A/N; Well, last chapter! I would like to thank everybody who's been following, favoriting, reviewing…even just reading. You guys have no idea what this means to me.

I know that when you're done with this chapter you're going to want to kill me. But please don't, because a sequel is already in the works, and dead girls don't write :)

Ta!

-Anonymoustache

"Sherlock!" Moriarty said in a mock offended voice. "That was very rude of you, to interrupt me when I was in the middle of a conversation with Dr. Watson."

All Sherlock gave him in response was a cold glare.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard a distant plunk from inside the grate he had yelled through and heard faint voices.

Moriarty sighed. "Now he's figured it out. It was too easy!" he shook his head sadly. "I made it too easy."

Sherlock raised his chin arrogantly. "I told you. John will always come for me."

Moriarty gave him a half smile. "Well, well, well. Apparently your faith in the army doctor is well-founded, Sherly." He put a thoughtful look on his face. "However, I can't help but feel like he needs a little bit more incentive…"

From under the bed, Moriarty pulled a high-powered blowtorch, smiling deviously.

It didn't take Sherlock's deduction skills to know what was going to happen next.

As the flames began to lick gently at the pattern on his chest, Sherlock did his best to stay still and quiet. He would not give in to this fiend. Moriarty wanted him to scream, wanted John to hear Sherlock's voice raised in agony. He would not. He would be strong. He would not scream.

Moriarty leaned in close to the consulting detective, his lips inches from Sherlock's ear. "Scream, Sherlock. You know you want to." He winked. "Do it."

Sherlock clamped his lips together. "No..." he said in one pained, whispered breath. "No."

The flames were lowered back to his chest.

Sherlock could smell his own flesh burning.

Oh, God. I'm going to die.

Moriarty's breath tickled the side of his neck. "Scream," he hissed.

Sherlock screamed.

John's head snapped up. "What was that?" he turned to Greg. "Did you hear that?"

Greg nodded solemnly. "I did. And I really wish I hadn't." John's eyes narrowed, and Greg threw a hand over his own mouth. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it like that, John. I just meant…"

John waved his hand. "It's fine. Let's just keep going." He said tersely.

The two of them continued down the tunnel, flashlights glowing dimly against the shadowed walls, followed closely by Mycroft and two other officers.

Of all the things John had experienced with Sherlock, the one thing that would always echo in the deepest, darkest corners of his brain was the sound of Sherlock's screams.

The screaming continued, caused by what John could only imagine to be a considerable amount of pain. However, one thing John realized was that Sherlock's screams were also Moriarty's sick way of giving him a clue to Sherlock's whereabouts. He followed the screaming, directing them deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels underneath the morgue's basement.

John knew they were getting close when the screams increased in volume. He forced himself forward, holding his gun aloft. Greg was close behind, trying to control his rapid breathing. Mycroft was shaking, actually shaking; John could practically feel the man's tremors through the floor.

Finally, a grate appeared ahead, throwing a minimal amount of light into the tunnel. John tiptoed right up to it. He could hear Sherlock's screaming loud and clear now. He peered through the bars, but couldn't see anything except Moriarty's feet and the legs of a bed…

The legs of a bed?

Oh, God.

John turned to the rest of his team. "Okay, listen up," he hissed in his softest, most deadly voice, "Sherlock's in there, and he's tied to a bed. Moriarty's doing something to him-God knows what, though I hope I'm wrong in my assumptions. Now hear this; we are not leaving without Sherlock. Understood?"

The four others solemnly nodded.

John turned back to the grate, and then remembered something. "Oh, and one last thing…"

His eyes flashed with a vengeful hatred. "I get first shot at the bastard."

Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head. He knew that he was going to lose consciousness, and very soon. Where was John?

Moriarty put the finishing touches on the pattern on Sherlock's chest, then stood back to admire his handiwork. "Y'know, I wouldn't make a bad artist," he remarked as casually as if he was commenting on the weather. "But killing people is so much more fun!"

Just then, the grate near the bed burst open, and a body rolled out into the room. The person immediately stood up and trained a gun on Moriarty.

John. Sherlock smiled. He had never been so glad to see anyone in his entire life. He had known all along John would come for him.

"Drop it," said John, pointing at the blowtorch in the psychopath's hands.

Moriarty's face transformed into a devilish grin. "Really? Okay!" he said cheerfully, and he dropped the torch, still lit, straight down.

Right on Sherlock's chest.

The flame hit his rib cage with the force of an elephant, and Sherlock's head filled with a white noise. His eyesight blurred as Moriarty ran from the room and John chased after him, yelling something after him. And suddenly, there was someone standing over him, lifting the torch off of his chest, and Sherlock was so relieved, he could finally slip away into his mind palace, into blessed unconsciousness, to the silence that beckoned him…

Until someone slapped his bruised face. Hard.

"Owwwww." Sherlock slurred, trying to move his uncooperative mouth. His eyes watered and then came back into focus to see Greg Lestrade standing over him.

"Sergeant Graves, head back out to the others and tell them to get down here immediately. And call an ambulance, for God's sake!"

One of the other men (there were three others as well as Lestrade…when had they come in?) headed back into the grate. Sherlock could hear him yelling.

Suddenly, Sherlock gasped. "G-Greg!" he rasped, his throat constricting slightly. "J-John…I need…John…went after him…stop him…please!" he rambled in a string of nonsensical words. However, Greg understood. He darted out the door, with a "don't-let-him-out-of-your-sight" hurled over his shoulder.

Sherlock's brow furled as he looked at the other two men. One was standing slightly to the front. Very well, he would do. Middle age, wife, two children, no affairs, recently hired as a backup officer for Scotland Yard. Balding, fairly tall, steel-blue eyes, tan skin (due to a vacation in the Bahamas a few weeks ago). Lactose intolerant, wears contacts, allergic to wheat.

Sherlock sighed. At least his mind was mostly intact. After all, the rest was just transport.

The man moved away a bit, to inspect a suspicious-looking stain on the wall. Sherlock's vision clouded again at the sudden movement, but soon cleared, leaving him staring at the other man, who was now approaching his bed.

Who…oh. Oh. OH.

Sherlock knew exactly who this was.

Mycroft Holmes leaned down over his brother's mangled body. "Sherlock. Tell me how you are hurt." He said tenderly

Sherlock looked up into the soft, caring eyes of his older brother.

And punched him in the face.

"Well, well, well. Come to save your lovebird, finally?"

John stepped out onto the hospital roof and glared. "He's not my lovebird. He's my friend. A friend who you have severely wounded, both physically and psychologically. For which I definitely intend to. Make. You. Pay."

Moriarty frowned and held up his hands in self-defense. "Really. No heroics, please. I find them so bo-ring!" he said in a singsong voice.

Moriarty stepped closer to the army doctor. "How does it feel, Dr. Watson?" he smiled innocently. "How does it feel to know that Sherlock's broken, and that there was nothing you could do about it?"

John yelled in rage and stumbled forward, forcing Moriarty to the very edge of the building. "SAY THAT AGAIN, YOU BASTARD!"

Moriarty grinned, teetering on the rooftop. "Try not to lose your temper, honey! After all, if you hurt me, I'd have to kill you. And Sherlock really needs you, especially right now. It'd be a pity, really."

John glared. "Why do you care?"

The consulting criminal sighed. "Because I need Sherlock to survive." He rolled his eyes. "Duh."

John raised his eyebrows and stepped back, allowing the criminal to get his footing back. "Why?"

Moriarty gave him an it's-so-obvious look. "Because Sherlock and I…we were made for each other, John." he spread his hands. "He needs me as much as I need him."

John stepped forward, putting the gun under Moriarty's chin. "No, he doesn't. Sherlock has never needed you, Jim. And you know what?" He pulled the gun away and leaned in close, whispering his next words. "He never will."

Jim's calm façade flickered for just a moment, but then reappeared. "Nevertheless, John, he really can't be allowed to die. I would be so BORED!" he whined.

"Really?" John asked with gritted teeth. "Well, I'll give you this; Sherlock will survive. In fact, he'll probably be blowing up the flat in a month or so. But you…you will be bored for the rest of your sorry life, Moriarty. Which most likely won't be that long, if Mycroft has anything to say about it."

Jim snorted. "That fatty? He doesn't scare me."

It was John's turn to smile deviously. "He should."

Jim's calm disappeared completely. "Why? What did I miss?" he yelled.

John smirked. "As you were hurrying out of the basement back there, you left something behind. Something I gather to be very important."

Moriarty's face went completely blank. His hand instinctively went to his jacket pocket, but he found nothing there.

John pulled a thin datastick out of his jeans pocket and waved it around. "See?"

The criminal's face contorted into a horrible look. "Give it to me, John Watson."

John tilted his head. "So it is important, then?" he nodded in satisfaction. "Good."

Moriarty darted towards him, reaching for the important datastick, but John sidestepped the man easily.

Jim stood there, panting. John was near the edge of the rooftop, still holding the datastick.

"I will use this, and I will destroy you." John said, voice edged with a dark menace that he rarely used. "And then? Then you won't be bored. Oh, no, you definitely won't be bored then."

They stood there for what seemed to be ages, the consulting criminal and the ex-army doctor. One triumphant, one desperate.

Jim lunged towards John, knocking him backwards toward the edge of the rooftop.

Time seemed to stand still.

They were locked there, the consulting criminal and the army doctor, struggling on the very tip of Bart's morgue rooftop. The very place where Sherlock and the same criminal had stood four years before.

And then, almost in slow motion, Jim rolled them both over, towards the edge of the roof. They grappled with each other, trying desperately to stay on the roof. John kept a tight grip on the datastick, trying to throw the consulting criminal off.

Nearer and nearer to the edge they drew, until both their upper bodies were hanging off the edge.

Jim threw John off of him.

A single body fell from the roof of St. Bart's hospital and landed with a sickening thud on the pavement below.

The End

Or is it?