Please, Mr. Holmes, you don't have to kill Jim." She requested, (pleading in hopes of sympathy but rational, as well, in hopes of respect for her recommendation), "You can see he's not a dangerous anymore, he's in a wheelchair. He's not going to try to escape and neither am I."

"You and I both know, Miss Hooper, that the danger of Mr. Moriarty is not his body." Mycroft countered, "It is his mind."

Jim smirked at this and Molly eyes dropped from their level with Mycroft to stare at the ground, acknowledging that he was right and she had been…well, lying really, as she knew the truth about Jim.

She hoped Mycroft didn't notice the dead body of the fellow prisoner Jim had strangled to death that was 'sleeping' on the couch and currently out of sight.

Mycroft turned away from Molly back to Jim.

"Your brother had abandoned you here." He announced, smugly, "He had an army of private military soldiers under his command and still neglected to break or bargain you out of my custody. So, were I you, I wouldn't expecting any help from him—in fact, I wouldn't be expecting to ever see him again. It seems he is done with you, 'Jim'."

"My brother has been 'done' with me before, 'Mr. Holmes'," Jim laughed dismissively, "In fact, two times just within the last year he's tried to cut all ties with me. But he always comes 'crawling back'. I don't care either way, he's only ever bother to me…but 'were I you', I would be expecting a surprise attack by that 'army of private military soldiers' very soon—while you're weak and not anticipating it."

"Even if that does occur, your brother and his people will return here to find a deserted pile of rubble." Mycroft reasoned, shrugging, "This prison is set to be emptied and demolished by twelve this afternoon. We're moving."

"And does 'we' include us, too?" Jim questioned, gesturing to himself and Molly, "Or are you going to leave me and Molly here to be demolished along with the building? Solve your little 'me' problem that way?"

"I honestly haven't decided yet." Mycroft admitted, matter-of-factly.

And with that, he turned and exited the room, closing the door behind him (and instructing the black-suited guard outside not to leave his post until the last possible moment before the building was torn down) and leaving the couple alone.

"So he just left us here to wait, not knowing what he's going to do to you," Molly commented, coming away from the window towards Jim, "That's so…cruel."

Jim chuckled, "I've always admired Mycroft for that. He's less interesting than Sherlock, being part of the 'establishment' and all—or, rather, being the establishment, but he's more natural than his little brother in that aspect. Any cruelty from Sherlock is accidental, for a specific purpose, or provoked; burning and emotional. Mycroft does it by default and principle. He's just cold."

"Then why hasn't he had you killed yet?" Molly inquired.

"Because I think he enjoys seeing me like this." Jim suspected, slyly, "Weak and 'defeated'. In physical and emotional pain. I think he'll keep me like this as long as he can, just to watch. He's got to get his rocks off somehow, after all."

Molly cringed, and then dismissed Jim's last sentence.

"So he'll let you live…for now, at least?" she interpreted the rest of what he'd said.

"For now." Jim nodded, "…but not for long."

"I'm going home." John had told Lestrade, "It's been a long month."

(Sherlock is alive.)

But when he'd left the headquarters of private-military firm instead of trekking (or taking a taxi) back to his sister's house where he had been staying for the past aforementioned "long month", he found, before he'd even consciously realized it, that his footsteps had taken him the familiar journey home to Baker Street.

(Sherlock is alive.)

He stood in front of the door to 221, for a long time, looking up at the curtained window of its b flat.

(Sherlock is alive.)

He knew Sherlock was somehow alive (despite having jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital), and almost expected to see his silhouette in the window (even though he knew that Sherlock was still at Mycroft's apartment prison).

(Sherlock is alive.)

It was early morning, the sun had not yet begun to rise behind the clouds and John had been awake all night. He wanted to go 'home' (home where? His sister's place…or here?) and just sleep.

(Sherlock is alive.)

When he slept, he didn't have to think (oh, but he did, he had dreams—nightmares; the same ones he'd had about the war, he'd had about Sherlock).

(Sherlock is alive.)

Sherlock watched John from a little ways down the sidewalk and across the street. It was still dark enough for him to follow John unnoticed, but soon it wouldn't be and he would have to face him again—or face having him walking away from him again.

Had John realized that he was followed? Did he know he was being watched?

Maybe he had noticed, and assumed it was one of Mycroft's employees…

…or maybe had noticed and known it was Sherlock and so ignored him purposefully.

Sherlock had lost his only friend once—permanently—and for so long after he had refused to have any real friends at all, just people he paid and people who paid him; professional relationships and antagonistic relationships (his older brother included among that category, with the rabble of criminals Sherlock had caught (and Donovan and Anderson)). It was better this way.

However, when Sherlock had met John, moved in with him, invited him to help with his cases—when he had felt the friendship sneak up on him and, instead of hurrying away or preemptively striking it to scare it off the way he always had, he let it pounce and hoped that it wouldn't hurt him—and that he wouldn't hurt it. Wouldn't hurt John.

But he had.

And, once again, Sherlock had lost his only friend.

(It would be so easy just to blame Moriarty for everything. Easy and right. It was all Jim Moriarty's fault…but blaming Moriarty wouldn't fix things between Sherlock and John.)

Sherlock had lost his only friend again, yes…but this time did it have to be permanent? Or could Sherlock find some way to regain John's trust and friendship?

Sherlock had noticed that walking away, too shocked and angry to remember his psychosomatic limp, John had started to limp again on his way out of the skyscraper. It was unconscious, just like his journey back to the home he'd avoided since Sherlock's 'death', and it gave Sherlock a sense of hope he knew would be evaluated by the average person (or a psychologist) as sick, selfish and manipulative.

But if John was limping again and back to Baker Street, Sherlock deduced (hoped) that it couldn't be long until John was limping back to him so he could walk again.

And Sherlock was always right.

(Sherlock is alive.)

John returned to the secret government prison hidden in the apartment building under construction only to see prisoners in orange jumpsuits being escorted out by employees in black suits, put into black vans and driven away into the morning towards wherever Mycroft's new secret prison was. Other employees removed computers, paper files, and confiscated items from the building to either be stored somewhere else or destroyed.

A few other black-suited fiddled with the construction equipment, trying to get the crane with the wrecking-ball to turn on and figure out how to use it, so they could demolish the building beside it. As he was being marched out of the apartment building by two men in black suits, the bald hitman stationed to kill Mrs. Hudson had Sherlock not 'committed suicide', who also happened to be a construction worker as a 'day job', offered to help them. Warily, the government employees, guns drawn, allowed the Australian hitman to help.

John could see Anthea standing in the midst of this hurried disassembly of the prison, 'directing traffic'. She was shouting orders and gesturing with her hands, free because of her lack of smartphone. (She didn't really need to be doing this, of course, the employees knew what they had to do…Anthea just didn't know what to do with herself without her lost technology.)

John could also see Lestrade wandering around, looking as if he didn't know what to do with himself either but attempting to look as if he had a reason to be there.

Seeing John, both Anthea and Lestrade started towards him, following him into the apartment building prison when he didn't immediately acknowledge their presences. Not offended at being ignored, they were relieved to find something better to do than what they had been by talking to (or at) him.

Because they had all gone inside the building, they did not see Sherlock enter the surrounding construction site.

In the main hallway of ground floor John found Mycroft exiting the room that had formerly been his office, instructing the employees moving his things to "be careful". Once the employees had filed away with the boxes of files, John approached Mycroft.

"Where is Sherlock?" he demanded, "I need to talk to him."

"Sherlock is where he always is." Mycroft informed, "You only need to turn around."

At that John blinked in surprise at first, and then slowly turned around.

He saw Lestrade and Anthea idling there awkwardly, for finally being noticed by John, and then shrugging confusedly in response to Mycroft's words as neither of them were Sherlock.

Shaking his head, John had already turned halfway back around when he saw a familiar flash of black coat, waving like a flag in the breeze, out of the corner of his eye. His eyes, head, and body turned instantly towards the source of the sight.

Sherlock stepped, almost sheepishly, through the front doorway he'd been standing in.

Lestrade, who had been told that Sherlock was somehow alive (despite having jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital), still gaped in shock at actually seeing him there, living and breathing.

He and Anthea moved off to each side of the long hall, giving Sherlock room to continue towards John.

But Sherlock remained where he was in front of the doors.

A safe distance away, as if he was afraid that if he came any closer John would leave again. No, not 'as if'. He was actually afraid. Terrified.

And so Sherlock remained where he was in front of the doors. Blocking the exit.

"John…" he began, as he had before. What else could he say?

John remained where he was as well.

He sighed. There was almost—almost—a smile in it, nostalgic because he realized that Sherlock had been shadowing him again.

"How long have you been following me?" John asked.

"From the start." Sherlock answered.

And then they were silent for a moment, recalling better times between them.

(Anthea, Lestrade and Mycroft just standing there, awkwardly, like the third, fourth and fifth wheels of a bicycle.)

Finally Mycroft cleared his throat, causing everyone's eyes to jerk in his direction.

"As touching as this reunion is, we do still have one problem." he interrupted, "The very problem that had it not been for, all of us would not be standing here. I think you all know who I am referring to."

"Jim Moriarty." John and Sherlock identified, in automatic unison.

(And Mycroft was right, John reasoned. Moriarty was at fault for everything that had gone wrong recently, including his current conflict with Sherlock. The only way he could possibly resolve things with Sherlock is if he dealt with Moriarty.)

Mycroft nodded at John and Sherlock's 'brilliant deduction'.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, responding "So, Mycroft, is this 'problem' still in your custody here or have you already allowed him to escape again?"

"He's upstairs." Mycroft stated, "I'm in process of thinking over whether I should have him killed or not. What do you think?"

"I told you before, I don't care." Sherlock said.

"But I wasn't asking you." Mycroft smiled, "I was asking Doctor Watson." He turned to face John.

John met his gaze.

"Why ask me, 'Mr. Holmes'?" he questioned, also raising an eyebrow and matching Mycroft's formal use of title and surname with added sarcasm.

"Because I believe you deserve to make that choice." Mycroft replied, evenly and sincerely.

"Alright, then." John accepted the responsibility with a nod, and tried to gather the resolve,"…let's go upstairs and do this."

Molly had been staring out the closed glass of the windowdoor to the balcony, watching the black-suited employees and orange-jumpsuited prisoners rush out of the apartment building prison and into black vehicles that sped away.

She turned around when she heard Jim wheel up behind her.

"There's still a chance for you to escape." He reminded, "Get away while everyone is distracted by the move. Be invisible like you've always been and walk right out of here unnoticed like a ghost. Leave me here to die."

"I told you I wasn't going to leave you, Jim." She reminded.

"Oh, but I still must selflessly tell you to 'save yourself' and 'go on without me', my dear." Jim smirked, "All the while knowing you never would. It's only polite."

"Thank you." Molly thanked, a halfhearted attempt at matching his joke with a halfhearted attempt at matching his smile.

The cruelest, most terrible and most unfair thing about Jim Moriarty was how charming he was. She could know—even witness—all the horrible things he did, get so righteously and rightfully indignant about them—about him…and all he had to do was smile, or wink, or tell another clever lie and she would forgive him and fall in love with him all over again (and again. and again. and again).

(The same thing was true about Sherlock Holmes, of course…but Sherlock Holmes didn't kill people for fun. (And Sherlock Holmes didn't smile or wink, or tell clever lies to Molly Hooper.))

And the strangest, most confusing and most unfair thing about Molly Hooper was how charming she was. Not in the suave, dishonest and manipulative way that made Jim the 'devil' was, but in the sincere, good-intentioned and eager to please way that made her an 'angel' (no matter the 'mistakes' she made). When she played (so naturally that it wasn't even 'playing') the pure-hearted woman, Jim couldn't help but love her for that instead of trying to corrupt her or expose the 'character' for the farce anyone as disillusioned as him should logically assume it was.

When he'd first met Molly, Jim had wanted to dissolve the 'illusion' of her hopeful spirit and make her admit that she had never had any real chance at —or any real hope for—happiness in her life and that she knew it.

He wanted to break her. Beat her at her own 'game'.

But now that he saw that she was not pretending, that all through their relationship she had still had her unwarranted, stupid hope (even when she had told him that nothing between them had been 'real' (which she never would have said had it been true)) he didn't want to hurt her—well, not enough to make her lose hope, anyway.

He could see that she was losing it now.

Jim didn't want Molly to be jailed for life (basically as punishment for sleeping with him) by Mycroft, which was a possibility (albeit an unlikely one), if he was or if he was executed. He wanted her to survive this, even if he didn't. After all, someone had to remember him fondly (even if only a little bit) when everyone else had forgotten or remembered him with hatred as a criminal or thought he'd been just an actor Sherlock had paid…

"You're welcome." Jim replied, no longer smirking and returning to his earlier tense and guarded evenness; calm like a stormcloud passing over a town instead of raining down unrelenting upon it. Nothing happened, but still the dark above reminded what could.

And then they heard the footsteps of a cloud of people pattering down the hall towards the apartment-cell like raindrops until they stopped outside the door.

Jim whirled his wheelchair around to sit next to the standing Molly, who was already facing the door. The window behind them, they watched and waited for it to open.

When it finally did, Anthea entered first to hold the door open for her employer, Mycroft, his brother Sherlock, John Watson and Greg Lestrade to enter in that order.

Mycroft, like before, did not (or pretended not to) notice the dead body of Rudras Wiggins posed on the couch, eyes closed and hands on his chest as if he was asleep.

Lestrade, however, did.

"He never gives it a rest, does he?" Lestrade commented, laughing in disgust and what he knew should not have been disbelief considering who he was commenting on, "Even when he's been shot, taken into custody and is sitting in a wheelchair he just can't stop killing. It's sick."

"The man wanted to die." Mycroft explained, not even glancing over at the corpse.

"And so you let Moriarty help him out with that?!" Lestrade called into question, this time with appropriate disbelief.

"It was convenient." Mycroft excused, casually.

To that, Lestrade, John and Sherlock all rolled their eyes. They, Mycroft and Anthea stood by the sofa, some distance away from where Molly and Jim were.

"If all of you are here, it must mean there's been a decision made about what you're going to do with Jim…" Molly addressed them, cautiously.

"Yes." Mycroft affirmed, nodding.

"…what is it, then?" Molly asked, afraid of the answer but even more afraid of not knowing it.

"Honestly Molly, what do you think?" Lestrade laughed again, bitterly, "You know he has to die. You've seen what he's done."

"And you've seen that Sherlock isn't dead!" Molly returned urgently, gesturing at the silent consulting detective that should have been dead, "Jim and I weren't lying about that, and we weren't lying about Jim working for Sherlock, either!"

"It doesn't matter." Lestrade dismissed.

Molly turned to Sherlock, "Sherlock, please, tell them! He was only doing what you told him to, going to Argentina."

Sherlock just stared at her blankly.

He would have feigned confusion had John taken his eyes of the dangerous criminal to glance back at him. He certainly wasn't going to acknowledge working with Jim Moriarty in front of John. If he was ever even going to be on speaking terms with John again, John could not know about that.

Molly opened her mouth to exclaim something but closed it again because could not think of anything intelligent or useful to say that would convince anyone in the room not to kill Jim. She couldn't even logically convince herself that he shouldn't be killed and she was sure that if anyone asked Jim, he would request to die.

Maybe this was for the best…

Still, Molly threw up her hands and groaned in frustration.

"Someone restrain her." Mycroft order, interpreting the action as having violent intent, "We can't have her trying anything…stupid."

Lestrade and Anthea nodded, quickly crossing the room towards Molly and each grabbing one of her arms. She didn't bother to try to escape their grasps as she was escorted over to the other side of the room.

Jim said and did nothing as Molly was pulled away from him.

It was too late. She couldn't have any hope left now. It didn't matter anymore if he lived or died and it didn't matter anymore if she did.

"Any last words, Mr. Moriarty?" Mycroft inquired, chuckling.

"Tell Sherlock I love him." Jim said flatly (although he really did mean it).

Lestrade, John, and Sherlock rolled their eyes again, as did Mycroft and Anthea. Molly closed hers, determined not to let any tears slip out and not wanting to watch.

"Always so eloquent…" Mycroft muttered.

"Thanks. Now let's get this over with. Chop, chop." Jim requested, with a quick double clap of his hands.

"Whenever you're ready, John." Mycroft allowed, gesturing towards Jim but glancing at John.

John, who had been quiet and motionless until then, had already received a gun on his way upstairs. He nodded, pulled it out and started towards Jim in the wheelchair.

"No!" Molly screamed, eyes opening and the word bursting out of her mouth against her will.

John stopped, turning his head to look back at her. His eyes were tired and sad.

"I'm sorry, Molly." He apologized, sincerely but halfheartedly, "I didn't want to be the person to do this, either. I hate having to kill. But I will if I have to. You know I have to."

"No you don't!" Molly countered, desperately.

"That's enough." Mycroft warned, eying Molly and then Anthea, who understood the look telling her to cover Molly's mouth and so did so.

Molly thought about trying to bite her hand. It was something Jim would do. Then she thought better of it.

It was too late to dramatically confess her love to Jim before he was killed but doing so would only have made her seem even more pathetic than she already did and Jim already knew anyway. (Besides, it wasn't like she would receive a confession in return as Jim's last words the way Sherlock had.)

John turned away from Molly, gun in hand, and continued towards Jim. He was careful to look the man he was about to kill in the eye as he raised his gun and pointed it at his target. Even Moriarty deserved that much, he reasoned, everyone did.

Jim, surprisingly, averted his eyes. He gazed down at the wooden floors as if ashamed.

Before in Buenos Aires, Jim Moriarty had had a gun in his hand when he was baiting John into trying to kill him. He had been standing upright and walking around, he had just shot someone else and had then threatened to shoot others. He was responsible for the death of John's best friend, Sherlock…

…Now Jim Moriarty was silent and staring at the ground as if he was afraid or feeling guilty. He was accepting his fate without physical or vocal protest. He wasn't holding a weapon; in fact, he was even injured and confined to a wheelchair. And Sherlock was alive and no longer John's best friend.

Before it had been so easy…

…Now it wasn't.

And John knew, knew, knew, knew it was just another one of Moriarty's tricks and he knew that this had to be done, but he still could not bring himself to do it. He couldn't pull the trigger.

And it was so easy to pull the trigger of a gun. Just tiny finger movement, so quick…You can regret it for the rest of your life but what's done is done. And done so fast. However, the long moments leading up to pulling that trigger last forever. And the longer it he wait is, the longer the time you spend not doing it, the more likely you are to not do it ever. To do nothing.

Death is an inevitable reality, and so humans cope by simply not thinking about it. Contemplating it for long periods of time is painful. And killing is the exact same way. Don't think about it, just do it. Because thinking causes emotions, and the heart and the mind are really just the same thing.

"I can't do it." John said. He turned away from Jim, back around to face Mycroft, Anthea, Molly, Lestrade and Sherlock.

"Well then…" Mycroft accepted, a bit taken aback and disappointed (but trying politely to hide it), "…Anthea." He looked from John over at her.

Anthea released her hold on Molly, retrieving her own gun and heading through the group and the room towards Jim.

"No." John added, not moving from where he stood between her and Jim, "Don't do it at all. Don't kill him."

Anthea paused, glancing back at Mycroft to see whether she should continue and just push John out of the way or give John a moment to come to his senses and get out of the way himself. Mycroft's nod allowed the latter.

"Why not?" he asked John.

"Because we have to better than him." John declared, plainly, "What's the point of stopping him if we're the same?"

"We're not—" Anthea began, but was quickly interrupted.

"We are…" John insisted, "…if we kill him—or any of these prisoners you had locked up here or anyone else we happen not to like because of what they've done. And it doesn't matter what they've done, does it, because I doubt any of them had their day in court—"

"Actually, Jim did." Anthea corrected, matter-of-factly.

"And he was found not guilty." John returned, "Sure, he bought the jury but who are we to be his judges and executioners? Killing him won't bring back the people he's killed, it'll only make our body-count closer to his—however huge of number that is."

"Eighty-nine, I believe." Mycroft identified, recalling what Jim's brother James had said a few weeks before at his old secret prison in the countryside, "Ninety, if we count Mr. Wiggins here." He gestured at the dead body on the couch.

"And how many people have you had killed, 'Mr. Holmes', during your time working for the British government?" John demanded, "And how many of those killings were actually officially sanctioned?"

"That's classified." Mycroft stated.

"It's more than ninety, isn't it?" John suspected, almost smirking in snide disgust, "I've killed four people, myself. Three in Afghanistan and one right here in London. And I think about every one of them every day."

"Then you realize how ridiculously hypocritical you sound right now." Mycroft responded.

"Yes I do." John affirmed, matter-of-factly, nodding, "And that's why I can't do it. I'm not going to kill someone for killing when I've killed."

"Oh come on, John!" Lestrade interjected, "You can't really buy into all that 'judge not' and 'turn the other cheek' crap, can you? You know Moriarty deserves to die. Has to."

"All the people I've ever killed have been standing up, holding a gun and about to kill me or someone else." John recounted, then pointing at Jim, "Look at Moriarty. Does he fit that description that right now?"

"He did just kill that man over there." Lestrade reminded, pointing at the corpse on the couch.

"And that man must have let him, like Mycroft said." John agreed, "Moriarty is weak. He couldn't have been able to kill him otherwise."

Lestrade shook his head, "John, Moriarty is not the person to take the moral highground for. What changed your mind this time—?"

"That doesn't matter." John told Lestrade, then speaking to the entire room, "Now, Mycroft said that it was my choice whether Moriarty dies or not. And I've made my choice. I say he lives. That doesn't mean I want him out on the streets, no, he needs to be locked up for the rest of his life. But if you all want to go against what've decided, then I'm not going to have any part of it."

"Fine." Lestrade grumbled.

"As you wish, John." Mycroft accepted, "You may go now, if you'd like."

"And you'll kill him as soon as I'm gone, right?" John 'deduced', chuckling with that same snide disgust.

"Would you like me to lie?" Mycroft inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"You people really are just like Moriarty." John said, "All of you think you're gods."

"Not me." Lestrade snorted, in offense, "I just want what's best for the general population."

"You were with the police for a long time, Greg." John responded, evenly, "You know that killing Moriarty won't make a dent in all the danger there is out there. No matter how many criminals you kill, there will always be more."

Lestrade snorted again, this time in surrender. "Alright." He relented, "I'm done here. I'm going back to Baker Street, picking up my kids and going home. I hope everyone here makes the right decision, and I hope you can live with yours, John, if anything happens."

John said nothing as he watched Lestrade walk out of the room and eventually out of the apartment building prison for the second time within the last twenty-four hours.

Once he was gone, John didn't leave as well. He remained where he was standing in front of the criminal he'd earlier sworn to kill. He had changed his mind again, but he wasn't going to say just what had changed it.

Sherlock then spoke up after having quietly observed the scene without comment. "John, are you willing to talk to me now?"

"I think you can see I'm a bit busy right now, Sherlock." John acknowledged, preoccupied but friendly as if it was the 'old days', then adding suspiciously "Unless you're trying to distract me…" because it wasn't the 'old days' anymore.

"I'm not." Sherlock said, "And I'm sure Mycroft will make sure no harm comes to Moriarty, at least long enough that I can explain to you why I had to fake my death."

He glared over at Mycroft to make sure Mycroft agreed and said, "Yes, of course. Take as long as you need to talk. Nothing will happen to 'Mr. Moriarty' while you're not here to protect him. You may use my office downstairs if you don't want to have this conversation in front of him."

"Okay." John accepted, nodding at Mycroft and then turning to Sherlock, "Sherlock…?"

And so Sherlock nodded, too, and the two of them exited the room.

"Although I did say you could take your time, please remember that this building will be demolished by noon." Mycroft called after them.

In the hallway their footsteps could be heard stopping and then starting again. Their eyes could not be heard rolling.

And when their footsteps could no longer be heard, Mycroft turned back to Jim and Molly.

"Miss Hooper, you are about as dangerous as a safety razor." He compared, "A harmless object unless in the hands of your shaving man, and even then only capable of causing shallow cuts—and more often to himself than to others."

Molly blinked.

"…what?" she questioned.

Mycroft sighed.

"I recognize that you are not a threat to my operations." He explained, "And so, I'm giving you one last chance to leave. Walk away from Jim Moriarty right now and you won't be bothered by the British government again—unless, of course, you bother us first. Your life will return to normal and you can go on with it. However, if you choose to stay here, we're going to have to treat you as if you were as much a criminal as your boyfriend is."

Molly looked at Mycroft and then at Jim. Jim didn't look at her, he was still staring at the floor, and so she looked back at Mycroft.

"I won't leave him." She declared.

She wanted to, of course. She wanted to take back so many things she had done, choices she had made, have everything be forgiven and forgotten. And now was her chance. A chance that most people never received. And yet she wasn't taking it.

If John Watson who had every reason to hate and want to kill Jim Moriarty was able to not take his chance to kill him, and even argue to save his life, then the very least Molly Hooper could do was stand by her decisions and principles. It might even help with John's new and surprising cause, as well, since although Jim had called Mycroft 'cold' and 'cruel', Molly was pretty sure that Mycroft would not have Jim killed in front of her.

"Are you sure?" Mycroft checked, "Are you truly willing to suffer the same fate as the criminal you've only at most aided and abetted? He won't be killed, not without John's approval, but he'll wish he was dead. Locked in a dark and empty room alone, confined to a straightjacket for the rest of his days. Unable to move, unable able to speak, with only his own mind as his company and torturer. So bored…He won't be dead—but he'll wish he was. Are you sure you want that for yourself, as well?"

"Please, you can't do that to him!" Molly exclaimed, "That's so…cruel!"

"It's no less than he deserves." Mycroft reasoned, "Especially if he has the privilege of living."

"No, no one deserves that." Molly countered, shaking her head, "Doing that to him would make you as bad as him. John is right about that—"

"Then John should have allowed me to kill him." Mycroft interrupted.

Molly was about to speak but Anthea beat her to it, offering a weak attempt at giving 'woman to woman' advice, hoping that it would get through to Molly enough so that she could get her to at least leave the room.

"Forget about Jim." She troped, robotically, "He doesn't deserve you. You can do better."

Molly just gaped at Anthea in shock that she had even said such…normal sentences.

"…I'll just go see to the move now, then, sir." Anthea decided, awkward and embarrassed, turning to Mycroft who nodded. On his cue, she quickly took her leave.

Once she was gone, Mycroft walked over to where Jim sat, silent and staring at his feet, in the wheelchair.

"Still have nothing to say?" he prompted, then adding when Jim didn't respond, "At least explain this…why are you so obsessed with my brother, Sherlock? For so long you have been and yet you barely even know him—you know what it's like to be like him, perhaps even to be him—but you don't know him and he doesn't know you. So why?"

At that Jim finally looked up to meet Mycroft's gaze, smiling because he knew the answer to his question and had always wanted to reveal it.

"Sherlock Holmes…" Jim sighed contently, closing his eyes to enjoy the sound of the name without distraction, "He's brilliant, a genius—but not just that. He's the one thing that never gets old. Not to me. He's the only thing—the only person—that I've never gotten bored of. He's an ageless immortal classic…and yet so new and different at the same time. How could I not be 'obsessed'?"

Mycroft snorted at Jim's words.

"You care so much about him, you've wasted your life trying to get his admiration…but you mean nothing to him." He sneered, cruel and cold, "Never have and never will. It's pathetic, actually."

Jim was undeterred. He continued to smile. He looked at peace. Like the wisest man who knew all the secrets of the universe…or like the blissfully ignorant idiot who knew nothing.

"Even so, I'd like to talk to him one last time." He requested, "…Alone."

John and Sherlock stood in the room that used to be the manager of the apartment building's office, then later used to be the manager of the secret prison's (Mycroft's) office, and now was just an empty room with one window and no furniture.

John closed the door behind him and asked, "Okay, Sherlock. Are you ready to tell me why?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, turning to him, "But first, let me just apologize for any—"

"No." John interrupted, "I've heard enough apologies for lies from Mycroft. I don't want to hear them. I want answers."

"Fine." Sherlock sighed.

And so Sherlock told John how he had never meant to stay 'dead' for so long, and never would have had Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran, and Mycroft Holmes not distracted him. He even admitted that he was wrong about thinking that Moran had wanted to kill John (and decided not to mention that he was right about thinking that John had wanted to kill Moran).

Finally Sherlock explained, that his purpose in making the world believe he was dead was not only so he could capture all the criminals Moriarty had ever worked with, but so that he could erase all evidence of his and Moriarty's existences—a job that he was not yet finished with.

"Why?" John asked.

"Because, John…" Sherlock answered, "I have a job proposition for you…"

Mycroft, against what might have been his better judgment (at least by the standards of any sane, ordinary (but not genius) person), had left Jim and Molly locked in Rudras's apartment-cell upstairs (with a guard in a black suit outside this time, of course) to go down to his former office and retrieve his brother Sherlock Holmes so he could talk to Jim Moriarty "one last time".

The only reason he was doing this was because Jim's request might anger Sherlock and John so much that they both decided that it would be a good idea to have Jim executed after all. At least that was what Mycroft was hoping for, anyway.

Without knocking (because in all his life, he'd never knocked when barging into a room on his brother—and this time, it was his office anyway), Mycroft opened the door to the room to interrupt Sherlock and John's conversation.

Upon hearing the door open, the two stopped speaking and turned to glare at whoever it was disturbing them. It was Mycroft. Neither of them were surprised.

"Sorry to intrude," Mycroft 'apologized', "but our problem prisoner has requested a private meeting with you, Sherlock."

"Alright." Sherlock quickly and shockingly agreed.

John, taken aback and blinking in surprise, said "You don't need to listen to anything he has to say, Sherlock, you know it'll be bullshit."

"He might have important information to tell me." Sherlock reasoned, ambiguously, "He might try to trade in exchange for being killed instead of being imprisoned. He'd rather die than be bored."

"I know." John stated.

And then Sherlock was taken aback and blinked in surprise, as was and did Mycroft (although neither of them were as expressive about it as John had been).

They had just realized that perhaps John's 'moral highground' in sparing Jim's life was less moral and less high than they had originally believed. Perhaps it was even cruel and John was a better actor than he let on.

…or not.

Sherlock and Mycroft, geniuses as they were, honestly could not tell. They looked at John and there was nothing on his face to indicate the truth.

"I'll go with you." John added, telling Sherlock.

It took a second for the Holmes brothers to register that he had spoken. A second that the average civilian wouldn't even notice, but maybe—just maybe—a soldier would.

"Well, I won't." Mycroft declared, matter-of-factly, "I've had about enough of Jim Moriarty."

Molly was already standing outside the door, fidgeting nervously next to the uncomfortably rigid guard (who was afraid of the prisoner behind the door, despite him being in wheelchair), by the time John and Sherlock arrived back upstairs.

The long hallway was dark as usual, and their footsteps loud on the hardwood, making their approach suspenseful and dramatic.

Molly had heard them coming before she had seen them and she was sure Jim had as well.

What Jim had to say to Sherlock and why Sherlock had agreed to even talk to Jim (when he was apparently pretending that the two had never worked together these past two weeks) she did not know and guessed that she probably never would. She didn't know if she would ever get used to that frustrating, ignorant feeling.

Sherlock looked at Molly, as if evaluating her, and then walked past her and the guard into the apartment-cell where Jim was. He left the door open a crack.

John moved so he could watch the room, Sherlock and Jim, though the crack. Sherlock, although perfectly capable of protecting himself and having never appreciated being babysitted, but when John had told him that he "didn't trust Moriarty alone in a room" with him, Sherlock, who was trying to get back into John's 'good graces', was not 'in a position to refuse' John's observation.

And so John observed…as did Molly, also peeking through the crack in the door. Even the black-suited guard watched too.

But none of them could distinguish words from the whispers of Sherlock and Jim.

Jim had posed himself dramatically in the apartment. He'd had Molly turn the lights back off so that Sherlock would have to turn them on when he walked in, and once she'd gone out into hall to give him his 'privacy', he'd rolled over to the windowdoor, opened it and gone out onto the balcony to look out upon the scenic view of the construction site.

Sherlock could feel the hint of breeze as soon as he entered the dark room. He didn't bother to flip the lightswitch, and instead walked through the darkness towards the bright, shifting sunlight breaching into the room through the curtains dancing in the wind.

Jim's back was to him and Sherlock calculated exactly how much force he could use to push Jim out of the wheelchair and over the railing; make Jim fall to his death the way Jim had tried to make him fall.

But it was just a mathematical exercise. He didn't do it.

He knew it was what Jim wanted it and what John didn't want.

Instead, Sherlock just stepped to stand behind Jim. Jim had heard him approaching and tilted his head backwards to stare up at Sherlock and smile.

"Hi." He greeted.

"What do you want?" Sherlock questioned, evenly, looking down at Jim the way one would look at a spider trying to climb up one's leg before shaking it off and stepping on it.

"I just wanted to know…" Jim began, "…has the good doctor taken you up on your job offer? He has, hasn't he?"

"So you've finally figured it out." Sherlock commented, not answering the question.

He moved around the wheelchair to stand beside Jim. Jim spun his wheelchair so he was facing Sherlock.

"You want to disappear—make everyone believe you were never even there." Jim explained, lazily, "Of course that means you want to travel the world solving crimes in secret. How exciting."

"What does that have to do with John?" Sherlock inquired.

"You're not you when you're with John." Jim answered, "Not the you I knew for longer than you knew me. By the time we finally met, you were someone new. And you like that you better."

"…yes…" Sherlock confirmed, guardedly. The amount of the word 'you' didn't confuse him, but it did annoy him.

"The new Sherlock Holmes needs a John Watson." Jim completed, "You can't be you without him, not anymore. And so he'll always be following after you."

"Actually, it's the other way around." Sherlock corrected, "And either way, it's better than having you after me."

Jim grimaced at the insult, and then quickly turned it into a sarcastic grin.

"It's really not." He countered, "We could have been so good together…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"If that is all you have to say to me, I'll take my leave of this conversation—" he started.

"No!" Jim interrupted, too angrily and too urgently. Hastily he calmed down and added, "Today is my last day to be your archenemy, before you and your John go on to 'bigger and better' things out there in the 'cruel, cold' world. Just let me enjoy it."

"You were never my 'archenemy'." Sherlock dismissed, "That was always Mycroft."

"Your supervillain, then." Jim insisted, "And you're my hero."

Sherlock sighed boredly.

The only reason he was still standing there, listening to Jim's "bullshit" (as John had put it) was because he knew Jim would have a point eventually. He always did. He just also always took the long, winding and doubling-back way to get to it.

"You really are a hero, Sherlock, " Jim continued, "John still believes you are, even after everything….Want to know how I knew he would forgive you and agree to work with you again?"

"I assume you're about to make some joke about sex." Sherlock preempted so that Jim would not be able to.

"Did you two have fun downstairs in your big brother's office?" Jim did anyway.

"I offered John a job, like you already know." Sherlock stated, matter-of-factly (only realizing how his words could be…reinterpreted after he'd already said them).

"I knew he would take it because he didn't kill me." Jim declared, seriously, "John wanted to kill me so bad before—almost did too—back when he thought you were dead…but as soon as he knew you were alive he couldn't do it. And you know why, don't you? We both do."

"Off you go then." Sherlock said, wryly and almost smiling.

"You want me to tell you what you already know?" Jim grinned, eager to play along.

"No," Sherlock replied, "I want you to prove you know it."

"John knows we're the same." Jim proved, "We're polar opposites and yet we're the same. Equals. We balance each other out like magnets. We need each other to exist and the world needs us both."

"John doesn't think like that." Sherlock disagreed, "And the world doesn't need you. The reason John didn't kill you is because he saw an injured, insane man in a wheelchair and his sense of morality stopped him from pulling the trigger."

"Oh, but John does think like that." Jim insisted, "He saw that I had faked my death and then that you had done the same. He saw that I used people and that you do the same. He saw the way little Molly followed me all over the world, despite herself, and that he did, and will do the same, despite himself, for you. He saw that you and I are the same…John couldn't kill me, Sherlock, because that would be like killing you."

"Then you should be thanking John for your life." Sherlock responded, "Not calling me here to ask me to kill you."

"You think that's why I wanted to talk to you?" Jim scoffed.

"Well, that was the most likely reason." Sherlock reasoned, "It's what I would do, were I you and had whatever it is my brother has planned for you to try to 'look forward' to. You did say that we are 'the same'."

"I just wanted to see you one last time." Jim admitted, "I didn't have any motivation other than that. But by all means, kill me if you want to. All it would take is a push."

He turned his head away from Sherlock to glance over at the edge of the balcony, and then down at the muddy ground below. Sherlock mirrored the movement.

When he looked back at Jim, Jim was facing him again and smirking.

"Who was it that shot you?" Sherlock redirected, eyeing Jim's bullet wounds, "John?"

"Sebastian Moran and Gregory Lestrade." Jim answered, "The two of them, John and Anthea teamed up and tracked me down, all the way to Argentina, to try to kill me. But your boy John's shot missed."

"No. John has perfect aim—"

"It was Anthea's fault. She shot him."

"What?!"

"He was wearing a bullet proof vest, genius. You've just seen him, he's fine. But your alarm is adorable."

Jim chuckled.

Seeing Sherlock emotional and irrational was always fun, and causing it was even more fun. Still, Jim knew that no matter what he did to Sherlock, he would never be the one that Sherlock was emotional and irrational for…

"But big bad Mr. Moran never did hunt down Doctor Watson." Jim continued, "You know he was working for your brother for a while, right?"

"Yes, I did. I warned Mycroft against it. Insisted he had him imprisoned again once his job was complete."

"Anthea let him go. She had a little fling with him in the island air—the Balearic, not the British—and so she let him go out of sentiment. He's free. Just thought you'd like to know in case you wanted to 'take care' of that…"

Sherlock paused before speaking, like he considering what to do with this information, but then said, "Moran has proven himself not a threat. He worked with John and did not try to kill him. There is nothing to 'take care' of."

"I worked with you and didn't try to kill you, I've proven myself not a threat." Jim returned, "…and yet there your dear loyal John is, watching us through a crack in the door because he doesn't trust me. I'm hurt you didn't tell him about 'us'."

He turned his head away from Sherlock to glance over at the door to the room, open only a crack, and through it at the people staring in from outside. Sherlock mirrored the movement.

When Jim looked back at him, he was facing him again and smirking.

"You're jealous." Sherlock corrected, smugly.

"Of him? Yes." Jim admitted, "Of you? No. Mine is better than yours."

"Wrong." Sherlock countered, "Mine can shoot a gun."

"I get to fuck mine." Jim topped, cheekily, "And nobody judges since it's…ew…heterosexual." He feigned a shiver and facial contortion of disgust at the last word he'd spoken.

Sherlock, once again, rolled his eyes.

He had had far more than enough of Jim Moriarty for one life time just within this exchange between them—let alone the entire time they'd been enemies and later working together.

"This conversation is over." He decided, turning to go so that his flailing coat slapped Jim in the face.

"Wait!" Jim called after him, "One more thing, Sherlock."

Sherlock, sighing, stopped and slowly, grudgingly turned back around to face Jim.

"What?" he asked.

"A handshake." Jim requested, politely, already extending a hand towards Sherlock.

At that request, Sherlock just snorted. He turned back around and continued away, off of the bright balcony and back into the dark apartment-cell.

"Please!" he could hear Jim cry as he got further and further away from him. He could also hear Jim wheeling himself into the room after him.

"The last time I shook your hand, you shot yourself in the face." Sherlock recounted, back still turned and still walking away, "Think of it this way, 'Jim', I'm saving your life."

And then he was through the door, leaving Jim behind for good in the darkness.

Finally, John sighed and turned away from the door to face Molly, who, not wanting a condemnation or an argument, tried not to meet his eyes.

"It's okay, Molly." John said, "I'm not angry at you anymore. I'm not angry at all. I'm just happy Sherlock's alive. And since this might be the last time I see you, I didn't want to part on bad terms."

"Oh." Molly accepted, turning to him.

The guard, unable to hear Sherlock and Jim's conversation, also turned to listen to John and Molly's. John and Molly glared at him for this and so he turned back to the crack in the open door and pretended to watch what was happening inside (while still, of course, listening to the two who were speaking outside).

"…so are you and Sherlock okay, now?" Molly asked, tentatively.

"Yeah, we are." John affirmed, nodding but not quite smiling, then admitting "…I probably shouldn't have forgiven him so easily for letting me think he was dead for a month, but when I saw him I just did. Couldn't do anything else. He doesn't deserve it—"

"I think he does." Molly countered, "Sherlock is…different, I know, but I believe he's genuinely a good person. And he did deserve your forgiveness. All he talked about while he was pretending to be dead was how he wanted to protect you. He really does care about you, John, more than he cares about anyone else."

John said nothing, at first, in response to her words. He was quiet as if he was thinking them over very carefully.

Finally, again he said "I know."

Inside the apartment-cell, the voices of Jim and Sherlock had stopped whispering and now the footsteps of Sherlock were returning to the cracked-open door, which he pushed open enough so that he could exit through it, then closing it behind him.

John, Molly and the black-suited guard stepped aside to allow him into the hall.

He stopped only to tell John, "Let's go" and then continued away from the cell, down the long dark hallway, with John leading the way.

Molly was left alone with the guard, watching them go. After their figures and their footsteps were gone, Molly went back into the room where Jim was. Technically, the government employees were supposed to be guarding their prisoners from the inside of the cell, but the young man in the black suit was too afraid to follow her in.

Having been up all night anyway watching Lestrade's 'spirited' (bratty) children, Mrs. Hudson decided at sunrise just to put on her morning cup of tea and start the day. She could nap later if she felt like it (and she felt like it) once those kids were gone.

At five thirty, Katherine and George had finally stopped running around and fallen asleep watching television. Mrs. Hudson had carried them (one at a time) upstairs into the b flat and put them to bed; Katherine in Sherlock's old bed, George in John's. (In the back of her mind she had always sort of regretted not having children of her own. Not anymore.)

Back downstairs, Mrs. Hudson sat at her kitchen table sipping her tea and trying not to fall asleep herself. Eventually she heard the knock on her door she'd been desperately anticipating. She set down her tea and stood up to answer it.

Outside in the cloudy morning, three men managed to fit on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street.

John and Sherlock had caught up to Lestrade, who had apparently left his kids with Mrs. Hudson and was going back to pick them up, upon getting out of the towncar and driver Mycroft had loaned them to see Lestrade getting out of a cab at the same time. They were here to tell Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was actually alive (despite having jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital) on John's assertion that it was the right thing to do.

"Alright, now one of us needs to be ready to catch her if she faints." Lestrade warned.

"Oh, she'll be fine." Sherlock scoffed, dismissively.

"Just let me talk to her first, prepare her." John added, "We don't want her to have a heart attack or something—but I will be ready to help if that happen.

"She'll be fine." Sherlock insisted, annoyedly, no longer laughing at the suggestion that Mrs. Hudson couldn't handle seeing him 'back from the dead' without having a medical issue.

"We'll just have her sit down first—" John attempted again, only to be interrupted.

"She'll be fine!" Sherlock declared, again, "For god's sake, her husband was a serial murderer. If she could survive discovering the skulls of his victims he smuggled here all the way from America as 'anthropological specimens', she can survive seeing me."

"Okay." John and Lestrade finally accepted.

"Good." Sherlock smiled, "Now, shall we?"

He knocked on the door.

Mrs. Hudson opened her front door, gasping and gaping when she saw none other than Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorway in front of her as if he had never been, well, dead.

Hands drawn up to her mouth, she exclaimed "Sherlock?!"

"Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock acknowledged, with a nod.

"Oh, don't tell me this was another one of your bloody experiments again!" Mrs. Hudson snapped, shock morphing into annoyance, "Dying?! Really?! You've gone too far with this one, Sherlock, shame on you!"

Lestrade and John stood awkwardly behind Sherlock on either side as he was scolded. Sherlock himself smiled at Mrs. Hudson, stepped into the room and gave her a hug. John and Lestrade followed, John closing the door behind them.

"So, how did you do it, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked when Sherlock had released her from the embrace, "John told me he saw you fall off of the roof of the hospital and hit your head!"

"I can explain the science over a cup of tea, if you want to put a kettle on." Sherlock suggested.

(Same old Sherlock.)

"I'm not your housekeeper—I'm not even your landlady, anymore and I hardly think you deserve a cup of tea after having everyone believe you were dead for a month." Mrs. Hudson reminded, sternly, then softening and saying, "So you're very lucky I have some water boiled already."

(Same old Mrs. Hudson.)

"…and that's how I managed to fake my own death." Sherlock concluded.

Sitting around Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table in 221a, sipping warm beverages, Sherlock had delivered his monologue explanation to John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. They didn't applaud, but they were very impressed.

It was almost eight and, answer revealed, Lestrade realized it was time to collect his progeny and go home. He was sure his family would be safe now that Samantha Moran had lost control of the private military firm. And besides, his wife was probably wondering where he was(—if she wasn't with her boyfriend the PE teacher, that is).

And so, after finishing his tea, he went upstairs to 221b to locate the children, with the help of Mrs. Hudson, after finishing her tea too, leaving Sherlock and John to finish their tea at the now less crowded table.

"So where are we going to go first?" John asked, "On this 'grand adventure' of yours that I can't even believe I've actually agreed to. Solving only the most interesting crimes all over the world…do you have cases lined up yet?"

"No, not yet." Sherlock admitted, "I've been too busy attending to…other things. I'm still in the process of eliminating anyone who's ever been involved with Jim Moriarty. They're not like my Homeless Network or my clients who know I'm real, they can't be trusted to keep his existence—and so mine—a secret."

"I'll help." John offered, "I'm just wondering now what 'other things' you were attending to this whole month you were 'dead'."

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock explained, "When I found out that he was also still alive after shooting himself in front of me. His brother's employee, Sebastian Moran, as well. I got his from Mycroft and thought he might want to take revenge against you for forcing him to psychologically evaluated."

"Oh, right. Him…" John remembered (very unfondly), clenching his hand tighter around the teacup as his only expression of anger, "Thank god Mycroft finally arrested him, too. What was he thinking hiring him in the first place when he knew he'd worked with Moriarty before?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, contemplatively and even a tad slyly, "Luckily we won't be having to worry about him anymore…"

Slowed down and unsteady because of the cast on his injured leg and the crutches he used to walk, Sebastian Moran finally made it up the stairs to the small flat he'd lived in after coming home from the war and kept for storage of (illegally owned) guns after he'd upgraded to a bigger place when he'd started working for The Custodian Group (making more money), and later specifically James Moriarty (making even more money).

As he unlocked the door and hobbled inside, Moran hoped that the government hadn't discovered this place and confiscated all his weapons while he'd been away monitoring Jim Moriarty, chasing Jim Moriarty, and being in custody because of Jim Moriarty.

He also hoped that he never had to deal with Jim Moriarty again.

If Mycroft Holmes was as smart as he (and everyone else) claimed he was, he'd have Jim killed once and for all so he couldn't cause any more trouble. (Moran was sure James wouldn't even retaliate against Mycroft for or prevent Mycroft from doing so at this point (and Moran himself would send 'Mr. Holmes' a "thank you" note.))

Moran reached for the lightswitch and flipped the lights on, closing the front door behind him.

Someone was grabbing his neck. Moran couldn't see him (he had been hidden behind the door, and was now behind him) but could tell that he was tall, not only from the impressive strength, but from the size of his huge hands, one of which alone could wrap all the way around his neck.

There were all sorts of maneuvers Moran had learned in military training, but Moran could tell that they probably would not work on his current assailant, anyway—especially with a leg that had been shot.

And so, instead, Moran used one of his crutches to jab with all his force an area of the body that was extremely sensitive no matter how tall or strong the man.

The attacker, cursing in a foreign language, released Moran's neck to clutch said area of the body, allowing Moran to turn around and recognize who he was.

The Golem.

He'd been somehow involved of one of Jim's ridiculous schemes to get Sherlock Holmes's attention. Murdered some security guard or something.

He glared at Moran, roared and then lifted his hands to lunge forward.

Moran eyed him, expressionless but for a mild hint of the halfway point between annoyance and amusement, then pulled out a gun and shot him. In the head.

The gun he had 'found' when Anthea had let him leave his cell while she 'rallied the troops' (in preparation for their big surrender) to meet his sister and her private-military employees outside of the apartment prison he had just been released from. He had taken it with him just in case a situation like this arose (although he imagined that it would be Sherlock Holmes, his sister (or someone on her orders), or a government agent attacking him—not some random giant hitman).

One of his crutches had fallen when he'd drawn his gun, and so Moran bent to pick it back up. Then, carefully and quickly (as possible considering his injury), he exited the flat.

Someone had probably heard the shot and called the police, plus this location had already been 'compromised' since The Golem had been able to find it.

Where Moran was going to go next, he wasn't yet sure but he knew he probably had to leave the city since someone for some unknown reason had apparently hired an assassin to kill him and would still want him dead once they realized The Golem had failed at his job (and died).

Moran really didn't want to ask Samantha for help but because he didn't know who'd sent the killer, he didn't know who else in London he could actually trust to help him get out. He'd have to return to The Custodian Group and hope they hadn't been the ones who wanted him dead.

Sighing, Moran closed the front door and locked it behind him, leaving all of his guns (and this was the second time he'd had to give up a secret stockpile of weapons by no fault of his own) and The Golem behind to be found by whatever authorities arrived at the scene to investigate.

Today was a day of firsts for The Golem.

Today was the first day he had ever died.

Mycroft Holmes's new secret prison—or, rather, prisons—were located in the multiple buildings of a mile disused factories in Addlestone, Surrey (one of which chocolate had once been made inside and kidnapped children had once been held).

Jim Moriarty and Molly Hooper had not been left to die in the his old secret apartment building prison when it was demolished, and instead transferred along with the rest of the prisoners, employees, equipment and files to the new locations, old factories, that were still in the process of being quickly converted into prisons.

The apartment building prison had been surrounded by a construction site and yet the grating whirring and banging sounds of construction were never heard there. The factory prisons, however, were echoing with noise.

It was all Molly and Jim could hear (and it was much better than oppressive silence) as they sat (quietly as it was too loud to talk (or even think) anyway) in a backroom of one of Mycroft's new factory prisons, waiting for their captor to arrive and speak to them as they had been told would happen. The room was dark concrete and looked as if it used to be a storage room (for what, though was unclear). What had formerly been a metal shelf was reassembled to form a metal table with metal benches on each side. Prisonlike, indeed.

The roaring sounds of construction suddenly stopped and it became eerily silent. Silent enough so that the couple could hear two pairs of footsteps approaching—leather shoes and high heels—and then the bolted metal door clang open as Mycroft and Anthea entered the backroom to sit down across from Jim and Molly. Jim was still in the wheelchair and so the bench Molly sat on had had to be pushed out of the way to make room for him, causing it to stick out awkwardly from the table and asymmetrically to the position the other bench.

Jim, having already spoken to Sherlock for what would probably be the last time in his life and so saw no reason to speak ever again, was quiet. He stared blankly across the table at Mycroft and Anthea (who was only there with a gun in place of her smartphone for Mycroft's protection). He knew they were just here to tell him all the terrible things that would happen to him (all of which he knew he rightly deserved—despite not feeling bad about why he rightly deserved them) so that he would suffer the anticipation, before then suffering the actual terrible things.

He wasn't afraid, though.

…Molly was feeling all that fear for him, doubly, because in addition to her sympathy for Jim, she also actually believed that Mycroft would make good on his threat to give her the same punishment as Jim would receive. Jim thought that was funny and would have laughed were he not enjoying the look on her face (which was attempting to appear calm while the fear tugged at the corner of her mouth and her eyelids, pulling her eyes wide) and the way her crossed feet, under the table, and hands, in her lap, were fidgeting.

It was probably also the last time he'd see this—her—he realized, then, too. Jim was would miss Molly and all her emotions and expressions almost as much as he would miss Sherlock, his genius, and their Game.

Finally, Mycroft sighed and spoke. He was no longer smug.

"I'm going to give you a choice…" he began.

Jim blinked in surprise.

"A choice?" he asked.

"Yes," Mycroft affirmed, solemnly, "A choice."

"Okay, then." Jim accepted, evenly (and even a little relieved), "Give it to me."

"Alright, there are two options." Mycroft provided, "Option one is that you remain in that wheelchair for the rest of your life, in a prison cell in this very prison. No visitors—no human contact whatsoever and nothing at all to do. You'll get to live but you'll be living like your old friend 'Fred', the one you so 'mercifully' put down yesterday. He lived a good life, don't you think?"

Jim smiled; brief, sarcastic and halfhearted.

"What's option two?" he questioned quickly.

"Option two," Mycroft continued, "is that I arrange for you to have surgery to somewhat—but not completely—fix your leg so that you can return to a somewhat—but not completely—normal, or at least normal for you, life."

"There has to be a catch." Jim 'deduced'.

"There is." Mycroft confirmed, "That surgery also implants a tracking device somewhere in your body—you won't know where and so you won't be able to get it out—so that my employees and I will know where you are at all times."

"And where will I be?" Jim inquired, "I know you're not going to set me free. Don't tell me you're offering me a job, Mr. Holmes…"

"I am." Mycroft admitted.

"Why risk it?" Jim asked, "You must know that that is a very stupid idea."

Mycroft grimaced at the insult, and then quickly turned it into an insincerely polite smile of annoyance. (He really had hoped that Jim Moriarty would be executed and that he would never have to deal with him again.)

You're insane, yes," Mycroft reasoned, "But you're also brilliant and a brilliant mind like yours should not go to waste. I won't let it. The talents you have can be put to use. And because you're already corrupted—already a killer—it doesn't really matter what else you do now, does it?"

"I don't think that's the way morality works, Mr. Holmes," Jim smirked, "Molly can tell you. She knows all about right at wrong. She's very good at explaining it."

Jim had meant his words as compliments; tributes to their constant arguments. Of course, though, they had sounded sarcastic and patronizing and so Molly sat silently, staring down at the table in shame.

"I'm sure." Mycroft acknowledged, and then redirected, "But there are different philosophies concerning morality and my subdivision has always subscribed to doing what we must for the greater good. Now, I propose adding you to our selection of weapons. Because what better way is there to fight monsters than with monsters? Criminals than with criminals? You find problems like you and you 'cancel them out'. That way, the innocent people of our country are protected and no good people have to taint themselves by using evil means for good ends. It's logical. Mathematical."

"Cute." Jim sneered.

"You will do it." Mycroft asserted, "You will choose option two and work for me."

"And what if I don't?" Jim tested.

"You won't take immobility, boredom and loneliness in a prison cell for the rest of your life." Mycroft dismissed.

"It's not much less than what I have now." Jim shrugged, "And it really would surprise you, me choosing option one, wouldn't it? You know how I love doing that."

"And in that last act of spite you sacrifice your entire future?" Mycroft disregarded, "I don't believe you would. You're too selfish and you're not stupid."

"I just might…" Jim considered, wistfully. Abruptly he then changed the subject to Molly, glancing over at and gesturing towards her, "You have Molly here. Why is that? You haven't once mentioned her part in all of this. What happens to her if I choose option two…or option one?"

Molly looked back up and at Jim upon hearing her name. Jim's words had sounded carefully neutral. Too carefully neutral. They'd been spoken out of concern, not just curiosity. Molly would have smiled if the situation had been different.

Mycroft smirked, just a little, and a little of the earlier smugness had returned.

"Now, that's the thing…" he said, to which Jim raised an eyebrow in confusion, "What happens to her depends on which option you choose. If you chose prison, she gets to go free. Free from government custody and free from you—well, as much as she ever can be, at least…"

"And if I choose to work for you?" Jim followed-up.

"I've witnessed how Miss Hooper has been such an excellent distraction for you, 'Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft recounted, "Your, shall we say, 'consolation prize' for not getting my brother. I've used her more than once to keep you well-behaved. I know it works."

"That's not very original, 'Mr. Holmes'…" Jim yawned, "Using my girl to get to me? Boring."

"Yes it is, but it will still work." Mycroft smiled, "So what have you decided? Boredom and social isolation…or work to keep you busy and a pretty woman to come home to? Which option will you choose?"

Molly tensed at being spoken about so casually, as if she was not there—or just an object. But she was too afraid to say anything. Jim, sitting next to her, noticed.

"Why not let the 'pretty woman' have a say in the matter of her own life?" He scoffed, shaking his head and chuckling, "You urge her to leave me as if you care about her well-being—but not enough not use her as a bargaining chip against me. Remind me again what kind of 'morality' you and your people 'subscribe' to?"

"Doing whatever we must for the greater good." Mycroft restated, curtly, "…and the reason I'm not asking Miss Hooper which option she wants is because we all already know which one she will choose. The morality she subscribes to prevents her fro

m leaving you—especially when she knows what would happen to you if she were to be the person to make the choice, and she chose option one. So she'll be selfless and sacrifice her freedom in order to save you. And that's why I'm not asking her. I'm asking you."

"So it really wouldn't be just an 'act of spite', if I choose prison instead of working for you..." Jim contemplated, "It would be selfless one. I would be sacrificing myself in order to save her…"

He turned to look at Molly, who looked at him with wide and hopeless eyes that he had to look away from (because he'd never seen anything more ugly before, than his reflection in her wide and hopeless eyes) and so turned his head back to face Mycroft.

And Mycroft smiled, again.

"Yes," he nodded, "But you won't do it, will you?"

And there you have it! I really hope you liked it!

Like I said before, there's gonna be the epilogue eventually and if anyone has any requests or anything I could try to write that, too.

Thank you all so much, again, for reading and reviewing. Your support has kept me going this year and last year during some difficult transitions and I'm so grateful for that.

Please tell me what you think by reviewing!