Last chapter everyone!

Happy and sad at the same time!

Sequel is out now! 'The Moon and the Suns' (why? because it has the same initials.)

And THANK YOU SO MUCH to all who have read and reviewed over the course of this story.

All of you have given me something to do and something to look forward to.

Without your praise and motivation, this story never would have been completed and I would have probably been...sleeping, just sleeping...

I'm glad I have something to live for.

Thanks you all, again!

The first thing Jim saw when he awoke was Molly.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed watching him, wearing her pink bathrobe, hair still wet (but almost dry—the shower had been at least thirty minutes ago).

When had she gotten up?

…and how long had she been staring at him?

Normally, Jim would wake up before Molly and if she'd wake up before him, he'd wake up as soon as she tried to move without waking him.

But this time, here Molly was sitting there and staring at him.

Jim blinked and sat up.

"…Good morning!" Molly greeted with (exaggerated) cheer.

She was grinning at him, her smile more awkward and nervous than usual.

Something was definitely up.

…oh god.

Yes 'it' was.

"I know how to make this morning a good one." Jim smirked, "…that is, if you don't mind being a little late to work."

"I'm not going to work today." Molly stated, "Morgue's still closed apparently."

"Well then—" Jim began but suddenly stopped.

He'd glanced over at the digital clock on the nightstand.

10: 27

…shit.

It was almost ten-thirty in the morning.

He was supposed to have met Sherlock on the roof of the hospital hours ago!

Jim jumped up and out of bed.

"Why didn't you wake me up!" Jim demanded, pointing an accusing finger at Molly, "Now I'm already late!"

"I'm sorry—I didn't know!" Molly stammered, also jumping up and waving her hands in defense.

She tried to go over to him (as if she'd actually be able to calm him down), but he pushed past her, running out of her bedroom into the bathroom.

"I've got to get ready!" he shouted back to her as he ran, "Make me coffee and find me something tolerable to eat. Don't try to cook. I don't have time to put out another kitchen fire."

With that, the bathroom door slammed shut.

Molly flinched at the sound and stood there for a few seconds.

"Now, Molly!" the muffled voice of Jim added from inside.

And then Molly heard the shower turn on.

She hurried out of her room to make coffee and not try to cook.

Jim would have to make due with cold cereal then, Molly decided.

"Where were you?" Moran demanded, voice sharp but low, as soon as Jim ran through the doors.

Jim had come in the back doors of the St. Bartholomew's using the keycard that still worked even though security must have known by now that the employee 'James Moriarty' (who hadn't even bothered to use a fake name—much to another user of that name's anger) was a dangerous criminal.

(Convenient? How. Suspicious? Yes.)

"Getting ready." Jim said.

"All this time?" Moran inquired skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

"You think I get up out of bed looking this good?" Jim scoffed, smoothing his hair with one hand and his suit with the other, "I'm flattered, Sebastian, really I—"

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are already here." Moran interrupted (not rolling his eyes), "They have been for that past twelve hours…and so have I."

'Here' meant the hospital.

Sherlock and John were upstairs in one of the labs; Sherlock waiting, John sleeping.

Moran had been patrolling the halls, searching for any sign that things might not go according to plan while he waited for Jim to arrive.

Now they were in a stairwell normally reserved for evacuations (in fact, the fire alarm should have sounded just as soon as the doors to said stairwell were opened…but, for some reason, they didn't.) and lacking security cameras.

Moran had been sitting 'in meditation' (bored) on the bottom steps but had jumped up as soon as he'd seen Jim.

"How sweet, the three of you had a little sleepover." Jim commented.

"You were supposed to do this last night." Moran reminded, "No witnesses."

"What part of 'putting on a show' do you and your employer not understand?" Jim cackled, "The world's my stage and the sun's my spotlight. I need an audience for this. We have to do it during the day."

"Fine." Moran accepted, "…Everyone's in place."

"Not everyone." Jim corrected, "The good doctor's still in the way. Move him."

"My employer has someone waiting to make the call." Moran informed, "We won't be able to distract Watson for long so we had to wait until you got here."

"Okay, so I'm running a bit late." Jim admitted, "I get it. Now you, get to it."

"After you." Moran obliged, evenly.

He stepped to the side, letting Jim pass and start up the stairs.

Watching Jim run (which he wouldn't be doing for long), Moran couldn't help but laugh (internally, of course).

He'd been up and down those stairs multiple times while he waited for Jim to show up to his own 'party'.

He didn't think Jim realized that there were dozens of floors to go before he reached the roof.

And 172 stairs.

It was his fault, really, the fire…

They'd been sitting at the kitchen counter, patiently waiting for the ('tasteless', 'classless' (—as Jim had called it)) frozen food to heat up in the oven (which technically wasn't even 'cooking')…

…and then they weren't.

Jim had started it.

(His fault. His fault. His fault.)

And it was only when they smelled the smoke that Jim had finally decided it was a good idea to stop.

Shirt partially unbuttoned, Molly had rushed to turn off the oven, opening it to get a face full coughing and stinging eyes.

Jim had chastised her for being such a 'careless', 'terrible' cook (because this had definitely never happened to him before. ever.) then sending her out to pick something up to eat 'without dropping it'.

That, of course, had been funny (to put it politely) because only moments before Jim had been complimenting her.

They'd been sitting at the kitchen counter, patiently waiting for the ('tasteless', 'classless' (—as Jim had called it)) frozen food to heat up in the oven (which technically wasn't even 'cooking') when Jim decided to ask Molly something.

"Whyhaven't you given up?" He asked.

"…what…do you mean…?" Molly had returned, as confused as she was unnerved by the question.

"…Well I would've done it along time ago," Jim shrugged, "if I'd lived a life like yours. So boring, so hopeless—"

"It wasn't—"Molly contradicted and then caught herself, "It isn't 'hopeless', Jim."

"I suppose you're right…" Jim conceded, "Hope is, after all, just another delusion of a weak mind…So it's your choice to have it or not, really. But you're not stupid, Molly. And I'm sure you must've figured out, after all the years of disappointment and loneliness, that things weren't going to change—"

"But things did change." Molly reminded, with a smile, "I met Sherlock Holmes…and then I met you."

"And you were thirty-one." Jim chuckled, "I don't know how you lasted that long…"

"…You think I should have…committed suicide?" Molly inferred, shocked although she really shouldn't have been.

And what if she had managed to draw up the courage (and desperation) to kill herself?

Molly wondered how long it would take people to find her body…

(Days? Weeks?...Never?)

…she wondered which people would grieve for her…

(Her sister? Her brother?(—probably not) Toby? (yes)…Sherlock?(definitely not.))

…and she wondered how much trouble it would cause people.

(Finding her. Settling her (marginal) estate. Cleaning up the mess….)

Molly could imagine all that (and so felt bad)—but she couldn't imagine actually committing suicide.

She didn't want to.

"It's what I would have done." Jim affirmed.

(Did Jim want her to? Once he was gone and she had nobody to distract her? Once he was gone and she was alone? Did Jim want her to want to?)

"You act like—like my life was torture!" Molly replied, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, "…it wasn't. It wasn't perfect—nobody's is—but it wasn't terrible, either—"

"That's exactly my point!" Jim exclaimed, quickly, "It wasn't this…it wasn't that...it wasn't anything! It was nothing. It was boring. It wasn't really living."

"Not everything has to be some kind of extreme." Molly countered, "Sure my life isn't—well, wasn't—all that exciting…but I don't live for adrenaline like you and Sherlock do."

"…and what do you live for?" Jim questioned.

And he genuinely wanted to know the answer.

So did Molly.

"…I don't know…" Molly said, "I never really thought about it. My job, maybe, I guess—"

"No." Jim dismissed, "Not that. A job's a job. Just a distraction."

"…Toby?" Molly tried.

"Distraction." Jim dismissed again, "…although, I do admit pet's are the best kind."

Hearing his name, Toby had bounded over from where he'd probably been sleeping in the bathroom sink to jump up onto the counter top.

Jim stroked his fur appreciatively, to prove his point, but it was Molly that the cat wanted (once he realized that Jim didn't have a cat treat for him this time, of course) and he hopped down into her lap.

She clutched the purring Toby closely.

(There wasn't a thing more affectionate or constant in her life than the pet cat who greeted her every time she got home from work and so if this wasn't what she lived for she didn't know what she did.)

Molly bowed her head to kiss Toby on top of his, and when she looked up Jim was staring at her with dark eyes that were definitely not jealous at all.

And then he was staring at Toby who was staring back.

"Run along." He told the cat, "The grown-ups are talking."

Toby jumped up and dashed away (to a safe spot under the nearby dining table where he continued to watch the two humans with eyes that flashed green whenever the artificial light hit them (and that were definitely not jealous at all)).

Now there were many reasons for obedience (respect, fear, love…) but Molly knew her pet (and Jim) well enough to know which one had been invoked.

And this was the only time she'd seen Jim be anything but doting towards Toby.

"Now where were we?" Jim asked.

Molly quickly looked away from the cat back at him.

"You asked me what I lived for." Molly answered, "But I don't have an answer."

"So you're saying you just live?" Jim rephrased, "God, that's pitiful. You're like animal. So stupid...You don't know why you're here and you don't even ask—"

"But aren't we supposed to make our own reasons to live for? Our own meanings of life? What if there is no—"

"You do everything because people tell you to. Because you think you have to. You eat, drink; sleep, fuck. You don't even know why. You just follow your instincts—"

"I follow my heart. I do what I think is right. I do what I want to…isn't that what you do, Jim?"

"I live. You just survive. Honestly, I'm disappointed in you, little mouse—"

"Well I'm not sorry."

Suddenly, the argument of interruptions was over.

And Molly had won.

"If you're disappointed that's your problem." She stated, "I live for myself and I'm not sorry."

"You what?" Jim demanded, "Say that again."

"I live for myself." Molly repeated, stronger each time she said it, "I live for myself and I want to live and live the way I think I should live and I'm not sorry."

She thought Jim was going to laugh at her again (that is, if he didn't get angry)…but instead he smiled.

And he really meant it, too.

"No reason…" he whispered like it was a magic and dirty secret, then smirking because now he understood, "You live for no reason."

Not even bothering to feel stupid for not finding out sooner why…

(Why he hadn't killed her. Why Molly was alive. Why she chose to live. Why she wanted to.)

…Jim stood, immediately close to the distance between him and Molly by kissing her in the same admiring and explorative manner 'Jim from IT' had the very first time their lips had touched.

And he really meant it, too, this time.

And this, this was what Molly, in this moment, lived for.

Panting, Jim finally reached the rooftop of the hospital.

(Why hadn't Moran warned him about the number of stairs? There must have been at least a thousand!)

And Jim had jogged up all of them because he knew Moran would be down there just listening, just waiting for him to give up.

Jim pushed open the door ahead of him, light accosting him as he staggered onto the roof.

Luckily Sherlock wasn't already there waiting for him and so Jim would have some time to breathe.

He crossed the concrete to sit down on the ledge.

Jim glanced down at the empty sidewalk below.

This wasn't good…

There needed to be people there to watch when Sherlock inevitably fell to his death.

Jim cursed himself for not telling Kitty the exact date of and location at Sherlock was going to commit suicide.

Then she might have actually been useful.

He knew she wasn't going to kill herself, herself.

If she was smart enough to have figured out that Richard Brooke was the fraud and not Sherlock Holmes, then she'd be smart enough not to actually go through with what he told her to do while still trying to get a good story out of it.

In a particularly forgiving mood, Jim might have appreciated Kitty…

(For her what? Resourcefulness? Lying ability? Vengefulness? Attempted loyalty? Ambition? Moral ambiguity?)

…however, there was only room for one woman in Jim's… appreciation location (which was actually not somewhere his in genitals but somewhere in his mind (heart)) and so Kitty was 'deleted'.

But speaking of genitals—no minds. Definitely minds…

…where was Sherlock?

Sherlock was the one to ask to meet him here and that was yesterday.

So where was he?

What was taking so long?

Sherlock was late.

How dare he be late to his own demise?

Infuriated and offended, Jim pulled out his phone to text Sherlock.

I'm waiting…

Of course, Jim only realized after sending Molly out to pick up something 'tolerable' to eat that staying behind at her apartment meant he had to clean up the mess made by the burned 'food' in the oven (which he had never, ever had to do before).

They'd opened all the windows, to air out the smoke and Molly actually hadn't complained about the June 'cold' (that someone might see Jim).

But now that Molly had left, Jim was left to pull out charred remains from the wreckage and scrub out the interior of the oven.

(Shouldn't he have had people for that? Shouldn't Molly have?...Oh right. Poor girl was too broke to afford a maid.)

This wasn't fair.

The fire had been her fault, really.

This was her home, her frozen food in her oven, and so it was her responsibility.

Good Samaritan Jim might've been able to realize that they'd been waiting far more than the instruction's forty minutes and out of the kindness of his heart do something about that…

…but Molly had been distracting him.

They'd been sitting at the kitchen counter, patiently waiting for the ('tasteless', 'classless' (—as Jim had called it)) frozen food to heat up in the oven (which technically wasn't even 'cooking') when Molly decided to tell Jim something.

"I think Sherlock knows…"she began, almost whispering.

"What, that I'm going to kill him?" Jim snorted, "I should hope so. I've been making it so very obvious."

"No," Molly explained, "…I mean about us. I think Sherlock knows about us."

" 'us'?" Jim repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Molly ignored that.

She didn't care what Jim called it—or even if he gave it any name at all.

That wouldn't change what she, what he, what they had done…

…or what they had.

Words, even lies, didn't change the fact that Jim Moriarty was here with her when he could have been anywhere else in the world—including with Sherlock Holmes.

"He didn't say it out loud or anything but…" Molly continued, "I know he knows. I could see it in his face. He finally figured it out."

"And will this be a problem, Miss Hooper?" Jim asked.

"…no, actually." Molly answered, "Sherlock, he…he didn't care. He said it was 'fine'."

"That's not what I asked." Jim snapped, "I asked if Sherlock 'knowing' would be a problem…for you."

Molly took a deep breath.

She had been staring down at the countertop but when, after a long silent moment, she spoke she looked up at Jim.

He was sitting next to her on the other stool, leaning against the counter. Head turned to face her, Jim was gazing at Molly with feigned and teasing disinterest.

"Well…" Molly started, "He won't trust me again. Sherlock said he'd always trusted me…I don't know if that's true or not but if he knows now he'll never trust me again. But that…but that's not a 'problem'…for me. I don't care."

"Really?" Jim replied, taken aback, "What if Sherlock decides to be a tattle-tale?"

"If Sherlock was going to…um…do something about this," Molly reasoned, "...he would have done it already. And so I don't know why he'd tell me that he knows…and then tell me that he doesn't care. Unless…"

There was a smile tugging at Jim's lips, it was something he was trying to stop.

"You've thought of it, haven't you?" he guessed, leaning slightly towards her, "You don't want to. You don't want to think Sherlock would but you know that he might."

"'Might' what…?" Molly questioned.

"Might want to die, darling." Jim finally smiled, "Sherlock Holmes might actually want to die…just like me."

"He doesn't." Molly stated and because (for once) she knew something that Jim didn't know, she added, "…and neither do you."

"You think you know what I want?" Jim laughed, "That's adorable. Stupid—but adorable."

"I don't know everything…but I do know this." Molly conceded, "…You've put a lot of work into setting Sherlock up. Into destroying him. But if you kill himself once he…once he dies, you don't get to watch it all play out."

"Doesn't matter." Jim shrugged, "I know what'll happen—"

"No you don't." Molly corrected, "Not for sure. And people like you…like to be sure. They want to know for sure. They need to…And to do that, you have to see it for yourself."

Jim chuckled, shaking his head.

"You're right, you know." He admitted, "All of that's true. But the thing is…I just don't care anymore. And that's why I'm finally killing Sherlock. Because I'm done with him. I'm bored of him. I could've killed him hundreds of times before, I had chance…but I wasn't finished playing with him yet. Now I am. The Game's over. Now I've got nothing to live for. And that's why I'm finally killing myself."

He was so casual about it as if suicide was a normal, logical thing to do.

Molly remembered when Jim used to get so excited about Sherlock.

Of all the times she had suspected him of lying, she knew now, for sure, that he was telling the truth.

Jim wasn't playing anymore.

He was taking his and Sherlock's deaths (scheduled for tomorrow) very seriously.

It was not fair, actually.

Jim Moriarty sincerely planned to die tomorrow…

…but Sherlock Holmes, his 'equal', did not.

Molly, of course, didn't want Sherlock to die—but she didn't want Jim to, either.

And it was so like Sherlock, just so like him, to not take 'this' (whatever he and Jim called what they had) seriously.

For it to be just another one of his many distractions, his many games while Jim (or Molly) cared so much.

However, Molly couldn't help but think that Jim deserved this.

Deserved to die.

She wondered if Sherlock knew Jim planned to kill himself once he was sure Sherlock was dead.

(He probably did. Sherlock knew everything.)

"You don't have to do this," Molly reminded, as if she was obligated to (which she believed she was).

"Yes, but I want to." Jim returned, "Besides I keep my promises, remember? I promised Sherlock I'd meet him at Bart's tomorrow, so I will. I promised Sherlock I'd kill him, so I will. Simple as that."

"…I'm won't be able to stop you, will I?" Molly guessed.

"No. You won't." Jim confirmed, "…but you won't stop trying, either, will you?"

"No. I won't." Molly confirmed, "You may have given up, Jim…but I haven't."

Jim hadn't known before, why someone would continue living when one had nothing to live for.

And he hadn't wanted to.

But, still, he had learned.

Learned that there was no reason for someone to live other than wanting to.

And Jim hadn't known before, how to break an already broken girl who was hopeless and only pretending to have hope.

But he had wanted to.

Really, really wanted to.

And yet he never learned.

…and never would.

Because, you see, there is no way to do that.

Hope is a choice—just like life.

And there is no reason to live other than wanting to.

Molly Hooper wanted to live.

And Jim would never learn how to break her.

The bowl of milk and cereal was on the table.

Molly knew Jim would probably have something smart (to put it politely) to say about it and probably say something about her not eating anything, as well.

Her stomach was sick with nervousness and anticipation for what would happen today.

Would everything go according to plan?

And whose plan?

Jim's?

(Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes die happily ever after.)

Sherlock's?

(Jim Moriarty dies and Sherlock Holmes lives happily ever after.)

…Molly's?

(Well…it wasn't exactly happy…but it didn't involve dying, either.)

"No, no, NO!"

Molly heard a shout from her bedroom and so rushed towards it.

"Jim!" she called, "Are you alright? What happened?"

Now, she was even more nervous than normal. Much more.

She stopped running to stand in the doorway when she was Jim, seated on the edge of her bed, holding his head in his hands.

The shower had been left running in the other room, Jim obviously not bothering to turn it off…

…or bothering to use a towel since he was soaking wet—as was the covers he sat on and the carpet which had a trail of water leading from the bathroom to the bedroom and right up to Jim.

"…what's wrong…?" Molly asked, cautiously.

(Had Jim figured it out? Was he having seconds thoughts about his suicide?)

"I don't have anything to wear!" Jim sobbed.

Molly held back a sigh of relief as she stepped towards him.

"Does it really matter what you—"she began, instantly being interrupted.

"Yes it does!" Jim declared, jumping up and towards her so he could shake her by the shoulders, "I'm seeing Sherlock! We're dying today! It's a special occasion! I have to look good."

"I thought what you wearing yesterday looked 'good'…" Molly replied.

Jim snorted.

Of course Molly would have liked Richard Brooke's outfit.

(But he couldn't wear the same thing two days in a row! Besides he didn't even know where the jeans and sweater were at this point. Molly had probably picked them up off the floor (she liked to do 'cleaning up' things like that) but where she would put them afterwards he had no idea.)

"It was tacky," Jim dismissed, "you've still got no taste…"

He turned away from Molly, sprinting over to her closet and tearing out garment after garment of her clothing as he cursed and muttered to himself.

(What was he going to do now? Go to meet Sherlock in drag? Now that would definitely be a 'turn up'.)

"There's nothing to wear!" Jim exclaimed, finally giving up and throwing up his hands towards the ceiling.

"Well, you must have something…" Molly reasoned, "You've been planning this for months—"'

"Years." Jim corrected.

"You must have something you picked out to wear, then." Molly completed.

"I do!" Jim declared, then adding sadly, "…it's just not here…"

And of course, he didn't go on to tell Molly where said outfit was (in Kitty Riley's flat—like the rest of his clothes he had forgotten take with him during his dramatic exit).

"You could go and get it…" Molly suggested.

"I don't have time!" Jim exclaimed.

"Well, then, I guess you can't go today." Molly sighed, "You'll just have to tell Sherlock you can't make it and do this another time—"

"You think I'll just give up that easily?" Jim laughed, "Hiding my clothes won't stop me. I'll just go naked if I have to. I'm sure Sherlock'll enjoy that."

"I didn't hide your clothes!" Molly contested, "You took all of them with you when you disappeared from the hotel! All I have is the dry-cleaning I picked up for you that you never came back and got—"

"So you do have my suits!" Jim accused.

"Only a few of them—"

"Where are they?"

"Here, I'll get them for you."

Molly crossed the room, passing Jim, over to the closet.

From the very back she retrieved two items of clothing wrapped in protective plastic and swaying on their respective hangers.

She held one in each hand up to Jim.

"Choose." She instructed.

Black or blue.

Jim stood there, staring at the suits.

"No..." he refused, pointing to each in turn, "Neither of these'll do. I don't wear black when I see Sherlock and I've already worn that one before."

"You have to choose." Molly insisted.

Black or blue.

Blue or black.

"…ugh…fine…" Jim groaned, "This one, then."

He grabbed one of the hangers from Molly, weakly to make his choice seem as reluctant and arbitrary as possible.

"Great!" She smiled (and it was only partially forced).

Jim rolled his eyes, still sulking as he eyed the suit, holding it up to eye level.

Molly watched him.

"A little privacy, please, if you don't mind?" Jim droned, turning to her and giving her the same annoyed (to put it politely) stare he had just been giving the clothing he had chosen.

"Oh—sorry!" Molly squeaked and then scurried hurriedly out of her own bedroom.

As Jim waited on the roof for Sherlock to arrive he decided to listen to some music.

There was a song stuck in his head.

A song stuck in his head since he'd seen Carl Powers lying by the side of the pool not breathing no matter how many times the lifeguard pushed at his chest.

A catchy and ironic song stuck in his head playing over and over and over again.

No matter how Jim tried he could never get it out.

He could listen to it, he could sing it (or at leas try to) but the song just wouldn't die.

And whenever it ended, it just started up again.

A song on repeat.

Because that was the thing about music, wasn't it?

A song was never really over.

It was always a round.

And around and around and around it went again and again and again.

Because nature can't stand an unfinished melody.

Music is immortal.

You can't kill it.

And there was only one way for Jim to get it that song out of his head.

After dinner and after all that cutesy kissing and cuddling on the couch…

(that Jim knew Molly liked (liked, but knew (thought) that he didn't like and so scared and comforted her because, for whatever reason (either because he was lying to her…or because he wasn't) , he was doing it anyway))

…Molly decided to ask Jim something.

"…Jim, since this is probably going to be…the last time I see you again…is there anything you want to do—want me to do for you—anything at all…?"

She'd trailed off blushing down at her hands folded in her lap, hoping that he had understood what she meant without her actually having to say it, embarrassedly regretting it and then hoping that he hadn't.

He had.

And it was funny—funny, sweet and oh-so adorable.

Molly had just offered to facilitate any strange sexual fetishes she assumed Jim must have had because it was probably his last night alive (to put it impolitely).

"Whatever do you mean?" Jim inquired, innocently.

He held the confused, straight face as long as he could before finally dissolving into snickers and shaking his head.

Molly's face was practically red now and still not looking at him.

Turning his body towards her, Jim clutched with one hand Molly by her chin and cheek, and turned her to face him.

And then Jim decided to tell Molly something.

"I was going to kill you, you know, as soon as I got bored…but I never did, and so I never did. And if you hadn't distracted me I don't know how I would've survived waiting all this time to finish the Game with Sherlock. You've served your purpose well, as part of my work—and as one of my hobbies. Thank you for that, Molly."

Molly gasped (short and controlled—she was getting better at that), resolving, this time, to look him in eyes.

Up next, of course, came the part where Jim told her that he was so 'sorry' but he 'had' to kill her now that she'd 'served her purpose' (as he'd (stereotypically) called it) to 'tie up loose ends'.

And then he'd shoot her or strangle her or stab her (or some combination of the three—or, perhaps, something much more creative (cruel)) and laugh because it's not like she hadn't known all along who (and what) he was, it's not like she hadn't known better than to trust him—it's just that she hadn't cared.

But she wasn't going to cry, she wasn't going to beg…

"…You-you're welcome." Molly said, "Anytime…"

"Good." Jim smiled, "Because now I'm going to give you another purpose, another reason to live—I know you don't need one, obviously, nobody does…but I just thought you'd like something to remember me by…"

"What do you want me to do?" Molly asked.

"I want you to remember me." Jim stated, "Me and Sherlock. After we're 'gone', when everybody else doesn't believe we were even real, when everybody else has forgotten…remember us for what we truly were. Remember us and keep us alive. Can you do that, Molly, for me?"

"I can." Molly accepted, nodding.

And she would, too, she'd keep Sherlock and Jim alive.

Really, John? Sherlock wondered to himself in disbelief and disappointment.

John had jumped up and ran off after being told by some mysterious (suspicious) voice on the phone that Mrs. Hudson had (conveniently) been shot.

Now where do people go when they get shot, again, John?

The hospital.

And so, of course, John had jumped up and ran off after being told by some mysterious voice on the phone that Mrs. Hudson had been shot…

…right out of and away from the hospital.

Sherlock sighed.

Oh, John…

Molly had been right.

People really did do 'silly' (stupid) things when they cared.

Sherlock supposed this was for the best.

Now with John out of the way he and Moriarty could finally get their 'Game' over with.

Sherlock had texted Moriarty the night before (over ten hours ago) and so he really wondered what could have been taking the 'consulting criminal' so long (right now he had twelve guesses—none of which he had time to ponder over) to get to their agreed upon meeting place.

He felt his phone buzz and so pulled it out of his pocket.

Of course, the text was from Moriarty. Obviously.

(Hmm…so John had just left and now Moriarty was here? How convenient.)

I'm waiting…

JM

Oh, so Moriarty was 'waiting' now, was he?

Really, Jim? Sherlock wondered to himself in disbelief and dismissal.

So Sherlock hadn't been the only one at the hospital all night, just sitting there waiting for his opponent to arrive and Moriarty had been up there on the roof the whole time just patiently waiting for him, too.

Definitely.

Sherlock stood up, grabbed his coat and strode out of the lab.

"Watch where you're going." Some guy smoking a cigarette (illegally) in the stairwell grumbled as Sherlock hurried up the steps he sat on.

But Sherlock didn't have time to tell him off as he ran up the stairs (only two more floors up from the one the lab was on—thank god he didn't have to come all the way up from the main floor) while putting on his coat.

Smartphone still in his hand, Sherlock sent the last minute text to make sure everyone was in place for his plan.

They were.

John had been right.

Friends really did protect people.

And so, poor Moriarty.

Poor, poor Jim.

He was going to die once he thought Sherlock was dead and he didn't have a friend in the world to protect him.

After at least an hour and a half of ironing his clothes, and shining his shoes, and styling his hair, and straightening his tie Jim finally decided he was ready to go.

As if it had all been effortless and he had woken up looking so presentable (to put it politely), he stepped out of Molly's bedroom into the hall and stared across the room at her where she and a bowl of cereal sat waiting for him patiently.

Molly stood.

"…Do you want breakfast?" she asked, "I know it's just cereal but—"

"I don't have time." he told her, "Eat it yourself."

And then Jim was already on his way down the hallway towards the front door of her flat.

"Wait!" She called, stumbling as she tried to separate herself from the table and hurry after him.

He stopped, turned around and looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

"What?"

"You're not going to say 'goodbye'?"

Jim laughed.

"It's not like you won't to see me again." He snorted, "You'll probably be the one stuck doing do my autopsy—well, poor Richie's, at least, driven to suicide by the equally suicidal fraud detective Sherlock Holmes…"

"That's not the same." Molly stated.

"You know, I really don't mind if you, well…defile my dead—"

"Goodbye, Jim."

Molly sighed.

Jim smirked.

"Goodbye, Molly."

The 'last' kiss was nothing special.

(Because if you saved the best for last, then there you were at the very end of things wondering why you didn't do the best every time.)

And with no audience, Jim had no reason to be dramatic about it (the way he had at a certain train station).

No reason…

…but when had Jim (or Molly) ever needed one of those?

And so maybe the 'last' kiss was a little bit special, after all.

They met somewhere in the middle; Molly going after Jim in the direction he'd gone and Jim turning around and coming back over to her the way he always did.

His head bent down to towards hers, hers leaned up towards his, and then they just fit.

And for some reason (or, perhaps, no reason at all) it was too perfect, too easy, too normal and just too damn adorable.

It was so right that it was wrong (—and not the other way around).

That's why it worked.

Because it shouldn't have.

This was Jim Moriarty, he didn't do this (relationships, females (—at least not as a first choice)) and this was Molly Hooper and she didn't do this (relationships(—not for lack of trying, though), criminals) either.

Jim broke away first, to breathe and to prove (to who?) that he could.

Molly opened her eyes to look at him, but his didn't meet hers as Jim's lips instead leaned in to speak into her forehead.

"You're just going to let me go and do this…you're not going to try and stop me?"

He could feel her shake her head as she whispered her response to his neck.

"You told me that people make their own choices in life. You have…and I have."

Jim pulled away, sharply, then eyeing Molly questioningly.

"So you've given up on me, now, then? So easy?"

Molly shrugged.

"It's never been easy."

Jim couldn't help but chuckle.

"I should kill you for that, you know." He reminded, talking and watching in a way that gave the word 'kill' a whole new meaning.

"Don't forget your coat." Molly told him.

And he didn't.

He took it out of the hall closet, put it on (with Molly's unnecessary but much appreciated help), and patted the padded fabric over the gun inside its left pocket.

Jim would have said that he'd see her in 'hell' but he didn't because he didn't want to be a liar.

So instead he said nothing, turned, opened the door and left.

And the first thing Jim saw when he awoke was Molly.

OMG!

Finally finished with this!

Now on to the sequel.

And I promise the first chapter of the next story will tell you how Jim survived.

I'll even tell you if you ask me before I post it (still need to write it...grr...)!

Hopefully I'll get that up in a few days.

Final thoughts, if anyone cares:

This was fun, time consuming and sometimes I want to delete this story from the internet, my mind and everyone else's mind who's ever read it.

So many things I would have done differently, looking back...

So many plans I changed along the way, so many that I didn't and should have...

And the sequel...

...it will be different.

I'm not sure how different or how it will be different, but it will.

I'm not even sure what I'm going to title it yet, lol!

Baby steps, then, I'll just take this a day at a time because that's all anyone can really do.

And when I'm writing, really writing, I can get lost and be happy.

Does that happen to you when you read?

When you read this?

In whatever way I could've made people happy with this story I hope I have.

I really hope ya'll liked it :)

Now on to the sequel...

THE MOON AND THE SUNS!

Go find it on my profile lol.

(if you want to, of course, lol-which I hope you do.)