I'm so so so sorry for taking so long to post this chapter, the holidays can really get in the way. Anyway, this it the last chapter to my first fanfic and I'm pretty sure some of you might hate me for it, but hopefully the good kind of hate.

~Kels

"Eh Johnny, I'm home!" Moriarty's lively voice sang as it surged through the front door into the flat. You'd remember the disorder that this space used to always be stuck in; used to. But now it held no prior suggestions to what it had enclosed or been. Just a normal flat; with a tidy set up, a minimal of decoration, and neutral colors; when but nearly a year ago it was anything but.

"I'm not going to tell you that 'you're so fine' if that's what you were expecting." John protested austerely back looking up from his fixed and keen survey on the television that was displaying the latest and breaking news.

"Alright," Moriarty hummed as he loosened his tie and stretched his neck nonchalantly for comfort's sake, "I suppose I hear it from you enough in the bedroom."

"You think you're so clever don't you?" John mumbled now with his attention redirected to the TV screen.

"Well of course I am." Moriarty said conceitedly with a smirk and a proudly raised eyebrow.

"Not that," John responded gruffly referring to Moriarty's bedroom comment, or rather not referring to it, and then pointed to the TV with the remote, "that!" The new was raving about the capture of a serial killer who'd for several months had been leaving his victims with a scrambled brain… literally.

Moriarty watched with little interests and perched himself on the back of the couch as the news reporter told of the charges bound to be put on the murderer's head. Those sentences are child's play compared to the price he'll have to pay to me, Moriarty thought crossly. "Ugh, today was just a mess." Moriarty groaned and burnished his forehead, "Blubbering idiots all those clients of mine are, they're always getting caught, or worse, screwing up my designs!" When John notice the little courtesy Moriarty seemed to be placing on the news he heaved a sigh and hoisted himself off the couch with some difficulty. Then John started for the coffee table where a newspaper sat, and he moved with an irregular limp. Moriarty flickered his eyes and instead of listening to the news, he examined John's jagged movement mildly, but inside he was anxious and yet angry at the psychosomatic impulse that was inhibiting his love.

If I have to watch him take one more uneven step it will be the death of me, Moriarty pondered irritably. You'd think that he'd be over it after nearly a year. We've been happy together, so why can't he move on. But of course, Moriarty knew that John would never get over the death of his previous flat mate. Moriarty only wished that he didn't have to bear the load of hidden guilt his involvement caused.

Now John got the newspaper and was holding it up for Moriarty to see. He read out the headline, "THE END OF SCATTER BRAIN, it made the bloody front page!" John tossed the paper back onto table and looked at Moriarty seriously, "This is you, I can tell apart your work."

"Come to work with me." Moriarty proposed as suddenly as the idea had come to him.

John examined the other man suspiciously, "Did you even hear a single word I just said?"

"Not one." and the criminal smiled wickedly.

Rolling his eyes without surprise John muttered, "We've talked about this."

"Come on, it'll be fun!" Moriarty implored.

"Is that what you call it?" John asked deliberately, "Fun? Look, I've said it once and I'll say it a thousand times, I might tolerate what you do, but I will not partake in it."

There was a extensive pause between the two from the absolutism in John's voice, and the sound from the television didn't fill in the silence well enough. Finally Moriarty murmured, "Perhaps the work would do your leg good."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John countered taking great offense from the remark.

Moriarty scowled distastefully, "Look at yourself, John." he exclaimed, "You can't take two steps without your right leg nearly dropping out from under you, the only reason it hasn't yet is because you use that old cane while I'm not around."

John was speechless for only a moment, having thought his reluctant use of the cane to be a secret, but he quickly recovered and faked ignorance with a disregarding shake of his head "I don't know what you're talking about."

"How about we skip the part where you're a headstrong ass," Moriarty derided getting sick of always loosing this on-going debate, "and let's plan to go to my office tomorrow; I won't even blindfold you on the way there if it'll make you happy."

John smiled sarcastically and motioned his hands in an overly enthusiastic fashion, "Oh goody! I don't have to be blindfolded? Well happy day!" he abruptly dropped his mockery and gave Moriarty a knowingly peeved glare before starting for the door.

Moriarty glowered back with a rising fury at this impudence and spat, "Where do you think you're going?"

"Out." John answered curtly and slammed the door behind him. A lot of the reason John answered in this way was because he didn't have a place in mind that he might retreat to. He just hoped that if the dispute was ended quickly enough Moriarty would cool off and forget his scheme for at least a little while longer.

Rushing out to the sidewalk, which seemed to take great effort with the growing discomfort his leg was constraining at, John caught a taxi and didn't look back as the cabbie asked for a location and John answered after only a moment of tactless thought, "Uh, I suppose; Old Man's Pub." As the words left his mouth it left a sour taste. It'd been ages since he'd gone there, and in fact the last time was the same night Moriarty had seized him.

Soon after John had made it to the pub and took a fatigued seat at the bar. As soon as John had taken a seat he called out to the bartender and put a few pounds on the table, "I'll have some scotch."

"Sure, mate." The bartender answered genially and not but a minute later he sat the drink in front of John. Giving a small smile in appreciation John looked up at the bartender, whose nametag displayed his identity to be Chris. Chris seemed to recognize the man he just obliged and he stared for several lingering seconds in deep thought.

John was quite honestly weirded out by the look he was being given. "Can I help you?" John asked hesitantly.

Chris did not answer at first but was still working through where he'd seen this face before, and finally he got it. "You!" Chris suddenly exclaimed, "You were the missing man!"

"Missing man?" John asked dazedly confused.

"Yeah," Chris rhapsodized, "there was the crazy guy in the suit, and the investigator. Ugh, what was his name? Oh yes, it was, it was, Sherlock!"

"Sherlock?" John inquired slowly, beguilingly captivated by the nearly relic name.

"So he found you, right? I mean, he must have, he was down here every night trying to figure it out."

John grinned warmly, "Of course he was." then his face dropped in discontent, "But no, Sherlock never found me."

Chris's expression changed into one that asked for explanation, "You know what? I haven't seen Sherlock in over a year; I wonder what happened to him."

John considered this for a lengthy moment before he solemnly answered taking a great swig of his scotch, "Yeah, me too." Chris smiled wearily seeing the miserable wave that had come upon John, in attempt to make a lighter situation. But it was no use as John had retreated into his own thoughts, so Chris left the uneasy man to himself.

Over the next couple of hours John recollected his more fond memories of Sherlock, which was something he hadn't done, or wanted to do, in a long time. In fact John really didn't fancy doing it even now. He found himself missing the detective and the part of his life spent with him. But merely reminiscing wasn't adequate enough for John's troubled mind. He required something more present, more tangible.

And so with dread John left the commonplace pub, waving half-heartedly goodbye to Chris who he thought should get at least that much of recognition for a meager yet obligatory reason, and traveled back to his flat. John was not ecstatic to return to the thick air he knew would hang when he'd enter the flat, but his pursuit at comforting himself was more important.

Shortly John arrived at his home; taking in a fortifying breath he pushed open the door. Entering the dark living room he could tell that someone was still there, with a light and the muffled rummaging of movement from the kitchen.

Hoping not to be noticed, John silently sat himself up with the laptop in his favorite recliner. But he was quickly discovered, "Hello, John." Moriarty called pleasantly, "I'm making up a pot of tea, want some?"

"Sure." John replied. He's pretending the fight never happened, John thought upliftingly, I suppose this is better than him still being angry. For Moriarty, this was common. Even the most brutal of arguments couldn't keep him cross for much time. He simply felt no responsibility or remorse towards bygone quarrels. Moriarty departed, flashing a small smile, and returned to the kitchen.

John then started up his computer and resumed his primary objective. He opened the internet and searched the science of deduction. The first link presented what John had intended: The Science of Deduction by Sherlock Holmes. He faltered for moment, perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to pursue the past, but John shook the doubt and clicked the link.

There was a small text that described the blog, and John almost chuckled in reading Sherlock's assured tone in the writing.

I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. I'm not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn't understand. If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only please.

John began reading posts starting with the most recently uploaded. The first letter, John couldn't help but notice, was sent the day Sherlock died, giving it demand for the upmost attention.

Envy is an emotion that has been theorized to drive competition. Competition being the incentive to either surpass or eliminate one's opponent. For any relatively mentally stable individual, envy is a well suppressed notion. But for one who was something less than sane, envy would be a sensation in which to act upon with great fervor. I've found myself in the position of the adversary to be bested, but I will not receive the mercy of simply being surpassed. I will be eliminated.

John reread this post many times, trying to figure out just what Sherlock was trying to imply. To John this was finally the chance to know: why? Because even though John had accepted it, Sherlock's death still made a maddeningly small amount of sense. Working through every word for some sort of indication, John analyzed the text with untiring preciseness. And it didn't take long before he determined its meaning, he didn't know how or why and he didn't need to. Only one phrase could rotate through John's otherwise paralyzed thoughts, it was Moriarty.

There was a low thud from Moriarty setting down John's tea and the doctor was abruptly pulled out of his bewilderment. John looked from the cup to Moriarty several times, and he only had the bearings to utter, "Thanks."

Moriarty strode over to the couch and reclined into its cushion unconcernedly, and yet everything about the man had shifted. John couldn't look at Moriarty the same, he was acting normal, but how could he with such a thing he's done.

"By the way," Moriarty informed John dispassionately, "you're out of milk."

Without context this remark seems incredibly insignificant and ordinary, but to John it was the most infuriating thing he'd ever experienced. It was so casual, so carefree, when John expected nothing short of a confession by the suggestion that everything Moriarty did was a cynical lie.

"How could you?" John blurted in accusing question as he shot up to stand.

Moriarty looked at John with misunderstanding and said with an easing smirk, "It's only milk, love."

The affectionate term only furthered John's betrayal. He quickly cut Moriarty off shaking his head deniably, "No, don't," he stopped himself for a moment as he was quaking with rage, "don't call me that."

Moriarty evaluated John with alarm now at the way he was acting. He saw the premise of this conduct, and nothing could've prepared him for even the idea that John might ever know the truth behind Sherlock's proclaimed 'suicide.'

"I know you don't applaud it, and you will never understand it," Moriarty began keeping a dominant tone, "but what I did was for us."

"Us?" John thundered, "It was never about us, it was about you! And who cares what it was about? You murdered Sherlock! You took the single most important person in my life and erased him off the face of the earth!"

Moriarty went on lock down and seemed to diverge into a person completely different to the one John had been familiar with for the past year. The criminal's entire facade became cruel and unsettling, he glared at John with unwavering malice. This all changed in the blink of an eye and Moriarty then spoke with menacing venom in his voice, "You dare hold the audacity to put that pretentious cretin above me? When I was the one that helped you, that pulled you out of the cycle of your own ignorance?"

"You're a manipulating lunatic who's nothing more than the gum under my shoe. And I'd rather rot in hell than see your face again." John snapped fearlessly and started for the door with a resolute verdict.

Before John exited Moriarty took a constricting grip on his wrist, preventing him to leave. "You think you have the choice to leave? You're mine."

Without warning John reached his wits' end and acted rashly as he brought his fist up with great power and converged with Moriarty's jaw solidly. Moriarty fell with the blow to the ground; he held his jaw and somehow managed to keep his daunting exposure as he glared at John with deep hatred. John spoke finally with steadfastness, "I'm not your pet." and he left.

Moriarty stared towards the door for several silent and wretched minutes, being in such terrible shock. He finally stood and trudged through the door, texting for a taxi to pick him up. No, he wouldn't go after John, because now he saw the fault in his entire scheme starting with capturing John: I will never possess the one thing I sought but could never truly have, because it will always belong to Sherlock.