Wow, this took ages, but things suddenly got very hectic this week...sorry.

Anyway, this is the FINAL CHAPTER. Capitalised, because I'll feel awful having to explain that to people who don't notice the 'complete'. Reviews are very very welcome, and thankyou, genuinely, to everyone who's followed, favourited, just read...I very much appreciate it, and hope the conclusion is to your liking! BMOTR x

Time ceases to be meaningful. Sherlock leans forwards, pressing himself against the door so that he feels the cool burn of the metal on his cheek. Pale eyes strain in the half-light, trying to see past the white tiling, round that corner at the very end of the passage, where he can hear those footsteps drawing ever nearer.

Judging by the volume of the footsteps, and the likely distance from his line of vision, Sherlock guesses the time that would have to pass in order for him to see this visitor. He listens intently to the ticking of his watch. Although his brain recognises that the movement of the second hand is at its usual pace, he can feel his mind distorting it out of proportion, trying to make him believe the passage of time was greater. This is what ordinary people's brains spent their time doing, and Sherlock is affronted by the relapse of his own, rather more extraordinary one.

The footsteps are undoubtedly becoming louder, the perpetrator covering the last few metres that were still out of Sherlock's vision.

Step. Step.

Expensive soles click on the contrastingly cheap plastic tiles.

Sherlock takes a step back from the door, suddenly and oddly excited. He feels anticipation – and yes, that was hope – run up his arms, send a tremor through him. His eyes don't move, fixed unwaveringly on the chipped white of the wall, around which this man would appear.

It's almost in slow motion that the first foot appears around the corner. Clad in impeccably polished leather, its tread is slow and sure…no doubt for dramatic effect, but still undeniably effective. The detective holds his breath, letting the tip of his tongue dart out, investigating his lower lip, as the corners of his mouth twist upwards.

His eyes move from the foot, to the face of its owner.

Dark brown eyes greet him, widened slightly as the man moves – always an exaggeration of expression, to some extent he was a caricature of a normal person. Or, wearing mask of exaggeration, hiding something else. Moriarty was intriguing, as always. Fascinating, perhaps.

His walk is almost a slope, and yet he somehow manages to inject power and confidence and dignity into it – and Sherlock finds himself fixated. He'd forgotten quite why Moriarty was so captivating.

The man is perfection down to the last polished button. He's immaculate. No human failings. This is what perfection looks like…and why no one should attain such levels of it.

To be so polished, so accurate, so clever: it's never enough. Attributed to a man who didn't suffer from ailments of morality or conscience, he became a contradiction in terms – perfect, and completely wrong.

The idea sends a little thrill through the detective, and for a moment he's unsure entirely what it is: it's not unlike the rush he gets from the drugs…but it's different. It's bad.

Fear.

Sherlock swallows, trying to understand the feeling. He was in no immediate danger…Moriarty appeared unarmed. Neither was he afraid of the man's demeanour, or what he could do. He'd proved once he was more than a match for him.

Unable to identify the source of the fear, the feeling intensifies. It's irrational, the very opposite of how he operates. If he has to feel, he makes sure he has complete control over his emotions, and can justify them. He blinks, and tries to compose himself, drawing his attention from his thoughts, and back to the man a few feet away.

Jim Moriarty draws a bunch of keys from his pocket, his expression morphing into a slow smile as he selects one from the ring, and inserts it into the door of Sherlock's cell. The lock clicks as the key smoothly rotates; and the door swings open, so that the men stand face to face with only the door frame separating them.

Sherlock swallows again. On this second occurrence, he registers that the action is unnecessary, and also the emotions Moriarty would read from it. Infuriated, he stands a little straighter, meticulously drawing up his exterior. There are cracks in it, he can feel them.

Still not a word has passed between him and the man before him. Under Sherlock's gaze, Moriarty takes one more step forward, so that he stands inside the cell with the detective. He lets a grin spread over his face, and Sherlock detects his own feeling of unease increasing.

"Well," Moriarty says, taking the time to flick a careless glance around the four walls. Oddly, the Irish drawl to his tone makes the word sound even more condescending and aggressive, although Sherlock can think of no logical reason why that should be. "This is nice."

His eyes widen in mock amazement.

"Oh, it's quite the lap of luxury," Sherlock counters, injecting sarcasm into every syllable. Moriarty makes no reaction. He digs his hands in his pockets, and allows himself a little smile.

"I wouldn't have thought John Watson, of all people, would be the man to put you here," the consulting criminal muses, beginning to pace the width of the room, hands still slung casually in his pockets. "Well, I suppose I would, Sherlock…it was rather the point. Turns out I understand him better than you after all."

Sherlock glares across the few feet to the other man, and wishes he had the threat of a weapon, like with their last confrontation.

"Funny," he comments, arching one eyebrow to gaze patronisingly at Moriarty. "Throughout this whole thing, there's been scattered stabs at me: the children, the drugs…all designed to hurt me, I'm sure…but no point. Nothing that would justify the heart clue. You've not burned my heart out, Moriarty, you've made several half-hearted attempts, and failed."

Sherlock emphasises the last word, puts as much venom into it as he can muster, intensifies his glare aimed at the other man's face. Moriarty still doesn't so much as flinch. He stands serene and unperturbed, apparently not worried that his great plan had failed. He removes his hands from his pockets to press his fingers together, a mocking parody of Sherlock's own mannerism.

"I've not failed," he tells Sherlock, simply. He turns his head away.

The detective watches him curiously. Part of him desperately wants to know why; whilst the other part – whose voice currently sounded suspiciously like John's – knew it was most sensible to leave well alone.

Well, he generally ignored that part. It was boring.

"How?" he asks.

"Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty drawls lazily. "Could it be that you haven't worked it out yet?"

Sherlock smiles, moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin, a little breathless. What had he missed? Think.

Moriarty begins to walk around him in wandering circles, speaking as he paces, his tone wavering from gleeful to smug, patronising and powerful.

"You see, the thing is…I am burning you. I've been controlling you for months."

"No you haven't," Sherlock corrects him, derisively. He returns to his thoughts, Moriarty's voice becoming a drone in the background.

"I've controlled your life since you saw the death of that first child on the news."

"You have not."

The other man laughs then, a low snicker in the back of his throat. Designed to give the air of knowledge, Sherlock doesn't buy it.

"What was her name again?" the pacing man asks.

"Laura Mitchell."

"Yes," he concurs. "Yes it was. She was sweet. Rather innocent and wonderful, it was a shame she had to go. You can think of it as your doing, if you like."

Sherlock smiles then, moving to lean in the doorway, in effect trapping Moriarty inside. His smile is more a smirk, and the light behind him causes dark shadows to linger on his features. The man opposite him almost scowls, and Sherlock's smirk turns self-satisfied.

"Why would I do that? I was neither the murderer nor the killer's patron."

"You were the motivation," Moriarty hisses through his teeth, leaning forwards to emphasise the point. "Without the motivation, there would be no murder."

Sherlock almost scoffs at that.

"If this is your attempt at 'burning' me, then it is incredibly crude, not to mention ineffective."

The sudden movement that follows startles the detective: Moriarty lunges across the room at him, his fingers finding their way to Sherlock's throat and swinging him round, slamming him against the wall so that lights danced in front of the detective's eyes.

"I don't like to get my hands dirty," he whispers. He's so close Sherlock can feel his heart beating against his own chest, and tries to squirm away, but the other man's hands are surprisingly strong. He can feel Moriarty's breath on his ear, his lips inches from the lobe as he continues. "But I think I might make an exception…my dear."

Choking, Sherlock tries to see straight. He lifts his hands in an attempt to prize the other man's fingers from his neck, his vision is becoming blurred as he tugs desperately, trying to loosen the grip. Grey smoke begins billowing in front of his eyes, obliterating the peeling white walls, obliterating those dark, eerie irises, obliterating the ability to breath. Unable to manage it, Sherlock begins to see its benefits.

The grey begins to turn black, Sherlock's all but lost the ability to even struggle. He feels his body turn limp and slump against the wall, feels and understands how it will now begin ceasing to function. He tries desperately to catalogue the event: if this is dying, he wants to understand it, to know what it feels like…it was hardly an experiment he could repeat tomorrow.

Consciousness slipping away, Sherlock registers a loosening of fingers around his throat. Useless, his body crashes down the wall onto the floor, but he manages to tip his head backwards and force his eyelids open to peer at the man standing over him. Moriarty has completely relinquished his hold. Sherlock peers at him, coughing, and massaging his neck with his hands.

"Go on then," he goads, unable to muster the energy to lift his body from the floor. His voice croaks and breaks from being crushed. "Kill me. I can't stop you."

It takes effort, but he spreads his arms wide, trying to infuriate the man before him.

"Go on," he repeats, his voice gaining volume, although still scraping over the words. "Do it. Or don't you have the stomach to do it yourself?"

Moriarty's lip curls. Sherlock manages a breathless grin, and pushes himself a little further up the wall, so that he is sitting up straight, still panting from the attack. With the light from the corridor framing him, the sockets of Moriarty's eyes are in deep shadow, giving him a skull-like appearance. Sherlock watches him smooth the creases from the front of his suit, and waits.

"It's funny," Moriarty comments, his tone casual and amused. "I really would have expected you to have worked it out by now. Turns out I over-estimated you."

"There's nothing to work out," Sherlock sneers, giving as haughty an expression as possible from where he was still slumped on the floor. "You tried to fulfil your promise to 'burn my heart out', and failed. It was a rather feeble attempt."

The soft laugh at his comment enrages him, and he manages to scramble to his feet, although he still has to lean on the wall behind him for support.

"What?" Sherlock demands.

"Let's talk about John Watson, shall we?"

Sherlock scowls. Moriarty was stalling.

"No. Let's talk about this."

"No." Moriarty insists, taking a step towards Sherlock, and staring at him. His face was expressionless. "Let's talk about Dr Watson."

Sherlock folds his arms, and stays stubbornly silent. He taps one foot, and examines the hinge of the door across the room, deliberately ignoring the other man.

"Why?" The consulting detective fashions his voice into a tone that is cold and uninterested. His eyes scan the hinge. Slightly rusted, probably about ten years old. Could be a security risk, but this place was usually heaving with police. Unquestionably dull.

"Perhaps," Moriarty begins, slowly, "perhaps because you seem so unwilling. Perhaps because he's the reason you're here. Perhaps I'm just interested to know if there's truth in all the talk about you boys."

He smirks, and moves to sit down on the bed, crossing one leg over the other primly, and clasping his hands on his lap. Gradually, he leans forwards, so that he looked across at Sherlock with wide, mocking eyes.

"What about him?" the detective snarls, becoming bored of Moriarty's 'games'. This time, it seemed like a provocative front, with nothing of interest behind it. Just an empty, jeering threat.

"Don't you think it's funny that you push the few people you love away mercilessly?"

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat.

"I don't know what you mean," he tells the other man dismissively.

"Yes you do."

When Sherlock once again refuses to answer, Moriarty picks up his irritating monologue, standing as he does so. His voice becomes high and amused.

"All poor John did was try to help you," he points out, jabbing Sherlock accusingly in the chest with one finger, and pacing past. "But you keep rejecting him. Over and over. He can tell when you're lying, you know. Did you ever apologise for what you said about his sister?"

"Shut up," Sherlock tells him. He can feel his jaw tensing.

"And what about Mycroft?" Moriarty asks, a smile forming gradually on his lips. "He's only ever cared about your wellbeing, and you can't even manage a civil conversation with him."

Sherlock stands stock still, paralysed. Something sparks in his chest, a tiny jab of pain. It's odd.

"I've come to the conclusion that you're afraid of your own feelings." Moriarty states. "You couldn't deal with your love for your brother…you pushed him away. You care about John Watson, but you're too afraid to admit it, forget show it. Your solution is to refuse both their efforts to help – just to prove that you were right…and that you really are just a sociopath, after all. My name is Sherlock Holmes…and I always work alone. That's right, isn't it?"

Sherlock watches the man throughout his little speech, thinking. His pathetic excuse for a plan begins to emerge, and Sherlock pushes away the scalding pain in his chest to focus on his own amusement towards Moriarty.

"So you're going to try and use John and Mycroft against me," Sherlock announces, bored. He rolls his eyes, and walks to sit down on the white bench. "Original."

"You're half right," Moriarty concedes, heaving a sigh. "Not Mycroft. With his power? Why would I waste an opportunity to gain such an influential ally someday? No. John will be sufficient alone. He's of no real use, so it shan't matter if we break him."

The pain in Sherlock's middle intensifies, licking at his heart with increasing malice. He's not entirely sure why; although when he next speaks, it's through gritted teeth.

"John is not useless."

"He is to me," Moriarty says, a laugh ripping from his throat. "I could find a doctor anywhere, he's hardly unique."

Sherlock laughs too then, because for once Moriarty has got something entirely wrong. He says nothing, just glows in the knowledge of having information the other man was clearly not privy to.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Moriarty stares constantly at Sherlock, his black eyes boring straight through the detective. There's still the tiniest hint of amusement on his lips. The only sound is the ticking of Sherlock's watch, and the steady breathing of the two men, milliseconds out of sync with each other.

The sound of life, Sherlock. But I can soon fix that.

The detective blinks, closing his eyes slightly longer than was necessary, feeling a fresh wash of that alien fear engulf him at the memory of those words. It was irrational, this fear, and it frightened him further: his life was built on logic and rationalisation, and this was the opposite of everything he craved. Moriarty was not armed. He was safe.

The consulting criminal is the first to move, angling his body so that he faced Sherlock entirely. Sherlock remembers his jibe at John, and clenches his teeth in anticipation.

"I'm getting a little bored of your ignorance, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock makes a derisive sound in his throat, almost a cough.

"I think it would be worse for you if I have to explain it. Step by step."

Sherlock remains mute, his brain searching for the answer desperately. He's met with warm nothingness, contrasting with another sharp twinge within his ribcage. John's face flashes before his eyes. It's a clue, it's his mind trying to show him, but he can't grasp it, not now. The heroin has too tight a hold over his brain, blanking everything of importance out. It's changed from bliss to hell, confused by the obvious contradictions.

"My first idea," Moriarty begins, using the tone of voice usually reserved for difficult reception students – supposedly warm, but with that underlying knowledge in the speaker's voice that their knowledge was superior, and their charge a little irritating. "Was, of course, to kill John. Make you watch, and live with the fact that you couldn't save him. Burn your heart out, so to speak, by obliterating the one man you ever let get inside it."

He smiles, revelling in his brilliance. Sherlock waits. It's all he can do, and he's so angry.

"But then I thought about you. You're so used to masking your emotions that they're mere shadows of proper human feeling, now. You'd just push your grief away, shove it to the furthest reaches of your mind and forget. You'd go back to your first love, your work. You couldn't bear to hurt, and so you wouldn't."

The assessment is cold, and Sherlock shivers. He wonders if it's true.

"I wouldn't want to go to all the effort, and have you push away the burning as if it were dust. I want to hurt you. Prove that you're human."

Sherlock realises he's shaking. He can't stop it and doesn't try. He can't tell why he's so angry yet.

"So then I considered who could hurt. And I instantly thought of our good friend John Watson."

"My," Sherlock corrects him. He hears his voice low and trembling. "My friend."

"And I thought…wouldn't it be so much better, so much more genius…if I killed you? Let John Watson hurt over your death. Isn't it brilliant?"

When Sherlock replies, it's a struggle to get the words out. Moriarty's beaming face swims before his eyes, and he clenches his jaw.

"How would that be burning my heart out?"

"Because you know," Moriarty explains. "I want the very last thing you ever know to be that you hurt him. You. After all, he'll always know that he didn't do enough to stop you taking that heroin overdose that night you spent locked up…oh, he should have checked your jacket, he should never have told Lestrade…"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock snarls, but he knows by now. Defeated eyes watch as Moriarty pulls the syringe from his pocket and turns to face him again. They stay on the needle, fixated, and suddenly Sherlock knows what Moriarty means.

This…this is burning.

The other man must have seen Sherlock's face, because he gives a little rueful smile.

"Don't worry, I'll take good care of him," Moriarty assures him. "No harm will befall John Watson, I can promise you."

"Because then he can't escape," Sherlock finishes, horrified. He doesn't bother pointing out that John wouldn't do that, because it's the soldier's strength that's the one comfort to him right now. John would stick it out no matter what.

Sherlock's still burning though, vicious flames gorging on his heart – and he's not sure if 'heart' is a metaphor anymore, it hurts so much it's actual physical pain – licking out the insides until all that's left is a hollow, charred shell, just ashes, resting in the cavity of his chest, black and useless.

Still it burns; the flames content to devour even the nothingness where the heart had been, the guilt, the regrets, everything he hated converging on him, all those feelings he'd scoffed at, deemed unnecessary and deleted.

He knows he should get up and fight: because it's only fair and John would do it for him, but he can't. There's something pressing on his brain, wiping out the ability to move, keeping him paralysed where he sat, betraying the best man he'd ever met.

John was right. About the drugs, about everything.

He had a nasty, irritating habit of doing that: of looking all ordinary and mild, and being precisely the opposite.

Sherlock hears the footsteps, feels the stab in his neck, and the rush of the drug, and disregards it. Not important. John was important.

He feels the expected wave of nausea, and sees his vision deteriorate, the cell dissolve. Not important. He was so sorry. Was that important? It was hard to tell.

He feels the hole in his chest where his heart was. All that was left were the ashes: cold and black, shifting as his lungs stuttered through his last few breaths.

As his eyes slide shut, and he hears footsteps retreating, he remembers something. Something he'd promised himself the day he'd shut Mycroft out.

The reason he should have never let John Watson worm his way into his heart.

When a building burned, its inhabitants burned within.

And all that was ever left over was sodden and broken: a useless pile of ashes, a blemish on a beautiful city.