AN: I must apologise for the complete lack of Silver!Verse updates. Truth be told, my entire fandom focus has shifted onto Supernatural! Sadly, it doesn't look like I'll be able to finish The Lupine Treaty.

However! Instead, I have decided to post a series of oneshots that tell the story of my Silver!Verse version of The Reichenbach Fall. They're all written, and I'll post one a night.

Obviously, this is the last story, so before you read this you have to have read the others! There are three in total (in this order):
A Study In Silver
The Gifted League
The Adventure of the Idle Hands

So, without further ado, I present you with: 'The End'. Feel free to add any comments of reviews! Thanks for sticking with the series, you're all simply the greatest followers ever :) - B.

It didn't really matter how much he hurt Moriarty; how much he paid him or offered him. He was never going to get what he wanted; to stop what he so desperately wanted to stop.

Mycroft laid the tabloid newspaper down on the mahogany table by his armchair, giving a cursory glance to the various cakes and bonbons in front of him. His appetite, finally, failed him. And all it took was the death of his brother.

He sneered at the paper. 'Suicide of fake genius'. Sherlock may as well have been pushed off that roof by himself. The truth was, in trying to avert what he knew what would happen, he'd caused it.

The way it usually went, he was given a little leeway between a dream, and the day it would come to pass. However, the magnitude of the event was clearly too massive to afford him a mere two or three days: three months before Sherlock ended up on that roof, he'd dreamt it. He watched the genius cry, and the doctor beg, before he thought he saw Moriarty push his brother off the roof. He'd seen it all, through small, brown eyes. Strangely enough, he personally wasn't a witness to these events. Just as well, he realised now: he didn't think he could stomach watching it again.

Three months: they were a length of rope, with which to hang himself, and his brother alike.

He remembered when he'd been so careless as to give the madman what he wanted: the information deemed useless to himself was in actuality priceless to Jim Moriarty. He'd stupidly blurted the fact that he'd seen Sherlock on a roof, forgetting that the Irishman had a real talent for squeezing people until they simply cracked under his pressure. In his dream, Sherlock had physically cracked: his head shattered on the pavement, his bones broken and his organs ruptured.

And Mycroft had given Moriarty the tools to instigate it.

So in the end, it didn't matter if he begged, or pleaded; it didn't matter that he sat demurely, holding in his emotions as he gave Moriarty information, in return for his promise to stay away from Sherlock, and not to have a hand in killing his brother. Because in doing so, he'd just helped Moriarty to achieve his goal: the man always knew he'd kill Sherlock Holmes, but he hadn't known the finer details until he'd gotten Mycroft to share his vision to him.

It turned out Moriarty wasn't going to kill Sherlock Holmes: he was going to speak to him, and then he was going to kill himself.

"Sir?"

Anthea. She, of course, looked entirely different today than she had yesterday. In fact, as the Diogenes club had a strictly all-male policy, she had adopted a male form in order to be admitted. He was quite handsome: the similarities between Anthea's real form and her male form were very striking, actually. However, Mycroft took little notice of his assistant's appearance: it was of little consequence to him which gender she chose to adopt, or what she looked like. It was merely set-dressing, in his opinion, and didn't matter.

"Yes?"
"A letter has just been delivered for you. It arrived at the club a few minutes ago by courier," He answered, holding up an off-white letter for his employer to see. Mycroft raised a curious eyebrow: deliveries to his office were of annoying frequency. Deliveries to his club, however, were virutally unheard of.

He took the letter from his assistant, who also offered him a nearby silver letter opener, with a murmured thank you. He knew he should be grateful for her companionship: he'd had almost no one to help him through the last month or so; it was clear she was genuinely concerned for him. Their relationship, he felt, went slightly deeper than fellow powered individuals, or MI5 employees, or boss and assistant.

He tore open the letter, and pulled it out.

Mr. Holmes,
Though not my given name, my chosen alias is Fred Porlock. I am writing to inform you . . .

Mycroft read the entire letter. Twice,. in fact. He couldn't believe the information it contained in the first instance.

He looked up at Anthea's face, and did something he hadn't been able to do in around a month, such had been the weight of his loss, and his feeling of helplessness surrounding it: he smiled.

There was only one thing that could make him smile like that, she thought. So she smiled back.