A/N: Holy crap, it's the last chapter. It's going to feel so freakin' weird when I'm done. 0-o My great and eternal thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially jayjayvee and Cookie05, and to everyone who alerted and favorited, whom it would take me far too long to list. And if you're reading this right now, thanks for reading all the way to the end. :) And seriously, if I can't get you to review the LAST chapter... Come on, people! I don't care whether you say you liked it or you say go die in a hole, just tell me something. :P

They managed to take down the first henchman without firing a shot, but the second didn't prove to be such a quiet job. He pulled out his weapon and fired wildly, clearly not caring what he would hit. John raised his gun at him, fired one into his chest, killing him immediately, and raced over to the body. He picked the henchman's gun up and handed it over to Sherlock.

"Save your bullets," he told him. "I think we're going to need them." The sounds of more feet running their way sent them into retreat in a deserted area of the warehouse, an old backroom with one door in and out. They took cover behind a wooden box from God knew when as Moriarty's men entered the room. John waited until they were clustered in the same open area before giving Sherlock a brief nod. Simultaneously, the two men fired. Both of their shots found home, and the remaining three men scattered, making for cover, firing wildly over their shoulders. Most of their bullets flew high, thumping harmlessly into the wooden rafters. Sherlock and John broke for the way they had come through, pulling the heavy door shut and blocking it from the outside. Feeling better about the numbers, the two men raced through until they came to the central part of the warehouse.

"How many do you reckon are left?" John half-whispered, half-mouthed to Sherlock as they took a moment to catch their breath. Sherlock shrugged and shook his head.

"Not too many. Moriarty wouldn't want anyone who wasn't absolutely vital to be involved; he likes to keep his numbers low." Sherlock gently placed his hand on the doorknob, and the two men collected a breath. John steeled his nerves, met Sherlock's gaze, and nodded once, sharply. Sherlock twisted the handle downward and flung the door open, and he and John went into the room, guns drawn. As they had done so many times in the field, John's eyes first swept the room for assailants or potential threats, ready to fire at a moment's notice. Finding none, he looked for Anna. The warehouse interior was dark and dim even in the noonday sun, but it took John only moments to spot her.

He dashed over to her, his mind completely refocusing on treatment, switching out of combat mode. He had brought a knife along, and he pulled it out, slicing easily through the ropes binding Anna to the chair. He lifted her off and placed her flat on the ground, tilting her head back to help with her breathing. He checked for respiration, heart rate, and pupil dilation. Mercifully, she was still alive, but she didn't have long. He turned to Sherlock. "Finish the sweep and see if there are any more men here; I'll call Lestrade." Sherlock nodded silently and moved off, gun at the ready. John pulled out his phone and spoke to the inspector.

"We're in building eight, toward the center. Two injured, two dead, and three are trapped in a side room with only one entrance. Anna's still alive, but barely. Sherlock's looking for Moriarty."

Sherlock moved through the darkened warehouse, gun drawn, senses alert. Nothing stirred except small particles in the air, and looking down, Sherlock could see two pairs of footprints in the thick coat of dust on the floor. He narrowed his eyes and followed the tracks to the door. He flung the door open and faced the empty street. Moriarty was gone, no doubt leaving the moment the first shot was fired; he had said it himself, he didn't like to get his hands dirty. Sherlock swore loudly. He had missed him again, and who knew how long it would be before he got another chance. He turned and saw Lestrade's men running toward them and waved his hand in the air.

"Over here!" he hollered. The paramedics rushed in, followed closely by the police, and Sherlock led them back through the tunnel-like warehouse to Anna and John, where the emergency technicians swarmed around her. John moved out of the way and went over to Sherlock.

"Anything?" he asked, half hoping he'd hear something he wanted to, but knowing what the answer would be. Sherlock shook his head.

"He was gone by the time we got to this room; probably the moment the shooting started." Sherlock gritted his jaw; missing the bastard once had been bad enough. Missing him twice was really starting to get on Sherlock's nerves. John sighed.

"I guess there's always the next fight. When do you think he'll be back?" Sherlock glanced at him.

"We'll just have to wait and see."

Moriarty's last remaining henchman was steadfastly silent as the car drove away, knowing that the slightest comment could end with his death; he hadn't said a word since the shooting had begun. Moriarty himself stared out the window, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. He had briefly considered killing Anna properly before he made his exist, just to spite the damned consulting detective, but he had decided against it. Rules were rules, even if you were the one who made them, and so he had relented, contenting himself with making a clean escape, leaving his presence to simmer in Sherlock's mind. There was always next time.

The scene cleared up fast. There was no body, and all of Moriarty's henchmen had been either apprehended or killed by the emergency response team. Anna was rushed to the hospital, where she was put on a respirator and given an antitoxin. She spent the next two days in the Intensive Care Unit, fighting the toxin along with a variety of other, smaller injuries. Slowly but surely, the paralysis wore off until finally she was able to breathe on her own and see visitors. Sherlock and John had left her alone for a couple of days, figuring that she'd want time to recover fully, and finishing up an incident report that was longer than the case itself. However, she surprised them the next day by asking if they would come and see her.

"I just wanted to say thank you," she told them. Her voice was hoarse from lack of use and the irritation of the respirator, and she coughed hard before continuing. "If it weren't for you two, I'd be very, very dead right now. Did you catch him?" Sherlock hesitated briefly before going with the simplest response.

"No. He got away before we got there." Anna nodded slowly, taking the news better than they had expected. She looked at them again.

"Do you think that he'll come back?" Sherlock once again opted for the straight truth.

"Yes, he will. But not for you." Anna's response to that startled both men.

"Oh, I know that. It's you he was after, not me." She looked Sherlock straight in the eye. "Watch yourself when he does come back; he's good at what he does, and he doesn't seem like the giving up type." Sherlock gave her a small smile.

"Oh, I'll be careful. I'm no scratch at my job either. So you're going home tomorrow, aren't you?" Anna smiled.

"Yup. And please be assured that it's nothing personal when I say that there ain't no way in hell I'll be coming back. I've had quite enough of England after this."

They finished up the lengthy report with Scotland Yard the next day. While not having to strictly follow all the rules of the official police force was good for solving cases, it made documenting them a little bit tricky. The report's opinion was that they had gotten their guns from the henchmen they disarmed, glossing conveniently over the fact that the weapons were two different calibers. Everyone knew it was, to put it lightly, a gentle fabrication of the truth, but the overall consensus was that if there were anyone Scotland Yard trusted running around the city with a gun, it was Dr. John Watson.

When they got back to the flat, John was very well near worn out enough to sleep until that time next week. He dropped onto the couch with a groan and leaned back, wanting to make tea, but too damn tired to move. To his immense surprise, Sherlock sat down next to him five minutes later, tea in hand, and gave a cup to John.

"Thanks," John told him, taking a drink. "Oh, boy, am I glad that's over." Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

"He'll be back, you know. Anna was right; he's not going to give up any time soon." It was John's turn to nod.

"I know. But quite frankly as long as it's not for at least a week's worth of sleep, I could care less right about now. We'll deal with that when it happens." John gave Sherlock the look that Sherlock normally gave to him. "How much is it bothering you that he got away again?" Sherlock shrugged evasively.

"We did technically win, if that's what you're asking about. Anna was found alive, and all of his henchmen but one were captured... There'll always be another fight; I'll catch him next time."

"You mean we'll catch him next time," John corrected him. "I thought you would know by now that you're not going to get rid of me that easily. I'm not the giving up type either." John gave Sherlock a smile, which the other man returned. Moriarty would be back, they knew. But that was a different fight for a different day, and when it came they would fight him together. For now, though, they were content to just sit back on the couch and drink tea.

"Hey Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Want to see if there's anything on the telly?"