She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that she knew she truly hated Moriarty; the exact moment when she decided that to help Sherlock Holmes was most beneficial to her, as well as being morally the correct thing to do. The second part didn't matter as much, though she supposed it was always a plus to know that, this time, she was doing the right thing.

Obviously, it was some time before she'd sent the first letter to the consulting detective. She'd always been curious about him, wondering if perhaps to change allegiance would be wise. As time wore on, she allowed this feeling to grow and grow, and then finally she decided to do something about it; to risk her own life to help Sherlock Holmes.

The painting was the final straw. Writing a childish note, and getting everyone around them to believe that it was a lost Vermeer? Ridiculous. Moriarty wanted to show off to Sherlock, but he didn't have the 'tools' to do so, so he used others, as always.

So, the letter. Verbosely written with her left hand, on generic printer paper, with a biro: she couldn't afford to let slip her identity before the correct moment to do so came.

It summarised how Moriarty had tricked and played with Sherlock: the men he'd assigned to mess with his psychometric visions, the forger he'd gotten to create the lost Vermeer, the countless people he'd used to monitor and punish Sherlock whenever he used his powers, the people he'd threatened and used just to get the consulting detective where he wanted him . . . On that roof, on that day, killing himself.

Though she didn't know why Moriarty wanted him to be on that roof on that day so badly, she knew he was a man possessed; she would never ask, but he'd commented to her before that the idea was simply too good to resist. In actual fact, he said that it was meant to happen. She didn't know what this could mean, only that it wasn't going to end well for Sherlock. So, she acted to help him.

She'd earned his trust, and sent more and more letters – though every single one put her life in unlimited danger, were the Irishman to find out about them – until finally Moriarty had told her that this was it; this was the week he would get Sherlock Holmes to kill himself.

But no more. She relished the look of utter surprise and shock – and, indeed, pride – in the younger Holmes' face when she'd revealed her identity to him. Her true identity. She still saw the pride and the thankfulness in his face every time he looked at her now, though it was marred by deep discomfort and unhappiness that for John and everyone else he cared about to live, he would have to die.

She regretted that he'd had to die. But it was necessary. After all, what was more believable than the real thing?

She approached him slowly from behind, drawing out his last few seconds looking at his friend; she felt his powers poking at her mind, but batted them away gently: she wouldn't allow him to read her thoughts, but would allow their psychic communication, for obvious reasons of convenience.

Time to go now.
. . . I know.

He turned, and looked down at her, sighing. She saw from his face that being here just reminded him of the agony he'd been through. He hadn't liked any part of this plan: though the worst bit was abandoning John, the death had been hugely difficult.

But it was the best plan they'd had, and she'd been able to facilitate it.

Truth be told, her power wasn't all too useful to herself – but for others, it was an extremely coveted asset: she was able to transfer and swap powers between individuals. Moriarty had coerced her into using this to give his thuggish men powers, which he made her steal from harmless, peaceful individuals. She hadn't given in at first: when first captured, even prolonged torture hadn't been enough to break her.

It was her family. That's how they'd gotten to her. First, they'd threatened to kill them: this, while painful for her to consider, was an idle threat, she knew. They had nothing else over her, and besides, she wasn't averse to letting her mum, dad, and younger sister die if it meant that countless others would live. They knew this, surely. It was merely a test, to see if she'd make a rational decision under pressure.

Then, they threatened to steal their memories of her from them. She couldn't stand to think about looking into her little sister's eyes and not see love, or even recognition. So she complied, so that they could remain hers. Selfish, really. But she couldn't afford to get upset about it now. When the time came, she'd done what was right.

While working for Moriarty, she'd learned how most super-human powers worked; it meant she was able to avoid having her mind read if she wanted to, or being manipulated by an illusionist. She'd learned how to use her powers almost without detection, and how to control them; she improved them until they worked at distance, in the shortest time possible, with barely any side effects to herself or the two 'subjects'. She'd also learned his organisation like the back of her hand, which, of course, came in useful now that she and Sherlock were going to tear the whole thing down.

She'd most importantly learned, after fine-tuning her powers so she could detect powers in others, what Moriarty's power was.
The only inhuman quality James Moriarty possessed was his fanatical insanity.

Most of all, he was obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. She had never truly found out why. She supposed no one would ever know besides, perhaps, Sherlock himself.

But he was also obsessed with powers, and how to manipulate the people who possessed them. However, strangely, he had never asked her to steal someone's power to give it to himself: he believed, ironically, that powers corrupted the person they were bestowed upon. He believed himself to be open to manipulation and mistakes if he had one of his own. When she thought of her family, and the trouble they'd gotten into because of her ownership of her unique ability, she begrudgingly had to agree with him. In addition, the danger Sherlock has gotten in because of Moriarty's obsession with his powers had hurt not only himself, but everyone he cared about.

She supposed that, actually, they weren't gifts at all. They were ticking time bombs.

When the time had come, she had used her gift to swap Sherlock and John's powers: the doctor reaching out unconsciously with his mind to Sherlock's final thought of goodbye, John; the consulting detective dying, and then re-emerging into the land of the living an hour or so later, gradually healing. It had been a slow and agonising process, as his body wasn't used to the alien power forced upon it. It felt unnatural; desperate, just like John's futile grasping at Sherlock's whispered thoughts.

Finally, when Sherlock was completely healed, she wordlessly swapped their powers back. Her new companion didn't speak for a few days; he didn't even communicate with her by thought, as if after all they'd been through, he still didn't trust her. He just sat in the corner of the anonymous rented rooms, a different one each night, and theorised and recalled what happened after death. His own had fascinated him greatly, she noted.

Then, after a few weeks of her solitary, meticulous planning and analysis, and a letter she'd decided it was safe to finally send to Mycroft, he let her in. She supposed she'd finally earned it. He asked her to go back to the graveyard one last time.

She could hear his whispered thoughts now, as he spoke directly into her mind, before they left the graveyard for the last time:

Thank you for bringing me here, Porlock.

She smirked up at him at his use of her fake name, and linked arms with him, leading him out of the gate. He smirked back: the first sign of any amusement he'd shown since his death, which set at ease her fears that he was now incapable of any form of happiness.

The wind whipped at their hair; they appeared two normal people, silently, aimlessly walking along in silence – though none of these things were true.

Please, she replied, I still prefer Molly.

That's all folks! If you liked this series, recommend it to a friend! Or something. Anyway, it's been a lot of fun to write, and you've all been fantastic - thanks so much for reading and sticking with it, you've been super helpful in providing motivation etc. and I hoped you liked the ending.

Thanks again! - B.