They talked for hours about a great many things.

The conversation started off a little rocky, and perhaps a little awkward. John told Sherlock all about what had happened after Sherlock had passed out. Sherlock had of course already heard it from Molly but John provided a different perspective, so he was happy to let his friend talk. Sherlock apologized yet again for scaring everyone, thanked John for taking care of Molly and Mycroft, listened to the story of John's trek to the village, got a little angry at the way the local police had handled it, and laughed at John's description of the looks on their faces when the government showed up.

By the time John started talking about how Rosie was doing and what he had been doing all week, Sherlock felt considerably more comfortable and the urge to flee had mostly dissipated. When the conversation finally turned back around to the obvious, Sherlock was nervous but ready to talk about it.

He told John everything in complete honesty, not leaving a single thing out. The good, the bad. All of it. The truth about what and who he had been in his previous life, his death, his reincarnation, how long he'd been hiding his secret, all of it. There wasn't any point in lying about it. The secret was out, so John might as well know the whole truth.

John was understandably shocked about the existence of Middle Earth and about the fact that Sherlock had been reincarnated. He was even more surprised when Sherlock commented that John actually reminded him quite a lot of the little hobbit, the Barrel Rider and Maker of Riddles who had played a crucial part in his death.

"I remind you of one of the people who killed you?"

"In all the best ways. And he isn't technically one of the ones who killed me per say, he just flushed me out of the mountain."

"By covering you in molten gold?"

"That was almost entirely Oakenshield and his little band of dwarves. But yes, you are correct."

"How?"

"Well I just told you, they pulled a little trick on me to get me to light the forges and then there was a statue-"

"No, I mean how do I remind you of him?"

"You look like him. And he had nice manners, like you. Excluding that he was a thief and a liar, of course. He was a hobbit, so he was considerably smaller than you. But you look and sound so much like him that not long after we met, I began to suspect that you were reincarnated too, John. Though, there's no way to prove it. And if you were, you obviously don't remember it."

"What the bloody hell is a hobbit?"

"They're among the peoples who inhabited Middle Earth. He wouldn't tell me exactly where he was from, just that he came from 'under the hill', whatever that meant. Hobbits were small, only about the size of a child, and they had big furry feet." Sherlock chuckled, remembering how the tiny John-like figure had scurried over the gold. It was amusing only in retrospect of course, he had been simply furious at the time.

Once they got past that topic, it turned into how it felt to die.

"I felt the pain when the arrow hit my heart." Sherlock said. "It was such a small injury, but where it was made all the difference. It hurt so much. But it didn't last very long. In a panic, I just flew. Up and up and up over the lake as high as I could because I didn't want to fall. I could feel myself slipping away, but I didn't want to. The last thing I remember is everything going black. And when my vision returned, the first thing I remember is Mycroft looking down at me as a child."

"That must have been really scary." John said, unable to hide his sympathy.

"It was. It took me a while to come to terms with the fact that I wasn't a dragon, anymore. And learning to walk on two legs was a pain in the ass."

"So then, how long have you been able to turn into Smaug?"

Sherlock told him.

"Wow." Was all John had to say. "Just- you've been keeping all that to yourself all this time. Didn't you ever feel lonely?"

"Dragons are solitary creatures by nature. Alone was what we had. We filled the empty space in our cold, black hearts with treasure. We were simply too big and too competitive to share territory any longer than the breeding season."

"Do you ever miss it, then?"

"Miss what? I can turn into a dragon whenever I wish now, so I can't say I miss that-"

"Your horde, from your previous life. All that treasure and your home under the mountain. You died for it, I know it meant a great deal to you."

"Of course I don't miss it." Sherlock said. "Every single piece of treasure under that mountain may have sparkled, but they were all just cold, lifeless pieces of replaceable metal and rock, every single coin and gem identical to all of the others. You, Molly, Mycroft, and all of the others who I hold dear, are made of flesh and blood with unreplicatable personalities all your own. You are irreplaceable. I'd happily trade all of that cursed treasure, every scale off my body, and even my soul for just one of you."

John tilted his head and pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. And just as Sherlock was beginning to think he may have said something a bit not good, John surged forward and hugged him yet again.

The rest of the story was told with little incident. John was an excellent listener and he asked as many questions as he wanted without a single complaint from Sherlock. He had never really gotten to talk about that side of himself before, and it felt really good to talk about it. The conversation never once ran dry until an alarm on John's phone went off reminding him to go pick up Rosie from daycare. They were both shocked at just how long they had just been sitting in the flat, talking like the old friends they were.

John left to go pick up Rosie, promising to return so that Sherlock could see her before they went home to 221C. Apparently John had moved out of 221B and into 221C during the week he was out. He knew he probably should have been upset, but his first thought when he heard the news was: Now Molly can move in!

Love really does make men mad in the very best of ways.

Long after John had taken Rosie down to 221C so that the two of them could retire, Sherlock stood by one of the windows of 221B composing and thinking. Unlike the gentle, content-sounding piece, Bliss, that he had been strumming in the gardens at the hospital, this piece was among his darker ones. It was slow and solemn with moments that created a sense of tension and nervous anticipation, then a sudden ferocious cacophony of notes. He was titling it, The Hunt, and that was exactly what Sherlock was thinking about as he composed.

The swirling tornado of emotions, both good and bad, had made Sherlock temporarily overlook something very important that he knew that he couldn't ignore.

Moriarty.

Sherlock was composing and forcing himself to think about the hunt ahead in order to distract himself from the anger at himself that was stirring in his gut. While he had succeeded at the most important thing: saving his precious horde, he had utterly failed at the second most important thing: he had failed to kill James Moriarty.

The man simply needed to die. It didn't matter how not-boring their games were. Every second that man was alive on this Earth was a second that those he held dear were still in danger. Sherlock would make good and damn sure he was dead this time. It was the only way to make the world truly safe for those he held dear.

The fact that John now had a baby daughter and Sherlock had a good possibility of a bright future with Molly made Moriarty's death all the more necessary.

Sherlock stiffened at the sound of a soft knock upon his door. He stopped playing and turned. Intently, with the sensitive ears of a dragon, he listened. The sound that met him was that of a nervous shuffling as someone shifted their weight from foot to foot, then bounced anxiously on their heels intermingled with the rapid, excited beating of a heart and the soft exhale of breath as the woman standing at the other side of the door sighed to herself.

Molly.

He would know Molly's sound anywhere.

Knowing she was here made his heart beat a little faster and a smile grace his lips. Sherlock set his violin beside his chair and crossed the room in three long strides. He paused only momentarily to straighten his suit and ruffle his hair in a way he knew she liked before he took a deep breath and opened the door.

The moment the two of them laid eyes on each other, both of them were flustered. Molly even more so. Her reddened cheeks, fidgeting, and the way she almost immediately avoided his direct gaze somehow added to her beauty. Her makeup was subtle yet nice and she was dressed in a simple dark blue velvet dress and flats. Her usual auburn ponytail was accented with a braid on each side. Her slender neck and cute ears were adorned with sapphires and gold just as sweet and subtle as the dress. It suited her. Much better than the last dress she had tried to wear in this flat, the one she'd worn at that Christmas Party some years ago. That one had been so utterly not-Molly. This dress was sweet, humble, elegant, and intelligent all at once; all things he loved about the person wearing it, actually.

"Sherlock!" She piped up, trying and failing to appear brave and confident.

"Molly." He said, smiling and leaning casually on one arm in the doorframe, trying to quiet his own internal screaming but hiding it considerably better than she was. His brain was screeching deductions at him that he was trying his best to ignore. She's wearing blue, a color I am well known to like. Red lipstick. Overnight bag. Bottle of birth control pills sticking out of a bag side pocket. She wants- fuck.

Sherlock was suddenly very grateful for his choice of wardrobe at that particular moment. Simply because he had felt like it, not too long after John left, he had changed into a particular well-fitted purple shirt that he knew for certain drove Molly insane whenever he wore it. He hadn't even put it on with her in mind. It was simply a comfortable shirt.

"Erm, hullo." She said, clearly noticing the sudden pause. Sherlock mentally smacked himself. Get a grip!

"You- you look beautiful. I mean- you always look beautiful to me but you erm- I like the dress. It's much better than that one from a few years ago. Sorry- forget I said that. The point is, you look particularly beautiful right now." Sherlock said, trying with every ounce of emotional knowledge he had to not accidentally say something a bit not good and screw this up.

If possible, her face suddenly got even redder. She's so cute! Shit! "Thank you. You look- you always look good, Sherlock."

"So," Sherlock stepped aside to let her into the flat and forced himself to avoid looking at the way that dress went perfectly with her curves. "What brings you by?" He knew of course, but stating it bluntly might be a bit not good.

"I um, I haven't been sleeping well at home and I was wondering, erm, Sherlock-" She stepped into the flat and Sherlock closed the door behind her before turning around to face her. "CouldIpleasebewithyoutonight?" She asked quickly.

I haven't been sleeping well at home. Sherlock's eyes landed on a fading bruise on her collarbone that she had failed to completely conceal with makeup.

Deep inside his mind palace, the dragon poked its head out of the gold and gowled. Now isn't the time to get angry all over again. She isn't just here for- other things, she's here because you make her feel safe.

Sherlock smiled warmly at her and reached out to pull her into a hug. She relaxed a bit in his embrace and he buried his nose in her hair, cherishing the smell and feeling of her. "Of course you can stay with me, Molly. You can stay with me whenever you want, for however long you want. My door is always open."

She looked up at him and Sherlock found himself entranced by her eyes. They were such a lovely, warm brown, and it was surprising to him that such innocent eyes belonged to someone who had seen so much. He was so busy staring that he wasn't anticipating it when she suddenly dropped her bag, threw her arms around his shoulders, and her mouth met his in a frenzied kiss.

Sherlock wasn't surprised for long and in an instant, he was kissing her back. He had kissed Molly Hooper a great many times that day, and yet every time felt like the first time all over again. But at the same time, this kissing was different from the others. It was heated, needy, lustful, and both of them wanted to go much further than just kissing and were quite determined to do so.

Sherlock picked Molly up by her thighs and backed her up to brace her against the wall so that she had no choice other than to wrap her legs around his torso. Sherlock groaned and let his hands start to explore as her slender fingers dug into his curls and scratched his scalp in such a wonderful way. Sherlock moved his mouth from her lips to her neck, muttering a mantra of her name and "I love you" over and over as he planted gentle open-mouthed kisses along the length of her throat. Molly tilted her head back as far as it would go to give him better access, gasping and moaning in a way that sent Sherlock's blood south. He must have been doing something she liked, because she started grinding her core against him. And call it weakness, but he started doing the same immediately.

Moriarty could fucking wait. The whole world could, for all he cared. He was in love. He had fought, and he would soon have to fight again. But for now, he could forget about consulting criminals, dragons, and all of the other baggage that came with being Sherlock bloody Holmes and remind himself of what kept him human. For now, he could just be happy and lose himself in the marvel that was her.

Sherlock woke up abruptly at about three o'clock in the morning. Happiness bubbled up inside him the moment he realized he was spooning Molly in his bed and his brain caught up with him as to why, and what they'd done just hours before.

The happiness didn't last long.

Something was wrong.

Sherlock's instincts were screaming danger signals at him. He could feel the inconsistency in the air where there was something in the flat that shouldn't be, and the soft sound of a heartbeat, breath, the tapping of a wooden sole on carpet, and- dare he say it, the sound of 70's Pop music softly playing through a pair of earbuds. All of this, coupled with a smell. The revolting stench of someone who most certainly was not welcome.

Sherlock didn't have to check a mirror to know his eyes were orange. Molly is literally right next to you. Remain. Calm.

Sherlock maneuvered himself out from under her, careful not to disturb her, and quickly put on a suit at the same time that he started growing scales all over his chest and torso; a makeshift bulletproof vest. He could feel his horns starting to poke out, hidden by his curls. And when he tested it with his tongue, his teeth were undoubtedly longer and sharper than usual. Sherlock fought for control, trying with every molecule of discipline he possessed to refrain from changing any further.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned sharply and pressed a finger to his lips. He didn't need to explain. She saw the subtle changes in his face, and she saw the amber glow to his eyes, and she knew there was only one thing that could make him like that. She knew. And in an instant, she was up and quietly pulling her dress back on.

Sherlock snuck out of the room, careful to step quietly down the short hallway. His sound and his stench got stronger with each step. And then, there sat the bastard himself. Jim fucking Moriarty. The cocky prick was sitting in John's chair chewing bubble gum and tapping his foot to the beat of some song by the Bee Gees.

Sherlock tried to refrain from ripping the man's face off right then and there by sitting up straight and proud with his hands clasped behind his back. The last time James Moriarty had been in his flat, he'd had complete confidence and control and had shown it by rudely sitting in Sherlock's chair. But the fact that he was now sitting in John's was a dead giveaway. It was clear to Sherlock that the consulting criminal's encounter with Smaug, the Dragon Dread, had taught him some manners when it came to Sherlock. He didn't know if the man was trying to appear in control by pretending to take his sweet time acknowledging Sherlock or if he was genuinely that lost in his music, but Molly was just in the next room and Sherlock was already pissed.

"Jim." He said sharply and sternly, using Smaug's voice just to get under the criminal's skin.

Moriarty looked up at Sherlock, popped a bubble, finally took those damn ear buds out, and stood up. The two men faced each other and for a moment, maybe two, neither said a thing.

"I would've visited you at the hospital," Jim said, "But you know- all the armed guards. I was put under the distinct impression I wasn't wanted."

"You were not, and I'm so relieved you were nowhere near me while I was in a coma."

"I'm disappointed too. It would have made this so much easier." Jim said. And then, there was a gun pointed right at Sherlock's chest. No matter, Sherlock had been expecting that very thing. And under the deep red shirt Sherlock had thrown on, Jim had no way of knowing that Sherlock's entire torso was bulletproof scales. Still though, Sherlock had to be careful. If he moved too suddenly then Jim could move his aim from his chest to his head, and that wasn't bulletproof.

Sherlock cracked a smile and slowly started to walk around Jim towards his own chair, even if doing so did put him right by the window and therefore in easy view of the snipers that were most likely outside. He didn't want a gun pointed anywhere near Molly's direction. "Come now, Jim. A gun? Don't tell me your time in hiding has made you predictable." Sherlock said, increasing the volume of his voice on purpose both to let Molly know what was going on, and to hide any noise she might be making from Moriarty's ears. Sherlock wasn't certain whether or not Jim even knew she was here, but he was giving her a chance to take him by surprise, anyway.

Molly! If he manages to kill me, she's here. He was going to rape her, himself. Those other pigs were the fucking backup plan. If he kills me- The thought was enough to make the dragon inside him snarl with rage. I can't let that happen. I can't let him have his way with her! Despite these thoughts swirling in his mind, Sherlock kept his face passive. He didn't even know if Jim knew Molly was there.

"I know what I saw that night, Sherlock." Jim said with a shrug, as if he had seen Sherlock turn into a pixie instead of a dragon. "And I don't know how, but I know it was real."

"What was real, exactly?" Sherlock smirked with a tilt of his head. He kept his eyes open, just to let the criminal watch the orange creep into his blue orbs like spreading flames. "What exactly did you see that night, Dear Jim?" He asked. Smaug's voice was meant to strike fear, and Sherlock got exactly the reaction he wanted. The sheen of sweat on the criminal's forehead, the slight flicker of uncertainty, the tightening of his fingers around the gun, and the subtle movement of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. "Go on. I want you to say it." Sherlock growled. The odor of fear in the room was steadily increasing, and deep in Sherlock's mind palace, Smaug the Terrible was rising from the gold, shaking the coins off of his gargantuan body, preparing to spread his wings, his haunches tightening in preparation to pounce, his inferno rising in his chest.

Sherlock kept his eyes trained on Moriarty, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Molly creeping barefooted down the hallway as stealthily as possible, the gun Sherlock kept in a bedside drawer in hand. How fitting it was, that it was that particular weapon. It was the very same Army Browning L9A1 Sherlock had held steady the night at the pool when he came face to face with Moriarty for the very first time. She's armed. And she's strong. Even if you die, she won't let him do anything to her. Sherlock told himself.

"You're not ordinary." Jim said, still refusing to say it outright.

"No, Jim. No I'm not ordinary. But do tell me, what about me exactly isn't ordinary? Go on Jim, you know that wasn't the answer I was looking for. Say it!"

Jim swallowed. "You're a dragon." He finally said with an insane giggle. "A bloody. Fuck mothering. Dragon… and I suppose that makes me a dragon slayer, doesn't it?" He asked.

"Dragon hunter, not slayer." Sherlock corrected. "I'm not dead yet."

"True, true. But there's just one thing, Sherlock. One teensey thing I just have to know before I kill you. Which, I am doing. Tonight. You just can't be allowed to continue to be alive, not now that I know what you are." He laughed, pupils tightening with madness. "A dragon! A demon who fights on the side of the angels!" He shook his head. "That just doesn't make sense, does it? No sense at all. You shouldn't exist. Dragons don't exist. Except, clearly, they do! So just tell me, Sherlock! Tellmetellmetellmetellme HOW!" He shouted the last word. "How? How and why do you exist? Because I think I might go mad if I don't get that question answered." His voice cracked with desperation.

Sherlock never got the chance to decide whether or not he wanted to answer that question, because at that very moment, his phone rang. It was in his pocket, and he'd know the ringtone anywhere.

"It's Mycroft." Sherlock said, returning his voice to its' usual baritone. "If I don't answer it, this place will be swarming in a minute."

Jim's jaw tightened with frustration, but he gave Sherlock a nod.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and answered it. "Brother mine."

"Uninvited house guests are an awful bother, aren't they Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice asked over the line. He knew Moriarty was there. Of course he did. "Especially at three in the morning when they bring two dozen snipers and another handful of hired muscle with them. If that's what's holding you back, we got them all. There's nothing but civilians and special forces in a three block radius. So please do the entire world a favor and make good and damn sure he doesn't fake it this time."

"You're absolutely sure you've taken all the black pieces but the king?" Sherlock asked.

"With utmost certainty." Mycroft replied on the other end of the line.

"Alright then, checkmate." Sherlock hung up and set his phone down on the arm of his chair behind him.

"You're helping your dear brother with chess, now?" Moriarty asked. But Sherlock knew he was bluffing ignorance. He knew.

"The greatest game ever played." Sherlock said. He would give Moriarty that honor, but no more. It had indeed been a great game. The greatest game ever played between two of the greatest players any world had to offer. "Your backup is gone. Mycroft took them out. It's just you and me."

Moriarty took a deep breath. He knew he was done, but he still had hope that he could take Sherlock out before he fell. His aim moved from Sherlock's chest to his head, his finger started to tighten- There was a deafening bang and a rose of crimson exploded out of Jim Moriarty's shoulder an instant before a lone 9mm bullet buried itself in the wall between the flat's two windows from Sherlock's Army Browning L9A1. Thank you, Molly! Moriarty cried out in surprise and pain, his aim was thrown off, and Sherlock didn't fucking hesitate.

Simultaneously changing but not feeling the pain, Sherlock launched himself at the Consulting Criminal with a force equal to the bullet that had pierced his shoulder. Both man and beast (but which was which?) were thrown into the kitchen area and Sherlock shouted, "MOLLY, BATHROOM!" Before he sank his teeth into Jim's flesh, and his mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood. James Moriarty screamed in absolute agony and terror, legs kicking and hands pushing Sherlock's head, beating his snout, grabbing his horns, trying in vain to plunge his fingers into Sherlock's eyes, but to no avail. Sherlock saw red and his ears were filled with a cacophony of ripping clothes and flesh, snapping bones, and deafening wails.

Then there was silence. And all was still.

Shaking in the bathtub in the bathroom of 221B Baker Street, Molly Hooper shut her eyes tight and held the gun close with her hands clamped firmly over her ears, trying to block out the horrible noises coming from outside. The screaming, the snarling, the shattering glass, and the ripping and squelching of flesh being torn apart. Her whole body was vibrating and her heart was still racing. I shot someone. Molly had never shot anyone before. She'd been aiming for the center of Jim's back, hoping the bullet would sever his spine and pierce his heart, kill him quickly. But her hand had been shaking so much out of fear that she was about to lose Sherlock, and out of her own fear at taking a life, that it had hit his shoulder, his shoulder connected to the arm pointing the gun at Sherlock. And because she'd been sloppy, Sherlock was outside finishing the job.

She wouldn't look at him any differently after tonight. She knew who and what he was and what he was capable of, but she loved him all the same. His heart had too much good in it for Molly to agree with Jim. He was no demon. Maybe in a past life, he had been. But not anymore.

Still, that didn't mean she wanted these sounds in her head, haunting her nightmares.

The screaming soon stopped, but the snarling and ripping continued.

Then, it was quiet.

A minute passed, maybe two. Or was it an hour? When Molly heard the door to the bathroom open and the sound of someone entering, then shutting the door behind them. The shower curtain was closed, but Molly didn't have to see who it was to know. What had just joined her in the bathroom was too big to be a man. Still, Molly had to be cautious. Holding the gun in front of her, Molly used the barrel of it to push the curtain aside so she could see out.

The dragon wasn't nearly as big as the one who'd rescued her on the island. In fact, Molly realized, Sherlock was far from fully transformed. Apart from the obvious difference in size between this version of Smaug and the one from last week, his body wasn't nearly as serpent-like and his face seemed more… human.

But he was a dragon, all the same. He was so big that Molly was shocked he'd fit through the door. He barely fit in the bathroom. He was hunched over the sink, his front talons gripping the counter and his massive wings were tucked in, concealing most of him from view. His long tail was coiled around nearly the entire circumference of the room before wrapping around the back claws of his feet. The blood soaking his muzzle and his claws did not bother Molly in the slightest. He was staring at himself in the mirror taking forced deep breaths in an obvious attempt at calming himself down.

Molly slowly put the gun down and stepped out of the tub. Cautiously, as not to startle him or step on his tail, she took the two steps forwards before gently brushing her fingers against the rough deep red scales on the side of one of his wings. He stiffened at her touch and a growl rose from his throat, but Molly kept gently petting his side, and his entire body relaxed like a taunt spring being slowly unwound. Molly had to take a step back when he opened that wing, but she recognized that he wasn't pushing her away by doing it, he was inviting her closer. Once he wrapped his wing back around her, though Molly knew it was a silly thought, she couldn't help but think it was like being in a big tent. And the only thing in it that mattered was him. Sherlock was physically fine but it was obvious to Molly that he was distressed. He avoided her gaze, his chest was glowing orange, his breath was almost as if he was trying not to cry, and his entire body was shaking.

"Sherlock," Molly said gently. "Sherlock, look at me."

He whimpered.

Molly reached out to tilt his huge head to look at her. "Look. At. Me." She said with a little more firmness. Once their eyes met, his eyes went from slits to about as dilated as they could possibly go and a sound almost like a purr escaped his throat. Molly didn't know how human he was at the moment, but all the same she smiled at him and gently stroked his snout before planting a kiss on his nose and resting her forehead against his head, the blood not bothering her at all. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here. He's gone."

Just as he was seeming to finally be calm, he suddenly stiffened and abrubtly pulled her to him, staring at the door and snarling like a dragon ready to commit murder.

"Sherlock- what?" That's when Molly heard it. Many sets of footsteps thundering up the steps of the flat. She heard the door slam open, and the sound of many people entering the flat. "He's dead. I repeat, James Moriarty is dead, over." A voice said. It was English. Sherlock relaxed slightly, but remained tense. One set of footsteps started down the hallway. Or was it someone with three legs? Sherlock stiffened again, then immediately relaxed, even more so than before. No. That was footsteps, plus the sound of an umbrella on wood. Mycroft.

Now it made sense. That was why Sherlock relaxed. The footsteps started to walk past the bathroom, then stopped, turned back to the bathroom, and there came a soft knock on the door. "Sherlock? Are you in there? Are you all right?"

"Yes, Mycroft. We're in here." Molly said.

"Ah, Dr. Hooper. You're here, too. I thought there was someone else here, though I half expected it to be Dr. Watson. Are you both well?"

"Erm, physically I think so but well, just open the door a crack."

The door opened, and there stood Mycroft in the hallway. He paused momentarily in surprise, but recovered from it quickly enough. "Ah. I take it that he hasn't calmed down just yet."

"Erm, no. He hasn't actually said a word since-"

"Yes, I saw what he did. And I applaud your work, Sherlock. At first glance it just looks like an animal attack, but you were careful to destroy every single major organ beyond repair including the brain and heart. There's no possible way he survived that."

Sherlock- Smaug, whichever one of them they were talking to, didn't say anything. And despite the fact that he was victorious, there was no pride in his eyes at what he'd done. He just grunted and gave Mycroft a curt nod.

Mycroft smiled in a way that was almost understanding and reached out to give his brother an affectionate rub on the nose. "You had to do it, Sherlock. For everyone's sake. You know that, don't you? What you did wasn't pleasant, but it also wasn't wrong."

"I'm not sorry for what I did." Sherlock said at last. "I'm sorry I had to do it… it was a waste, Mycroft. He was- God, I hated him. I hated him and I wanted to kill him so badly. But now… He was so much like us, Mycroft. He could have been something great. Something wonderful. And not only that, but I- I could have been him. Or even worse. Such a foolish, sentimental thought. I tend to only reserve those for a select few." Molly felt his tail brush against her thigh, definitely on purpose.

"The what-ifs are not something to be dwelled on. Have a good night, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "I'll finish cleaning up here. Then I'll be off."

"Burn the body." Sherlock said. "I would have done it myself, but I like my flat."

"It's just a dead hunk of flesh now, Sherlock. He's gone."

"Call it an old Middle Earth superstition, but I'd really like it burned." Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded and started to close the door, but Sherlock spoke and made him pause.

"Thank you, Mycroft. For saving my life. For saving both our lives."

Mycroft smiled. "What is family for?"

And then, Mycroft quietly shut the bathroom door. And they were alone together once more.

Mycroft left the hallway and quickly made it clear to the operatives that they were to go nowhere near that hallway for any reason before finally standing aside and just watching them do their work.

Sherlock had been vicious and thorough. Moriarty's intestines were only halfway inside his body, his neck and throat were all but destroyed to the point you could actually see his spine if you looked at the right angle, and his chest had been torn open. In addition to that, there were scratches and bites on every single limb where Moriarty had vainly tried to defend himself and there was a set of three holes in the top of his skull where Sherlock had plunged his talons in to destroy his brain. Mycroft wasn't sure whether Sherlock had incinerated it with a little ball of fire or eaten it, because the criminal's heart was just gone with a spot of burnt flesh where it should be. It reminded Mycroft of what Moriarty had sworn to do to Sherlock, once. I will burn the heart out of you. On either side of the missing heart, both lungs had been clawed beyond repair and as for everything else… it looked like every other organ in there had just been stuffed in a blender and then poured back in. Still, perhaps as a way of preserving his enemy's honor (or possibly just to make damn sure the world knew whose body it was), the criminal's face, splattered with his own blood, was largely untouched.

Just looking at that glassy eyed, handsome face, Jim Moriarty almost looked peaceful in death, despite the violent way his life had come to an end. And Mycroft supposed that whether there was a hell or if he'd moved on to another life as Smaug had, anywhere else had to be more peaceful than this life he lived. Despite his brilliance, the mind of Jim Moriarty wasn't stable, and maybe it never had been from the moment he'd come into the world. And he was always bored. Always searching for something more. It was that search that had led him to Sherlock, and that had been the beginning of the end for him. And yet at the same time it seemed to Mycroft that his time on Earth facing Sherlock had been the only time in his life when the criminal had truly lived.

Trying not to vomit, Mycroft looked away.

And in a show of perfect timing, that was when John came running up the stairs followed by Mrs. Hudson.

"Mycroft!" He exclaimed. "What's going on?"

"Bleeding hell!" Said Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson, there are certain things that you could go your whole life without seeing. If you would please go downstairs," Mycroft practically begged, "All will be made clear to you."

Despite the landlady's protests, Mycroft signaled to one of the officers, who escorted her back down the stairs. John could take it, and he already knew about Sherlock's other side. Mycroft was certain however, that Sherlock wouldn't want his beloved landlady to see his dirty work.

"Mycroft, what is going on? What can't Mrs. Hudson see- Jesus!"

"You see now why I didn't want Mrs. Hudson to come in here?" Mycroft asked.

"Is that-"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is. He paid Sherlock a visit with a gun and Sherlock finally ended it."

"Oh my god. Where's Sherlock? Is he hurt?"

Mycroft leaned in so that only John could hear him. The special forces squad didn't ask questions, and they didn't know about Sherlock's other side. "Sherlock is in a rather… fiery mood right now. You could almost say he's simply… monstrous."

John understood what Mycroft meant, immediately. "Dear lord, where is he?"

"He is locked in the bathroom right now with Dr. Hooper trying to pull himself together. I think it would be wise not to disturb them until tomorrow afternoon."

"Molly is here?"

"Yes, it would seem she stayed over." Mycroft said smugly. He hadn't missed the hours-old post-coital glow, he simply hadn't said anything about it. "It was she that drew blood first, actually. From what I gather, Moriarty was preparing to shoot Sherlock and Molly shot him first; through the shoulder. Then Sherlock finished it."

"Remind me never to get on Molly's bad side."

"Dr. Hooper is too often underestimated, but in my experience she is a force to be reckoned with." Mycroft said, recalling the scar on his side where she'd stabbed him with the key to her flat years ago.

"I suppose she'd have to be. No one lesser could possibly handle Sherlock as she does."

"Indeed."

"You're sure I shouldn't-"

"Dr. Watson, your value in Sherlock's eyes cannot be undermined, but I believe that each of them is the best person to comfort the other right now. The best and only thing for you to do right now is to go back downstairs and calm down Mrs. Hudson and your daughter, then think of a way to write about all this in that blog of yours without even mentioning you-know-what."

John looked like he was about to say something else, but he just nodded and went back downstairs.

Sherlock went mute again after Mycroft left. He heard John's voice outside at one point, but he really didn't want to see John right now. He didn't want anyone else to see him like this. He didn't want anyone else in the flat at all, honestly. He just wanted the special forces team to finish cleaning up the awful mess he'd made in his kitchen and leave. Then, and only then, would the nightmare truly be over and he could finally be at peace. For now, all he could do was slink into a far corner of the bathroom in a ball as tight as he could and as far from the door as possible and wait it out until he was calm enough to turn back into his human self.

Fortunately, he didn't have to do it alone. Part of him wished Molly wasn't there to see him in such a state, and part of him was selfishly glad she was there. Molly didn't need him to ask to know that he didn't want to talk right now. Wordlessly, she turned the light off so that the room was illuminated only by a night light plugged into the wall and by the orange glow coming from his chest. Then she fetched a towel from under the sink, got it wet, and gently started wiping the blood from his face. All the while murmuring sweet nothings and giving him soft rubs on his horns and his jaw. Sherlock purred in the back of his throat and wondered how it was possible for one person to bring him so much joy. Once Molly was satisfied with the state of his face, she fetched a fresh towel and started on his front talons. By the time she was done with those, the flat was silent other than the two of them, and Sherlock realized that Mycroft had left and had taken the others with him. At last, they were alone in the flat. And still, they stayed locked in the bathroom for quite a long while. Not saying a word. Just letting the last few hours sink in and taking comfort in each other's company. Sherlock couldn't help but wrap his wings around Molly when she started running the wet cloth on his chest and neck, cleaning off the splashes and splatters of crimson.

His chest had long since ceased its amber glow as Sherlock calmed down, but it was only when Molly was nearly done that Sherlock started to change back. He whined and whimpered when it started; having seen it already once before, Molly reacted better this time. Sherlock tried to get away from her, not wanting to accidentally lash out, not wanting to hurt her, but she stubbornly stepped into the bathtub after him, pressed herself up against him and hugged him, muttering sweet and soothing words that truly did come from the heart. And because he was selfish, so so selfish, he leaned into her touch and tried his hardest to focus on her. Not the screaming agony of his nerve cells as his bones popped and cracked and changed their size and shape, as his muscles, tendons, and ligaments detached, reattached, and changed their structure, as his scales forced their way back into his body, and his organs squirmed and shifted and found new homes. Sherlock used every bit of self control he had not to touch her until his front limbs were arms once more and his fingers no longer ended in claws. Then he wrapped his arms around her tightly with his face buried in her chest and bit his lip to keep himself quiet, but he couldn't stop the tears in his eyes as his body made its final adjustments. Until finally, it was done. And he knelt before her on his knees, clothes that had been torn to ribbons by the change barely hanging onto his body and steam rising from his hot skin.

But even when the pain ceased into a dull throbbing ache, Sherlock cried. The physical suffering had started it, and the pain was part of it, but the overwhelming emotional roller coaster that had been the last few weeks coupled with the sheer magnitude of recent events kept the tears coming. And as his sobs slowed mere gasps and hiccups, as she always had been, Molly was there. Stroking and murmuring and holding him close. Until finally, at maybe five o'clock in the morning, he was placid. It was then and only then, sitting in the bathtub with Molly leaned against him between his legs, that he finally spoke.

"Molly." She looked up at him with those eyes. Those beautiful, warm, intelligent, innocent eyes.

"Molly, I-" God, why was he tearing up, again? And why was this so hard? It was in his head, it was true, and it needed to be said. So why couldn't he find the words?

"I'm sorry."

She turned around in his lap so that she was facing him. Sherlock opened his mouth, he knew what he wanted to say, but he wasn't quite sure how. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it. I'm sorry for waiting this long to finally return your feelings. I'm sorry that every time something terrible happens, it's somehow because of me. I'm sorry that you're constantly worried about me. I'm sorry that I'm a horrible, selfish man who has decided to keep you with me despite how dangerous I am. I'm sorry that you were nearly raped because of me. I'm sorry for Jim bloody Moriarty. I'm sorry that my soul is used, left over from another life. I'm sorry for tonight, I wanted you to have just one night of peace with me after all that's happened. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…

But all that would come out was, "I'm sorry Molly. I'm so sorry."

And she smiled and wiped the tears from his eyes with her thumb, and he knew that she understood exactly what he was trying to say. And when she leaned forwards and kissed him, he knew in his heart that she didn't see anything for him to be sorry for; she forgave him. His marvel. His Molly.

Then she took him by the hand, and he followed her out of the bathroom at last and out into the hall, then into his bedroom. Their bedroom. And he apologized to her again. Rather than with the words that wouldn't come, he apologized with his kisses and conveyed his feelings with his tender touches and soft murmurs of "I love you." And again, she forgave him. She forgave him with her own kisses and gentle nuzzles, and with her fingers interlocked with his own as he showed her just how much he loved her.

"I love you."

"I love you."

"It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important."

― Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

"I would rather spend one lifetime with you than face all of the ages of this world alone."

― J.R.R Tolkien