Disclaimer: Unneeded. Public domain. 3

Notes: OK. I've finally decided to post this story here. This is the [sort-of] follow-up to my other Moriarty/Holmes canon rewrite (A Morning Encounter). I hesitated before because I was unsure of the rating, but I guess this will kind of just squeak through on an M rating.
Like the previous one, this uses dialogue from the old radio play of "The Final Problem." Unlike the other one, this one deviates more from canon and so has a lot of original dialogue as well.

Warnings: Sexual situations with questionable consent (verbal denial, but no physical resistance), [canon] character death
*This is much smuttier than my first canon rewrite. It's also, I feel, not as good as the first, but I hope you can enjoy it nonetheless.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty breathed, reptilian eyes meeting Holmes' across the misty space between them. Though the whispered name was laden with layers of unnamed emotion, those eyes, so turbulent with contradictory feelings mere moments ago, now revealed nothing at all. Suppressing a shiver at the professor's voice, Holmes shifted into a defensive stance.

"You see, I've found you after all - and alone."

"Alone… As indeed you must be, too…"

As the two rivals continued eying one another, fists held loose but ready before them, it seemed that all the words they had just spoken in this, their second and final encounter, hung in the air around them. It was as if the noise and spray of the falls held them trapped there, a soft, silken counterpoint to the roar of Reichenbach.

"Are you prepared?"

Still looking into Moriarty's eyes, hoping they might at least reveal his next move, Holmes heard again the man's first question to him. Then, unlike now, Moriarty's eyes had burned, had overflowed with the vengeance that had been leashed in his voice. Of all the feelings which weighted the mist around the two men, that was the easiest to understand.

He had not understood (or, like so many times since their first meeting, had chosen not to understand) the change in Moriarty's anger when he had asked if he might write to Watson. The professor had most obligingly allowed it, but had seemed to take an almost gloating delight in telling Holmes how it was he who had sent the note calling Watson away.

"I knew it at once – and that it could only come from one source."

"And yet you let him go?"

"Yes, professor, I let him go! I am not without some affection for him."

Holmes recalled the irritation he had felt then, at Moriarty's disbelief. It had caused him to look up from his writing to snap at the professor. Now, it was directed at himself as he also remembered the quickly suppressed thrill of pleasure he had felt when Moriarty's eyes had narrowed in dissatisfaction at that reply. He edged a step forward, watching as his opponent matched him.

"Besides… I've looked forward, for a long time, to this final… duel between us."

That statement, in all its stark honesty, had followed Holmes' explanation past his lips without thought. Until the words had left his mouth, he had not even allowed himself to contemplate how much he desired this encounter. It was past time to meet again and to put an end to... whatever it was between them.

"I believe it, Holmes. You're a very remarkable man, in many ways."

Holmes still kept his eyes on Moriarty's, searching also for any hint of the admiration that had glowed in them as he had said those words. There was nothing of that intensity of regard that had caused the detective to quickly return his gaze to his letter.

"Many, many ways, sir."

The professor's words had continued in that same caressing whisper that had haunted Holmes since their first meeting, that had filled him with the conflicted desire both to run to and away from his nemesis. His pencil had shaken in his grip not only at the low vibration of those words in his ears, but at the positive heat he had felt in Moriarty's regard. Holmes' cheeks flushed at the memory of it and it was that which finally brought emotion back to those reptilian eyes.

"I'm proud to have known you."

Admiration, hatred, want, anger… Whatever it was that radiated again in Moriarty's gaze, Holmes could not meet that intensity long enough to identify it. His eyes dropped to his opponent's shoulders and his hands relaxed ever so slightly from their guard.

And it was then that Moriarty made his attack. His body shifted left and Holmes, unforgivably distracted, moved to meet that assault, realizing too late that it was a feint. Before he even had time to call himself a fool for dropping his gaze from the other man's, which would surely have given the deception away, he felt a sharp blow to his back followed by a foot hooking his ankle, dropping him to the ground.

I forgot how fast he was… The thought slid across his mind as he lay there on the damp earth of the trail, dazed and thoroughly winded. There was no time for self-recrimination or to catch his breath before Moriarty was on him, knees to either side of Holmes' right leg. The professor grabbed his wrists, pinning them above his head with one hand while the other went to Holmes' throat. The fingers brushed hotly along the flesh there before tightening to a throttling grip.

"Oh, and I you, professor."

His own words, said in honest response to Moriarty's, echoed back to him as his body began to weaken. Pride, however, did not even begin to encompass what was between them. He had never known an opponent like the professor – one whose intelligence rivaled Holmes; own… One who made the game of cat and mouse, with its constant shifts in who played which role, so exhilarating.

He struggled his eyes into focus on Moriarty's face. The other man's lips were pulled back in a voiceless snarl and passionate anger burned out of his narrowed eyes. That intensity… It sent a shiver through Holmes' body as well as a rush of frantic energy. He managed to twist one wrist free from Moriarty's hold and he brought that hand to the one at his throat.

"Hand to hand?"

"Yes."

How like lovers they had sounded, discussing how they were to kill one another. Was it the inevitability of this encounter that had made it all so intimate? Holmes had stripped all of Moriarty's power from him, left him with nothing but revenge. And the professor, in turn had become the pinnacle of the detective's career. There was no direction for it now, except down.

Holmes' hand stilled, resting over the one that was choking the life from him. He had, as he had (perhaps cruelly) intimated in his letter to Watson, already accepted his death at Moriarty's hands. All that remained was to ensure that the professor died with him. He closed his eyes and focused what strength of will and of body he had left into his limbs.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

It took Holmes a moment, as his oxygen-starved brain planned out his next moves, to realize that Moriarty's words were no echo of his whispered parting. The voice was rougher now, the professor's breathing harsh after the words, as if he too were being choked. Holmes' eyes snapped back open to look up at the other man's face as the hand around his throat loosened, allowing breath once more. The detective could not comprehend what dark emotion it was that chased the anger across Moriarty's features, fought behind his closed lids as the two men panted almost in unison.

Understanding came, however, when Holmes shifted underneath the other man and his trapped leg came into contact with the hardness in Moriarty's groin. He froze, eyes widening as he finally registered the unnatural heat of the body above him and of the hand at his throat.

"How shall it be, Moriarty?"

His question of moments before hovered in the tension between them. Moriarty opened his eyes once more and Holmes inhaled sharply, nostrils filling with the man's unique, heady scent of gunpowder and herbs.

This. What Holmes had seen hinted at in those serpent's eyes in their first meeting – what he had heard in the sensual whisper of his voice – was now radiating from them. He swallowed, his hand unconsciously tensing to grip Moriarty's as his leg moved again to brush the other man's arousal.

"Holmes." His name was little more than a drawn-out, super-heated breath, hissing from between the professor's parted lips before they moved down to cover Holmes'. He found himself able neither to resist nor to respond as teeth nipped at his lower lips and the hand at his throat shifted out of his slackening hold to grip the back of his neck. After a confused, breathless moment, Moriarty pulled back and whispered his name again, "Sherlock Holmes."

The emotion there, whatever its nature, vibrated in every cell of his body. No one else said – had ever said his name so profoundly, or looked at him with such exquisite passion. With a soft groan, Holmes moved his free hand to grip the back of Moriarty's head, drawing the other man back down. He parted his lips this time, inviting the hot tongue that slipped in to stroke hard against his own. Fine tobacco, he tasted, closing his eyes, and the same intoxicating spice of Moriarty's scent. He groaned again, louder this time, and tangled his fingers in the other man's hair as heat suffused his body. He tried to return the rough caresses of Moriarty's tongue while his free leg hooked behind the professor's knee. With a third groan, hummed into their kiss, he rubbed the growing hardness in his groin against the one above him, again and again.

"Yes," Moriarty broke their kiss to hiss the word into Holmes' ear, his expressive voice somehow communicating amusement, lust, and triumph.

Holmes' hips stalled in yet another thrust against his enemy's and his hand dropped to his side. "No," his mouth soundlessly shaped the word as he shook his head, eyes still closed, not daring to meet the hypnotic power of the other man's. "No," he repeated more firmly, beginning to fight against Moriarty's hold.

The criminal mastermind, however, had the advantage of position. He subdued the detective's struggles, pinning his arms against his sides and sitting down firmly on his trapped leg. Holmes opened his eyes then to glare at the man above him, but the unchanged fire of Moriarty's gaze caught him. "You cannot lie to me, Holmes," he said, both anger and lust harshening the man's deep voice. "I know you as well as you know me."

"Well then," Holmes began, mind fighting light-headedness and the unabated heat of his body to form a coherent response. "You'll know that I'm not in the habit of... of forming such… liaisons with mortal enemies."

"Mortal enemies," Moriarty repeated, musingly. "It is an apt term, perhaps. And yet…there is more than that between us…" As he spoke, he released his hold on one of Holmes' arms and shifted his weight off his leg. The detective took swift advantage of this freedom, rolling to his side and jerking his other arm free. His opponent, however, used this momentum against him and rolled him onto his stomach before moving over him. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, but this only pressed his back against the warm body over him and pushed his bottom against the hardness in Moriarty's groin. The professor chuckled against his ear, eliciting a shiver. "A part of me does indeed wish to kill you, Holmes," he continued, finally, his warm tone at odds with his cold words. "You have taken everything from me and my anger requires vengeance. And yet…" his voice trailed off as a hand moved to the fastenings of Holmes' trousers. The detective gasped as Moriarty roughly undid them before slipping that hand inside to grip Holmes' still-hard manhood. The other man chuckled again, breathily, and that sound stilled the struggle he had been about to make. "There is a connection between us, Sherlock Holmes."

"No," Holmes moaned weakly, denying his own body's shameful response to Moriarty's voice and touch as much as the man's words. "No," he repeated, eyes fluttering closed, trying to deny the rocking of his hips and the flush of his cheeks as Moriarty began stroking his arousal.

"Yes," Moriarty countered, the word hissed out against the back Holmes' neck. They were followed by a soft kiss and a lick.

Holmes shuddered against the other man's body, but he fought to keep his mind clear, even if his body betrayed him. "I would see you dead, Moriarty." With each motion of the professor's hand along his shaft, it became more and more difficult to form coherent speech. "Hanged… by my hand… I would have so-society free of yo-you."

"I don't doubt it," Moriarty whispered, his lips once more against Holmes' ear. "But that does not alter the simple truth that you need me." He accompanied those words with another stroke to Holmes' member, finishing it with a firm brush of his fingertips across the tip. Holmes cried out and his trembling became so strong that his arms would no longer hold him up. He collapsed down onto his elbow, pillowing his head on his forearms. Moriarty shifted over him, leaning back and then Holmes felt the professor's free hand slip into the waist of his trousers, pushing them gently down with a caress down Holmes' hip. "You need me," he repeated huskily, switching hands on Holmes's arousal and moving his now free hand around the detective's hip, across the curve of his behind, to the cleft between his cheeks.

"No," Holmes said for the fifth time, as Moriarty placed a finger slick with the detective's own fluid against his entrance. The small corner of his mind still unclouded by desire, though, recognized that the syllable had lost its meaning. "Ah!" he cried out – in pain as that finger pushed into his body and in pleasure as the man's other hand caressed his member.

"You deny it, Holmes." His name became a moan as he clenched around the finger inside him. "You reject it as-" Moriarty's speech became harsher, deeper than ever and punctuated by panting breaths as he continued his ministrations. "As a man might sometimes reject his kinship with the image in a mirror… But you cannot deny that – we – are – the –same." His last word was almost drowned out by Holmes' cry as Moriarty's questing finger found that one spot within him. The man stroked it again and at the repeated electric thrill of pleasure, Holmes rocked back against him, drawing a groan from the professor as he brushed against his arousal. "Bond… fate… destiny…" With each word, Moriarty pressed his finger into Holmes' prostate while his other hand pulled roughly at his manhood. "Call it what you will." The deep, husky voice rumbled sensuously in his ears, but Holmes, pressure building to a climax within him, found it harder and harder to understand their meaning.

"Mo-" He stopped himself, just in time, from calling out the professor's name. Instead, he bit down on one of his forearms to hold in his cry as he went over the edge. Moriarty! He cried in his mind as it went white with wave after wave of pleasure. Distantly, he felt Moriarty's hands leave his body, heard the rustling brush of fabric against skin followed by a moan and a wet noise of flesh on flesh. Then, one hand returned to clutch his hip.

"We are the same," the man repeated, pressing his arousal against Holmes' opening, "Sherlock Holmes." Holmes shivered again at that deep whisper of his name, though it changed to a shudder of pain as Moriarty entered him. He muffled another cry in his arm as the other man thrust into him, though it was not as painful as it might have been.

My own seed, Holmes realized, cheeks flushing with shame. The thought was driven away, however, when a stroke of Moriarty's shaft hit his prostate.

"Holmes," Moriarty moaned as the detective's muscles clenched around him, free hand moving to his other hip, both hands gripping tightly. He made one, two last, hard thrusts into Holmes and then, with another moan of his name, released deep within him.

"Moriarty," Holmes whispered in reply, unable to deny the shiver of pleasure he felt at the heat inside and at the sublimely passionate sound of his name on Moriarty's lips. Another tremor shook him as the professor withdrew himself, and then removed his hands from Holmes' hips. He had not realized how much that grip had been holding him up. With a sigh, Holmes collapsed down onto the trail as Moriarty moved away from him.

What have I done? He asked himself. The Napoleon of Crime! He reminded himself what manner of man to whom he had just given himself. And yet, he could not find in himself any self-recrimination. It had been an inevitability.

Slowly, he pushed himself up. He winced at the dull ache that radiated from his lower body and at the feel of Moriarty's seed within him. He pulled up and fastened his trousers and then moved to join the professor where he stood at the very precipice, gazing at the falls.

"It had not been my intention to.. do that," he said, half echoing his words from the beginning of this encounter. How he had sensed Holmes' approach when his eyes never left the rushing water and his ears were filled with the roar of the falls, the detective did not know.

"I know," Holmes replied, voice only just loud enough to be heard over the falls. "You meant to kill me, as I did you."

"You meant to kill both of us, I think," Moriarty said, finally turning to face Holmes. "You see, Holmes, I know you. We understand each other as no one else can."

The words stabbed into him, all the sharper for their truth, "How will it be Moriarty?"

"The same," the professor answered. Then, unexpectedly, he lunged at Holmes. The detective defended himself reflexively, grabbing an arm, twisting, and throwing his assailant off. At the last moment, his mind grasped what was going on and he clutched Moriarty's arm again as the other man went over the edge. He was pulled downward and he landed hard on the ground at the verge, but still he held on.

"Moriarty?" he asked, looking down at the man hanging below him. Moriarty looked back up at Holmes, blinking rapidly as bits of dust and debris fell into his eyes as the detective slid a bit.

"You cannot go with me, Holmes," he said, apparently unafraid of his fate. He chuckled, and in spite of it all, Holmes still felt a shiver down his spine at that warm sound. "Many of my lieutenants are still free and in my absence they will seek to rebuild my organization."

"The Yard will deal with them," Holmes replied doubtfully, keeping his grip strong, though he slid again, closer still to the edge.

"They will seek revenge on you… and all those who helped you." The detective's eyes widened with understanding and horror. "You see, you cannot fall with me, and yet…" He smiled up at Holmes, his reptilian eyes narrowing with genuine pleasure. "You have given yourself to me, Holmes – and whatever of you I have, I take with me. My revenge, Sherlock Holmes. No one will understand you as I do," he added in a whisper, barely audible.

And then he twisted his wrist in the detective's grasp, freeing himself to fall. A cry sounded sharply over the roar of Reichenbach, as Holmes watched Moriarty fall. He scrambled away from the edge to turn his face away from the sight, though the image of his nemesis striking hard against an outcropping would be forever burned in his memory. Still, somehow, the cry continued… until the pain in Holmes' abused throat showed to him that it was he who shouted. He closed his mouth and sat there in dazed silence.

This is not how it was supposed to be… This was not how he was supposed to feel at Moriarty's well-earned demise. What am I supposed to do now?

Before he could find anything approaching an answer, he heard shouts echoing up the path, from a distance. Watson? He recognized the voice which shouted loudest, urging his companions on lest they arrive too late.

It is too late, Holmes thought dully, standing up and preparing to turn and head down the trail to meet his "rescue party." As he did, though, he again felt the slide of Moriarty's seed within him – heard his voice whispering "we are the same."

I can't be seen like this… Not by Watson. He could not face his friend, the most honest and morally upright man he had ever known, after… what he had just done. He did not want to see if there was, in fact, a bound to Watson's loyalty.

Coward, he cursed himself. And yet, he thought, sharp mind searching for some justification in the flight he currently desired above all else, if they think I am dead, Moriarty's lieutenants will become complacent. It was a compelling enough argument.

He looked around himself for some other route, but found only the cliffs below and above, sheer and damp. Still… it would not be impossible to climb at least to the next ledge above him. With what strength, will, and courage he had left at that moment, he scaled the cliff as far as that ledge and pulled himself onto it and out of sight just as Watson and the men he had called to his aid came into sight.

Body, mind, and heart weary past endurance, the great detective watched as his dearest friend, and those with him, came to a not entirely erroneous conclusion.

Sherlock Holmes had died with his nemesis, Professor James Moriarty.