A/N: Hot chocolate with all the marshmallows to SailOnSilvergirl, Sevenpercent, kate221b and Ghyllwyne.

An illustration for this chapter by the fablous Johix can be found at mcdonald dot ws slash public slash 2 dot png.


Sherlock glanced up from the man bleeding out at his feet to where a striped insect flung herself repeatedly against the window. He could hardly hear her frantic hum over the oddly distant roaring in his head.

He was surprised at the impulse to speak to her. To unburden himself.

His lip curled at the thought. He wasn't seeking forgiveness. He wasn't sorry for what he'd done, though having committed murder sat more uncomfortably with him than he'd expected.

He'd handed nearly a score of Moriarty's associates over to local law enforcement, and another handful directly to Mycroft. They didn't matter. This one - who'd accepted a contract on an elderly London woman - did. And the one Mycroft held, captured by Donovan of all people ...

And one other.

Satisfaction was fleeting. Disquiet hovered around the edges, like the frenetic buzzing of the bee trying so hard to escape. To return home.

He could not afford the distraction of sentiment. He needed to focus. The mission was unfinished.

"I killed him. I'm not sorry."

It was not a lie.

"Tell them for me."

Sherlock opened the window. He watched as the bee knocked against the glass a few more times before finding the exit. The droning in his head did not diminish. A hand touched to his ringing ear came away bloody.