A/N: Hey! Merry Christmas again, guys. This is the fic I wrote for the Sherlock Secret Santa on Tumblr, and is for smellsofbitteralmonds. I hope she likes it *nervous face* It's not very festive I'm afraid, but is predominantly about Sherlock's relationship with Moriarty. And there's no happy fluff here. Merry Christmas.

John had punched him the first time he saw him again. Sherlock had expected no less. Turning up on the doorstep of your ex lover's new flat whom you hadn't seen in three years was hardly a casual occurrence.

"Three fucking years, Sherlock. Three years without a word, without a hint of where you were going. I thought you'd died. You bastard. You complete bastard."

Sherlock was still sprawled on the floor of the hallway outside. "Can I come in?"

John hesitated. "Yes."

"I expect my answer's crossed yours."

He rotated on the spot, bringing his arm around in a large circle, before lowering it to point at the bomb. He heard John's irregular breathing behind him but barely registered it, his eyes instead locked on Moriarty's face.

"You're a fool."

Anger flared inside him. "A fool? For wanting to rid the world of you? I beg to differ."

Moriarty chuckled. "You don't know what you want. You never have. I know a lot more about you than you know about me, Sherlock."

"You know nothing about me, not really."

Moriarty laughed. "I know enough. I know that you're willing to die to stop me, but only if absolutely necessary. You're not stupid enough to come here without back up."

He heard John breathe sharply, air rushing through his gritted teeth, but again ignored him. "Very good."

"But you didn't count on me having John, did you?"

Yes. John. Now there was his dilemma. He would have pulled the trigger already if it weren't for him. He hadn't realised just how good John was until he'd given him that short nod, letting him know that he too would die to stop Moriarty. Sherlock didn't deserve him, and John deserved a lot better than this as a death.

Sherlock's hand gripped yet tighter on the gun. "You don't want to die here of all places, do you?"

Moriarty glanced briefly around. "In a place of past victory? It seems as good a place as any. But do you?"

"… No, not if it can be avoided."

He chuckled. "Life's too damn short. All you get are tiny glances, little glimpses of true happiness before your life is filled with banality. You have to grab those glimpses whilst you can get them, before you die. Everyone dies, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed. "You're aware of the police team surrounding you, no doubt?"

"Obviously. If the bomb goes off, it could kill them."

"I know."

Moriarty paused. "Would you be willing to shoot it? To get to me- would you let them die?"

Sherlock paused. "Yes, yes I would."
"How many people would you kill to wipe me from this planet, Sherlock?"

This time, the answer came to him immediately. "As many as it took."

A wide smile crossed Moriarty's face. "That's all I needed to hear." He raised his voice. "DI Lestrade?"

There was a long silence before Lestrade answered. "Moriarty, I presume?"

"I am willing to come quietly now."

Sherlock gaped. "After all this time, after all these games, you're willing to come quietly?"

"Yes. Like I said," his lips curled, "I'm so changeable."

Swarms of police officers began to approach them, but Sherlock's eyes remained locked on Moriarty's. "Why are you doing this? I don't understand…"

Moriarty raised his hands behind his head, smiling as red dots of light danced over his chest. "I don't expect you to, not yet."

"Coffee?"

The question was suddenly familiar. "Yes. Black, two-"

"Yes, I remember."

Sherlock sat awkwardly on the end of a white sofa. It didn't seem much to John's taste. Too impractical, too easy to stain. "How are you?"

He could hear John stirring the coffee angrily. "So we're not going to talk about it, then?"

He hung his head. "Would you like to?"

There was the sound of breaking china. "Bloody fucking hell!"

Sherlock got up and walked into the kitchen, seeing John crouching on the floor by the broken mug. "Let me help."

"I don't need your help!" he snarled, scooping up the remnants. "I've managed without it for the last three miserable fucking years."

The interrogation room was lit harshly, and Sherlock had to squint a little to adjust to the brightness of it. In its centre sat a dishevelled looking Moriarty, his suit ruffled and stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood. Indeed, there were large cuts and bruises on his face, and the way that he sat stiffly in his chair by the table indicated that the rest of his body was in a similar state. No one talked about what happened in the deepest bowels of the government, about the places where they sent the prisoners that no one knew about. They were above the law there; they could do anything they wanted to extract information from someone, because no one would ever find out. You can't torture a man that's never existed. The methods that had been exacted upon Moriarty had clearly not worked, otherwise Sherlock wouldn't be here.

Moriarty smiled as he entered the room. "Sherlock."

"Moriarty."

"Call me Jim, please."

"I don't think so."

"It wasn't a request."

Sherlock sat opposite him at the table. "I could escape from this room in any one of twelve different ways."

"I myself have found fourteen."

"Well, you are smaller than me."

"It's not a competition, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned at him. "I digress. The point I was attempting to make was that you could escape very easily."

Moriarty smiled. "Yes, I could."

"Then why haven't you?"

He looked towards the floor with the same smile he'd seen a few days before, a curl of his lips that filled him with an intense hatred. "It's been interesting."

"You've been beaten and tortured for information. How is that interesting?"

He giggled at Sherlock's words. "Your brother wouldn't like it if he knew you were talking about what happens in this place."

"My brother doesn't own me. What do you gain from this treatment? Do you gain pleasure from this?"

"My sexual proclivities are irrelevant," he replied, sounding a little exasperated. "And if anyone's the masochist here, it's you."

"If you're attempting to get me to rise, it won't work," Sherlock said in an offhand manner, though he could not stop the annoyance he felt at the thought.

"You can't honestly say that your sex with John is satisfying."

The statement was so blunt that it caught Sherlock off guard. "What?"

He grinned at Sherlock's reaction. "He's a straight laced sort of a man. Uptight. He's not into the same things as you, I don't think- you're just not sexually compatible. But me…" Moriarty's foot slid up the inside of Sherlock's leg, making him jump back. "I'll push the boundaries just as far as you want me to."

Sherlock fixed him with a piercing stare. "You're going to tell me what I need to know, and you're going to tell it me now."

Sherlock would have been lying if he said he hadn't noticed the flirtatious looks Moriarty gave him. "I don't think so. I won't be saying anything, not for a while. I want you to come back and see me."

Sherlock got up from his chair. "You know you'll rot in here. I've told them to move you somewhere more secure."

"You know I'd be able to escape from there too, if I wanted to."

"You won't, and you don't want to in any case."

"That could change. I could go anywhere I wanted and just disappear. There's only one way of ending this, and you know it."

Sherlock gave him a slick smile as he walked towards the door. "I won't give you what you want. I don't have to kill you, Jim. There are plenty of others round here who will do that for me."

He laughed. "So you don't like getting your hands dirty either? We're more similar than you like to believe."

Sherlock didn't know how to answer.

Sherlock could hear the aftershocks of the cup breaking in his head, stuck on a loop as he cowered under John's gaze. "You hate me," Sherlock said, ashamed.

John breathed very heavily, seemingly to calm himself down. "I don't… I don't hate you…"

"Then you should." Sherlock was crying now, he couldn't help himself. It was inevitable, really. He couldn't even bring himself to look John in the eye; the misery he felt at the way he'd behaved was too powerful.

"Sherlock, I could never hate you. I'm just- I just hate what you did. And I can't get past that. Please, could we sit down in the living room and talk about it for a while?"

Sherlock nodded, still crying silently. They sat down together in silence, neither sure who was going to start.

"You know," said John, his voice weak. "I mourned you for so long. I was the last person to admit that you were probably dead, and even then I was mourning. We had a memorial service. It was beautiful."

"John, I-"

"It's never been about the time you were missing, Sherlock. Not for me. You know what it was that made me angry, what still hurts me."

Sherlock nodded. "I was a fool. Such a fool."

The room was different this time. Like before, it was harshly lit and had no windows, but the walls this time were no longer white and clean. Whilst the environment before had been sterile and cold, this room was a mess. The surfaces were caked with dirt, the walls and floor were stained and Sherlock could smell the blood as soon as he opened the door. It appeared that Moriarty was no longer allowed out of his cell. He had been restrained, his arms and legs tied tightly to a chair. Sherlock could see that the ropes were cutting deep into his wrists and ankles, the rough cords stained red with Moriarty's own blood. Even when happening to Moriarty, he thought this was sick.

"You know, when you spoke to me last you reminded me of the fact you don't like to get your hands dirty."
"Oh?" he replied, his voice hoarse from lack of water.

"So why did you take it upon yourself to kill four of your guards and maim many others as they took you to shower?"

Moriarty laughed again, the sound pained but gleeful. "It was entertaining."

He could not control himself. He forced a hand around Moriarty's pale throat, his nails digging in so hard that he was drawing blood. "One of those men that you hurt is a good friend of mine."

"You mean Lestrade?" he managed, gasping. "How is he?"

"Still in intensive care."

Even with Sherlock's hand around his neck, he smiled. "They underestimated my abilities."

Sherlock's grip tightened. He coughed and spluttered, but was fixing Sherlock with that same grin which made him realise that violence was certainly not the way to extract information. He relinquished him with a sigh.

"How many times do I have to tell you that if you would just tell us what we need to know, you could stop this? You'd be moved somewhere else, somewhere terrible, but better than this. The information is of no use to you now; you'll never get out of here."

"How do you know that?"

"Because even if you do, you won't enjoy freedom for long. I won't hesitate to kill you."

Moriarty relaxed in his chair, allowing his head to stare up at the ceiling. "You could kill me right here and right now, if you wanted. There's no one stopping you. Even the guards are talking about doing it, except none of them are brave enough." He spat the words. "You are, though. So do it. Go on. I dare you."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Don't tempt me."

Moriarty licked his bloodstained lips. "You don't want to kill me. You need me, you always have. Why do you think you're so desperate for me to escape? You want to be the one to hunt me down."

"The only thing I want is to know how you've infiltrated yourself so far in every corner of society."

He laughed again, long and hard. "You want to know? Well I'll tell you. There are two people in this world- the people who want to use others, and the people who want to be used. I want to use people- I'm dominant, as it were. In every aspect of life, you'll come across people who like being used. They like the idea of being manipulated by someone, and they're far more willing to work for me."

Sherlock laughed derisively. "That's absurd."

"So you tell yourself. But you're one of them too."

"Now that really is absurd."

"Oh no. You like it. That's why you're sick of the sex you have with John, so dull, so blasé. You long for someone to treat you roughly. Someone like me."

"Listen to me," Sherlock crouched down low, level to Moriarty's face. "I despise everything you are, you filthy, disgusting little man."

Again, he smiled. "And it makes it so much dirtier, doesn't it?"

He pretended not to notice the shiver of arousal that thought brought to him.

He got home late that night, and found John wasn't at home. He'd left a note on the door saying he'd gone to visit Lestrade, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself smiling. John was such a good person. Too good at times. He considered going to the hospital to visit Lestrade himself, but he decided against it. He was too confused for that right now.

He went straight to their bedroom and waited there for John to come back. It felt very big and empty without John in it with him; he didn't know how he'd gone without someone there before. But he found himself wishing for someone else to fill the gap.

"Yes. You bloody well were." John ran his fingers through his own hair, gripping tightly to the strands. "I dreamed of this moment so many times, there were so many moments where I lay awake dreaming of you."

Sherlock was getting almost uncontrollable now. "I… I never meant…I'm so sorry."

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" John was raging now, finally releasing all his pent up rage. "You betrayed me! And then left me!"

"It's unforgiveable, I know. You really should despise me…"

"Fuck off, Sherlock. Even now you're telling me what to do- well, I've had enough!"

Sherlock was silent. The silence of it all was killing him more than John's words.

"I just want to know why, Sherlock. Please just tell me why."

Sherlock glanced down at the text before he entered the bar. He knew that this was where Jim was. It had to be. An anonymous text with an address and time? Yes, he was certain. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the warmth and the noise of the bar, which was filled to the brim with people. It was the kind of heat that made his head light, making his clothes stick to his skin as he searched the bar for who he was looking for. Eventually his eyes fell on the pale young man, changed into a fresh new suit, sitting at the bar. Sherlock walked slowly over to where he was and sat beside him, still not looking him in the eye.

"You came, then?"

Sherlock did not answer, instead ordering a scotch from the bar.

"Talisker. Very nice."

Sherlock brought the glass to his lips slowly. "I have refined tastes."

"I'm aware of it."

The noise around them meant that it was safe enough to get down to business. "You should be in prison, Jim. You escaped."

He grinned. "How perceptive of you."

"Do not be sarcastic with me, it's unbecoming."

"I was under the impression that you found me highly becoming."

Sherlock was not looking at Jim, instead gazing into the amber liquid in his glass, but was aware of his gaze on him. "What makes you say that?"

He paused briefly. "Your pupils are dilated, your heart beat raises when you look at me and you're sweating through your shirt."

"It's the heat," Sherlock murmured, determined not to look at Jim. "And the alcohol."

"So you drank before you came here? I see. A bit of Dutch courage- but what for?"

Sherlock hesitated. "I've come to take you back."

Jim moved a lot closer to him, whispering in his ear. "As I've previously mentioned, I know that you wouldn't be stupid enough to come here without back up if you intended to arrest me." The feeling of Jim's breath next to his ear was so warm that he had to stop himself shuddering. "And I see no police officers. Just you… and me…"

He slid a hand up the inside of his thigh, and Sherlock whimpered a little. "Stop it."

"If you want me to stop, stop me." Sherlock did nothing, and he felt Jim's laugh against his neck. "And you know what the most obvious part is?

"What?" Sherlock gasped, still looking resolutely forward at the bar.

"You called me Jim."

He finally turned his neck to look Jim Moriarty in the eye. He couldn't stop himself. And he knew then that there was no turning back.

"It was- It was an addiction," he finally managed to say. "I regret it with every fibre of my being."

"I realise that," John said softly, gripping the edge of his still intact mug.

"He was- Well, I don't know what he was. Charming, in a superficial sort of a way. Manipulative. Cold. Just like me, I suppose."

John said nothing, not denying Sherlock's claims.

Sherlock continued. "He won't bother us any longer, I promise you."

"'Us'?"

He hesitated. "Can there still be an 'us'? John, I want nothing more in the world than for the to be an 'us'. You have no idea how much I miss it, what we had, how much I miss you."

"Sherlock…"
"I screwed up!" He protested. "In the worst way imaginable! But I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you, I swear." The way his voice cracked was noticeable, but he didn't care. "I would give up everything just to be with you again. Please, please come back to me."

"Sherlock, I can't."

He grabbed John's hand, desperate now. "I need you."

As John was about to speak, Sherlock finally noticed what had been staring him in the face since he'd arrived. His hand brushed over the smooth golden band that trapped John's finger, claiming him as someone else's. Though he knew he had no right to, Sherlock felt betrayed.

John heard the door open and then shut at around 4 o'clock in the morning. He rushed off the sofa where he had been sat and ran towards the door, meeting Sherlock half way up the stairs.

"Where the HELL have you been?"

Sherlock shot him a blank stare. "For god's sake, John. You know where I've been."

"Yes, but you didn't tell me. No, I had to wait for bloody Dimmock to tell me where my own fucking boyfriend was."

Sherlock walked in past him. "I despise that term."

John clenched his jaw. "Then what the fuck am I, Sherlock?"

"You… You are my partner."

"Well sometimes it doesn't bloody feel like it."

Sherlock was unsure of what to do with his limbs. "I couldn't find him."

John softened at that. He knew that Sherlock hated feeling incapable. "You've been searching since you heard the news, you need to rest."

Sherlock collapsed down on the sofa. "I let him get away."

John sat beside him, gently stroking his soft brown hair. "You didn't, it wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was," Sherlock urged, putting his head in his hands. "How did I let this happen?"

"You couldn't have known," John soothed. "You didn't know he was going to escape."

"I could have stopped him and-" Sherlock was surprised to find himself crying. "I didn't."

John pulled him into a tight hug, unused to seeing the supposed sociopath cry. "This isn't your fault."

"You don't understand," Sherlock sobbed. "You don't understand."

"I don't understand."

John sighed. "Three years is a long time, Sherlock."

"Y-You got married?"

"Five months ago."

"Oh, a summer wedding," Sherlock spat. "How lovely."
"You have no right," John growled. "You gave up that right a long time ago. When you slept with another man- a criminal."

Sherlock got up, muttering bitterly. "Just because I have no right to feel this way doesn't mean I don't."

John shook his head, standing too. "Surely you noticed when you came back? You could tell that I had a sibling with alcohol problems the first moment I met you, you couldn't tell that a woman lived here too?"

"You- You have a remarkable ability to throw me off sometimes, John. You were never part of the plan."

"Was Jim?"

Sherlock couldn't answer. "She's a woman, then?"
"Yes. Her name is Mary. We met on the tube last year."

He shook his head. "You hate the tube. You always take cabs."

"Things got a little tight without your income. I couldn't get a job because- Well, I kept collapsing at work. Mrs Hudson kept me up for a while, but eventually she had to start moving your things out of the flat and putting them in storage. I couldn't take it without you there, without your things." John was crying too now. "I missed your stupid experiments and your ridiculous rants. I missed your brain. I missed your touch."

There was never much human contact after the deed was done. Jim enjoyed foreplay, like Sherlock- it drew out the pleasure, the pleasure so intense that it was more like pain. That was what Jim relished, causing Sherlock pain. He had so many cuts and bruises on his body that Jim had made, and it was getting hard to think up new excuses as to how he'd got them. Every time John cast his concerned eyes over some new scar on Sherlock's pale body he felt a new ache, more and more guilt every time he examined the marks.

He cast his eyes over his wounds, young and old, as he stood showering. He always showered after he came home from Jim's, in an attempt to wash off the shame. Jim was like a compulsion, a physical need, just another in a long line of Sherlock's many addictions. He let the water cascade over his broken form, pockmarked with Jim's blemishes, remembering how he'd gotten each one. Oh, it had been good. Good, but so very very bad. The memories were so ardently filthy that he couldn't not replay them in his mind, when he was alone and even when he was with John. John believed his lies- after all, he was Sherlock Holmes. He could have won an Oscar. Sherlock bloody Holmes, practically superhuman, with the power to manipulate and lie to anyone he met. Except the only other man who had a brain like his, the only other person who could bring him to his knees. They deserved each other. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

John chuckled a little as he continued. "It's silly, really. I moved out of the flat and ended up in temporary accommodation. Ella- you know, my psychiatrist- she put me into grief therapy. I told her I didn't need it because I knew you weren't dead. Eventually, I came to terms with it. I moved on. Just like you need to."

"I can't."

Neither could look the other in the eye. Sherlock scanned the room for details to catalogue. At times like these, when his brain was overloaded, he needed to return to logic. He gained an insight into the woman who John had married- late thirties, non smoker of course, allergic to pollen and animal dander, 5'4 to 5'6, weak ankles, love of running. She was, overwhelmingly, unlike Sherlock. She was dull. Predictable. Safe. But maybe that was what John wanted, after everything that he'd had with Sherlock. He'd had his little adventure. Now he wanted security.

And he saw their photographs, seemingly endless numbers of them, frozen moments in time from their short time together. They were tiny glimpses of their life together, glimpses of happy moments Sherlock would never have with John because he'd been such a fucking fool.

A few moments after Jim finished, he got up from the bed. Sherlock suddenly felt a lot dirtier; he always did after the two met up. Jim used his body like a puppet and then when he was done he kicked him out of his flat. He tried to ignore how sweat had stuck the sheets to his back, and the stains of bodily fluids he'd left on them.

Jim was already dressing. "Good boy," he murmured quietly, not making eye contact. Sherlock was still lying naked on the bed, ashamed.

"I'm done, Jim."

He saw Jim tense for a moment, but could tell he was smiling even with his back turned. "You're done?"

"Yes. I'm done."

Moriarty laughed, a bitter sound. "You're a fool."

"So you've told me." He got out of bed and began to dress himself. "Get out of the country."

"Or what? You'll come after me?"

Sherlock pulled on his shirt. "Yes. I will. I can't carry on like this; I won't be your piece of meat any longer."

Jim wasn't angry, not in the slightest. "Of course. I'm assuming you don't want me to tell John about this?"

"He doesn't need to know. Not that I'm expecting you to keep my secret."

"No, I will."
Sherlock was shocked. "Why? I don't understand."

"Nor do I expect you to. Believe me, it's not an act of mercy or of morality. I just don't like getting my hands dirty. You'll tell him yourself soon enough."

Sherlock considered the thought. "I can't risk losing him."

"How do you expect to win the game if you don't understand why you're playing? Why can't you just understand, Sherlock, that you've got too much of a heart?"

Sherlock said nothing but put on his shoes.

"How much of a head start can I expect?"

"Three days. Then I'm coming to find you."

"I'll get far away in that time."

"I know."

Jim laughed. "You've gone soft."

Sherlock's turned away as his eyes welled up in shame. "You know what? I think I probably have."

Sherlock walked the distance home, his thoughts heavy in his head. He had decided before he'd left Jim's flat what he was about to do, ever since Jim had suggested it. It was the only way. The only fair way.

John looked shocked as he climbed the stairs. "I thought you were with Mycroft?"

Sherlock looked blankly at him.

"Sherlock?"

"Sit down. I need to tell you something."

"I'm glad you came to visit me, Sherlock."

Sherlock's head was bowed, and he knew that John knew he was crying. All the anger had gone from his tone, he was calm. Regretful, perhaps, but accepting.

"I think I've gotten some closure from this."

He looked John in the eye finally. "You're sure about her?"

He nodded. "More sure than I have been of anything in my life."

Sherlock forced a smile. "Good. She's a lucky woman."

He found himself getting up and walking to the door, without really knowing what his body was doing.

"We should meet up soon," John said quietly. "I'd like to introduce you both. And we've a lot to catch up on."

"Yes, we should." They both knew that they would never do this. Hell, John didn't even have Sherlock's number, and he was sure John would have changed his phone in that time. But he wouldn't have been able to bear it if he had to say goodbye.

The flat was very, very empty with John gone. All his things were still here, of course, he hadn't come back to pick them up yet. Three days had passed since he'd told John what he'd done, and John had left that same night. The whole process had been ugly and raw. There'd been so much crying and shouting, it had all become a blur. Sherlock could barely remember what was said. All he knew now was that there was a large hole in his life where a John used to be, and it was killing him.

He'd left messages with Harry- he knew that was where John would have gone. As much as he loved John, he was always predictable. Jim had been far more of a mystery, but what they had was certainly never love. Jim was only ever an addiction, one that he could overcome. Not like John. The two men were so very different.

It had been three days. He had to leave. That was where his head told him to go. He stared around at the dark, quiet flat and thought about the warning he had given Jim. Three days. Then I'm coming to find you.

Reason told him that there was a chance; there was the smallest opportunity that John may forgive him if he stayed. He would have to come back at some point, and Sherlock would be here to talk to him when he did.

Desire is a powerful force. It transcends all reason, all boundaries, all love. It is much more a universal force than love is. And whilst his physical lust for Jim had waned, his desire to catch him was what made him pack his bags and leave the flat that night. And he would not return until he had found him, John or no John.

Everything ends and everything dies. It was snowing in London, snowing so nicely and prettily. Sherlock had never understood the attraction, but then again, Sherlock gradually understood less and less about the world than he'd realised. Snow, if anything, covered the beauty of the city. All the streets and the buildings were sugar coated to the point where it was too sweet, and people couldn't appreciate it. It was sickly. Sherlock saw the worth beneath it. He was sure he was the only person who felt like this. At least, the only person now. The only other who shared his fascination for the city… Well, he wasn't here any more. He'd made sure of that.

Sherlock found his way through the familiar streets, his second love, the city he'd called his home for so long. And he struggled as he walked to understand the thoughts whirling in his brain, the dull emptiness within him that had to accept that John was gone, and Moriarty had won. He always won.

He had meant what he said, about Moriarty being an addiction. Finally he'd found his intellectual equal, someone with the knowledge and the power to come close to stopping him. And that thought had excited him. He thrived on danger. He was living closer and closer to the edge, and one day he'd fall.

The heat of the bar was very different to the weather outside. Inside it was stifling, just as before, the volume of people making it difficult to breathe. Outside the cold and the snow was brutally battering against the windows and doors, fighting for entrance.

Sherlock took off his thick coat, making his way over to the bar again. He saw who he was looking for immediately. For all the triumph and happiness he had imagined feeling at this moment, he could not feel a damn thing.

"Moriarty."

Moriarty looked straight ahead, smiling to himself. "You caught up."

Sherlock sat beside him. "A scotch, please."

"Three years. Longer than I expected."

Sherlock shrugged. "You're a hard man to track. Switzerland was not my first choice of where you'd go."

Moriarty seemed as unmoved as Sherlock by the whole experience. "I enjoy the cold. It helps me think." He looked around the bar. "You didn't bring back up."

"No. I did not."

He smiled. "Which suggests you are not here to arrest me…"

Sherlock downed his drink in one, impatient. "It's time."

Moriarty looked at him for the first time, his lips still curved in a grin that had infuriated him for three long years. "Time for what?"

Sherlock remained impassive. "Don't play games, not now."

They walked towards the door. "Where are we going?"

"Where would you like to go?"

Moriarty paused. "The falls."

They walked for hours, neither speaking a word to the other. They didn't need to. There was a silent agreement between them that what they were about to do would not be spoken about aloud. The cliff tops began to stretch higher and higher into the night's sky, with no fences or boundaries to prevent someone tumbling off the edge to the ground below. The path was long and icy, making the journey treacherous for them both. Eventually, Moriarty had stopped him. "Here. Here is good."

He began to strip off his thick coat and scarf, until he was standing in his Westwood suit.

Sherlock cursed inwardly. "You knew I was coming."

"Of course I knew. It felt fitting, to wear this at the end. To finish how we started."

"Then why didn't you escape?"

Moriarty laughed, backing slowly towards the edge of the cliff. "All this time, and you still don't understand. This was never about dying. Everyone dies. Death is nothing. I will die in a place of victory, safe in the knowledge that perhaps hundreds have died or worse because your brilliant mind has been preoccupied by me. They died for me. You're a fool."
The words stung, and Sherlock realised that even now he was losing. He gripped Moriarty's suit, staring him straight in the eye as he held him over the precipice. "This was inevitable, wasn't it? I was always going to kill you."

"Of course."

Sherlock shoved Moriarty back, watching him stumble suddenly but calmly over the edge. His eyes were closed and his expression serene as he fell backwards out of sight, down onto the rocks below. He waited for a few moments, trying to ignore the voice in his head that told him Moriarty had won all along.

Sherlock found himself in a dark alleyway, one he'd visited many times before. At the end next to a few rubbish bins stood a familiar face.

"Sherlock Holmes," said the man whose name he'd never learned. It had never seemed important. "I never thought I'd see you back here again."

He walked slowly towards him. "Times change. Circumstances change."

"How much do you want?"

He pulled out a wad of cash. "As much as you have."

The man didn't ask questions, he never had. Sherlock was back where he'd been before, back in the arms of another addiction. Desire in all its forms controlled his life, crippling his body and his mind through compulsion. Because what did he have, really? A few short glimpses at happiness which he'd managed to ruin. He lived on the edge of a knife, he couldn't be happy for long. Nothing remained, in the end, except the cocaine bottle. And he stretched his long white hand out for it.

:S I hope it's OK!