AN: This is the final chapter. There are four endings to this story. I have written two. Let me know if I should post the other.

Chapter Seven

three years later

Sherlock trudged up the stairs to his flat, expensive shoes scuffing against worn steps. The case had been dull, a three at the most, but he'd needed a case. Needed to get out of the empty house.

Mary had lived with him for two years now. She said she needed help balancing the baby with her medical career but Sherlock had never believed her. She took care of him more than he ever did her, fussing over him like some mother hen. He'd never said it, but he was grateful. It was hard to believe the same woman had shot him all those years ago. How times had changed.

Mary was attending a week long medical seminar and had asked if he could look after Sherly. He hadn't been surprised that badly since John had asked him to be his best man. How could she be so trusting of him, a man who experimented with severed thumbs? A man who got off on catching murderers and psychopaths. A man who had failed her in so many ways and broken the single vow he ever made. If he'd never come back…

He crossed the rapidly darkening room as evening set in, one pale hand covering his eyes. He thought vaguely that Mrs. Hudson must have taken Sherly out after he'd left the girl in her care. He often did that, but he didn't think either party really minded. Mrs. Hudson adored the little girl just as he was sure Sherly loved her. He could never stay around the child for too long anyway. He knew those eyes would find him, and in those eyes would be no blame or anger, only trust. He didn't think he could bear that. It had nearly broken him when her first word had been "Sh'lck."

Dashing away tears and memories with them he looked out at London.

It was quiet. So very quiet.

Moriarty's attacks had stopped after John's death. He'd expected Sherlock to follow him, and he'd wanted to. God he'd wanted to tear that man apart, but Mary had stopped him. Told him that he'd be playing into the game. That Moriarty would kill him and John would never have wanted that. It had taken some convincing, but he finally agreed to wait him out. Bide his time.

His anger had not diminished. Not in the slightest. He wanted Moriarty to return. Wanted to snap his little Irish neck, granted that he got there first. He'd seen the spots of ink on Mrs. Hudson's hands and the quick stroke of them, suggesting her anger bordering on violence. Of course he'd also read her journal where she carefully detailed all the ways she planned on making Moriarty pay for everything he had done to her boys.

Sherlock smiled a little at the thought. Martha Hudson could be quite scary when she put her mind to it.

Stars were peeking out above the smog now. How cold their light seemed to be.

He turned away from them to look back into the lonely room when he came up short.

There was a red arm chair with an old, faded RAMC pillow hanging haphazardly off the side, sliding slowly off the armrest until it fell to the ground next to a pair of shoes. And in the shoes there were two feet, and the two feet belonged to a man, slumped in a chair fiddling with an old cane.

The man looked up and grinned at Sherlock's startled expression. It had been so long since he'd seen that grin.

"Hello, sweetie."

A madman's grin.

"Jim." Sherlock nearly surprised himself with how cold his voice sounded to his own ears.

Moriarty stood, twirling John's old cane about.

"Now is that any way to address an old friend? I must say I was rather disappointed when you didn't show up in Switzerland."

"Reichenbach. The bombing at the falls."

"Oh, so you did know then?"

"'Course. Obvious."

"Naturally. You didn't come."

"No."

"Why?"

"Better things to do. Seemingly domestic murder, but the woman's left foot was missing. Also had to pick up some milk and beans at the market."

Jim scoffed. "Oh Sherlock, look how dull you've become. You were so much more than this. You've practically domesticated yourself."

He tsked, tapping the cane against the floor, punctuating his words. "And what for? People? Feelings? They're your real enemies Sherlock. They make you so weak. And every time you try to get close to someone it'll just…blow up in your face."

Sherlock's gaze turned steely hearing the threat. His voice remained cool.

"You would know."

"'Course I'd know. I was like you once. So hopeful."

"No, you weren't."

"No, I really wasn't. I do know hope though. I like watching it leave."

He paused for a moment, picking fuzz off of his tie.

"I hear the good Inspector and his wife are expecting. Twins was it?"

Sherlock stiffened. Jim ignored him.

"And aren't children just a remarkable thing. So hopeful. I imagine Johnny's girl is like that too. He was so painfully optimistic, up until I stabbed that brand through his chest. Had to do that myself by the way. Dear old Irene just didn't have the stomach for it. He got blood all over my shoes."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock balled his hand into a fist behind his back.

"Because there's nothing you can do to change it. And there's nothing you can do to stop me from doing the same thing to everyone you love. Love is a weakness Sherlock, and I'll burn it all away."

"There's nothing left to burn."

"We both know that's not quite true."

He dropped the cane.

"You seem to be quite fond of Mary." He rolled his eyes, making dramatic air quotes around her name. "Then there's your housekeeper, the old bat downstairs; then the Inspector and his family; little miss Molly; and the baby will be last. I'll burn them all, and your heart will burn with them till it goes cold, and I'm all you have left in the world."

"No."

Moriarty raised his eyebrows.

"And how do you propose to stop me?"

"I could kill you."

"Didn't work before."

"I'd pull the trigger."

"Of what? This?"

Moriarty pulled John's old Browning out of his pocket. The gun Sherlock always took with him on cases.

"You're unarmed Sherlock. You couldn't stop me even if you weren't."

"And why's that?"

"Because they're already dead."

Sherlock's mind reeled. It was as though all his thoughts were collapsing in on themselves.

"You're lying."

"I'm not. And you know I'm not."

Hot bubbling rage burned through Sherlock's veins. He would kill him. He would…

Both men turned to the windows as they saw the glare of headlights. Mrs. Hudson stepped out of a cab holding a squirming toddler.

Sherlock whirled around to see Moriarty's face, shocked and panicked, just as the madman leveled and cocked the revolver at him.

Sherlock backed half a step away before the gunshot broke the stunned silence. Both men heard Mrs. Hudson cry out downstairs at the sudden noise. They stood for a moment.

And James Moriarty fell to the floor, a bullet between the eyes.

Sherlock scrambled backwards, head jerking towards the now broken window and he began to deduce.

Bullet through window, closest building on opposite side one-hundred meters away.

Long-range pistol.

Dark night. Cloudy. Windy.

Good shot. Steady hand.

Knew the circumstances. Knew Moriarty and him. Not only knew him, but would shoot a man to save him.

Sherlock stopped the pacing he didn't know he'd begun and smiled.

In an empty room with a bleeding corpse he smiled. And into the darkness he spoke.

"Hello, John."

Fin?