Last chapter! What started as one-shot, grew into ten chapters, thanks to some persuasion.
I don't have a speech or anything to give to share my appreciation, but, just, act like I did and it was something that Lincoln or Churchill would be proud of.
Oh! One more thing before you read! I have some ideas for a sequel—and I will type it up—but, if you want, I'll post it as well if I get some approvals. Actually, one will do. I don't need a whole bunch. I'll do it for one.
Two weeks speedily went by and, by that time, John was out of the hospital and recovering with a schedule of telly, tea, and slumber. A total of thirty-six people were found dead in "Moriarty's House of Horrors", as the press had been calling it; the other twenty-six were found buried, burned, or in barrels. Moriarty had, as Lestrade told Sherlock before, not been found, although there was a massive manhunt, which still yielded no reliable results.
As John fell asleep in his chair, a wool blanket around him, the telly lightly on in the background, a steaming cup of tea next to him, and the afternoon sun peering through the windows, Sherlock took out his mobile from his jacket pocket.
"Can I trust you?"
-SH
He got a reply less than a minute later. He smirked contentedly as he read it,
"If you like."
-IA
His phone beeped again five seconds later with another reply,
"But, where's the fun is that?"
-IA
The title came from Doctor Who and, therefore, it had to end with some as well.
Hey! If you review, I'll tell what happened to Irene...and I don't think I'll give you the outline, compressed version of it. I think I'll actually write it out. (Note: from the moment where she threw down the gun to the text above.)