A/N: Kinda really violent near the end. And, ya know, most of the chapter. Sorry. This is the most violent it shall get. (I don't know how, or if, I know how to write this. Somehow everything that gets written at 11:30 PM is bloody angst? I scare me.) Anyway please tell me what you think!

Half an hour. Half an hour, give or take, of this empty existence, driven by fear and pain and vengeance. Then it'll be over.

Sherlock gives a strangled half-laugh, half-sob and wipes at his face with a grimy hand. Half an hour, then he'll see John.

He allows himself rare periods of emotion like this whenever he knows for a fact he's completely alone, in his small, dingy flat after the world's gone to bed or on a stakeout hunting some member of the Web. These secret, often tearful moments are the only way to maintain the cold-blooded, robotic exterior he clings to elsewhere like a life raft. His necessary impassiveness has reached the point where Mycroft and Molly are worried for his mental health. He didn't even blink when Mycroft informed him of John's fragmenting emotional state.

John. Sherlock feels another pang of guilt and sorrow for abandoning John like he had and subjecting him to such emotional torture to drive him to depression. Hold on, John, I'm coming…

Suddenly Sherlock wishes Moran would hurry up and return to the flat where he's been staying, across the street from a conveniently deserted office block. Logically, he knows the probability of John doing something stupid in the next half-hour (less, now) is small to begin with, and barely affected by however long it takes for Moran to return. But this is a time set aside for emotion, not logic. Sherlock fidgets and hopes.

To pass the time, he checks and double-checks the advanced sniper rifle set up facing the window. Crosshairs are go. It's steady on its little tripod. All parts are properly oiled and assembled. Sherlock smirks. How fitting that the last member of the Web, John's personal sniper, should meet his demise in the same fashion Moriarty had threatened his John with.

Sherlock glances out to Moran's flat, isn't he back yet?, like a child impatient for his turn at a game. And – there! A silhouette at the window! Sherlock's heart leaps, the end is in sight! and places his eye to the sights and his finger on the trigger. He takes a moment to shut out all emotion, like he always does in the seconds before cutting another strand of the Web away, and fires.

BANG. A tiny torpedo of instant death rockets across the street and into the head of the figure at the window. A small, splattery explosion and the Web is gone.

Sherlock leaps up, grinning, and twirls giddily once before rushing down the stairs and out into the street. People have heard the gunshot, naturally, and are calling the police, but Mycroft can smooth it over easily. Moran's dead! He's dead! Sherlock's two-year hiatus is over! Of course, he needs to check the body. One can't be too careful, especially in matters of such importance, but none of Moriarty's other snipers had seen anything coming, they'd had almost nothing in terms of security, no ways to cheat death, he'd made sure himself, and why should Moran be different, and he's going to see John! Soon he'll have verified the body's identity (idiot John, that's the step you forgot), checked its pulse and he'll be done. He'll demand a car of his brother (interesting how the man he'd once called his archenemy is now working with him to take down his true nemesis) and then he'll be on the way home. Which, of course, means John. He can't stop thinking his name. John, John, John.

Sherlock pounds across the street, hardly caring who takes notice, and slams through the doors of the run-down apartment building. He rockets up the stairwell to the second floor, quickly locates room 206, and wastes no time in kicking the door down. Sherlock rushes into the room – and stops dead in his tracks.

His brain takes a moment to process the thing on the floor in front of him. No – this can't be happening. Not when I'm so close!

But it is. Sherlock stares at the crude but accurate dummy on the ground, surrounded by what looks like scarlet ink. To add insult to injury, someone – Moran – has scrawled John Watson across the figure's forehead, Sherlock's bullet hole straight through the first n. His heart jolts with the inescapable certainty that he's made an awful mistake, he's been too careless and now he's going to pay for it, probably with his life.

Poor Sherlock's nightmare worsens as he hears the door shut quietly behind him, followed by the sound of a gun cocking. Slowly, carefully, Sherlock places his hands on his head and turns around to face the notorious, dishonorably discharged Colonel Sebastian Moran.

Moran is tall, but not as tall as Sherlock, and leanly muscled with a thatch of light strawberry-blond hair. He's barefoot, which explains why Sherlock hadn't heard him coming in. He wears a feral grin and has a rather large gun leveled at Sherlock's head.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, I presume," says Sherlock evenly.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Moran's voice has a relaxed, almost cocky tone to it. "So nice to finally m – "

BANG. Moran fires in the middle of the word. Sherlock sees it coming, of course, he really expected no less from someone who could outwit him thus far. He drops to the floor as soon as Moran fires and scrambles past him to the door, hooking an arm around his legs and tripping him on the way out. Moran swears fervently, and there's a nasty snap as he falls heavily onto his wrist. He gasps in pain, and Sherlock's on the move, racing desperately toward the stairwell at the other end of the hall. He'll run through the lobby and out into the street, Moran (probably) won't shoot at him in public, he'll be able to escape in one of Mycroft's cars and form another plan. Sherlock turns into the stairwell – and nearly plunges to his death. Flimsy caution tape is strung across a lethal gap in the floor, ringed with jagged pieces of rotting wood and the sad remnants of decrepit bannisters.

The stairs are out.

Sherlock spins around, panicked, and sees Moran pounding down the hallway, a violent snarl twisting his features. He shoots wildly a few times, his aim must be affected by the broken wrist, I can't get past him, have to go –

Sherlock turns and sprints up the first flight of stairs. Moran's at the bottom now, and Sherlock barely manages to round the corner before he shoots again. The bullets ping harmlessly into the walls. Moran swears again.

The sniper is close enough behind Sherlock that he can't enter one of the other floors, Moran would be upon him before he was able to open the door. He can't do anything but race feverishly upward, flight after flight, ignoring the incessant sensation of getting higher and higher with nowhere safe to end this chase. No time for planning, no time for thought, because Moran's broken wrist hasn't stopped his being able to run. Or shoot, if he has a close enough target, which Sherlock will be if he slows down for even a fraction of a second. More bullets blaze into the wall and ceiling where Sherlock was a moment before. One nicks his coat. Panting, nearly sobbing, he turns up another endless staircase and hurtles out an open door.

The cold air hits him with a snap, along with the realization that he is on the roof. Oh God, the roof. His stomach jolts with sickening panic and he shudders uncontrollably. Not the roof, no, no, not the roof… The cold cement floor, the wind blowing bitterly across his face, the lack of horizon and the vertigo all are exactly (no not exactly don't be and idiot Holmes) like the Roof two years ago. He can almost see Moriarty perched on the edge, staying alive the final problem richard brook you're insane John side of the angels BANG no no John it's all true my note Goodbye John SHERLOCK –

NO. This is not the time to be having a panic attack. Sherlock ducks behind the small shed that houses the end of the stairwell and pulls out the gun he didn't have time to get to before. Everything's been happening too quickly, and he thanks God for whatever reason Moran hasn't caught up and shot him in his few seconds of weakness.

Sherlock readies the gun and aims it at Moran's chest level, just before Moran bursts onto the roof, a triumphant grin on his face. His head whips around at the sound of Sherlock's gun cocking, and he fires directly into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's shot goes wide, hitting Moran's gun hand in a bizarre twist of fate and the men both drop their weapons, the guns skittering in opposite directions across the roof.

After the initial flash of pain, Sherlock ceases to be able to feel his fingers – never a good sign; probably some nerves have been severed. He's bleeding enough that he expects the bullet's hit the radial artery as well. Internally cursing at being forced to fight left-handed, Sherlock draws a knife from an inside pocket and turns to face Moran, who has also produced an (admittedly much larger) blade. Interesting. Doesn't have another gun on his person? Wants to toy with me? Sherlock isn't complaining. Statistically, he's much more likely to survive a knife-to-knife fight than a gunfight with no gun.

Moran lunges at him, slashing, and Sherlock steps deftly aside, attempting to throw him off balance but not really expecting it to work. It doesn't. Moran turns smoothly, still grinning. That's beginning to unnerve Sherlock. They fight, punching and slashing and kicking and stabbing furiously, for an eternity at least. Sherlock is beyond exhausted and frankly wants to go home. He feints left and stabs, but Moran whirls around him and gives him a shove from behind. Sherlock stumbles but quickly recovers, gasping and clutching his injured hand to his chest as if he's jolted it. Moran smirks and stealthily approaches Sherlock from behind, knife out and ready to slide under his ribs. At the last second, Sherlock turns and slams Moran into the wall of the shed, pressing the knife hidden in his hand to the colonel's throat. Moran drops his blade in shock, nearly hitting Sherlock's toe.

They're both breathing hard, adrenaline surging in their veins and sweat shining on their foreheads despite the cold. Sherlock's ebony curls are plastered to his skull. His face is bleeding in several places, including his nose, which is probably broken, and he's cracked at least four ribs. Moran has two black eyes, a possible fractured radius, and at least three less teeth than when he entered this fight. He lifts his face, stares at Sherlock with that ragged grin, and says clearly, "Your pet's dead, you know."

Blank.

A split second of total sensory oblivion, feeling seeing hearing nothing, before reality snaps back into being and Sherlock rocks back on his heels, drawing in a breath and staring at Moran with wide eyes. The sniper's smile broadens with the knowledge that he has Sherlock exactly where he wants him. "Jim texted me in the stairway. Finally suicided! Jumped off a roof, from what I hear."

Sherlock's eyes flicker frantically across Moran's face, searching desperately for some evidence that he's lying, because no matter how good a liar he is, however practiced, there will be a tell, something that gives it away, there must be…but there's nothing. He's telling the truth.

"Want to know something funny? It was the exact same roof." Moran snickers, smirking. "His skull cracked and bled over the same paving stones as yours."

John's gone.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, trying not to sob, barely caring when Moran shimmies out of his grasp and retrieves the knife. "That's kind of…sentimental, don't you think?" the assassin sneers.

no

There are not, have never been, and will never be words to describe Sherlock's screaming fury as he launches himself at Moran, slashing and stabbing out blindly, forcing him – somewhere, just somewhere that needs to be away and not here, and HE SHOULD FALL LET HIM FALL and they're at the edge of the roof. But then they're not, because Moran's manipulated the fight so they're headed somewhere else. Sherlock doesn't really care; all that matters is to cause Sebastian Moran as much pain as possible. His senses and reflexes are horrifyingly heightened; he can see every move Moran will make before he makes it and knows exactly where his next blow will land – Moran's face, slash, arm, slash, stomach, stab. Sherlock's knife slides into the sniper's abdomen, spurting blood, but he keeps fighting, gasping and panting nonetheless. Tenacious, notes a tiny rational part of his mind that has been cowering in a corner. Sebastian is stumbling now, probably bleeding to death, but he still manages to pursue Sherlock – and then suddenly, Sherlock can't back away anymore. Why? Oh, they've reached the end of the roof. Moran is half pressing his knife into, half leaning on Sherlock. "Why…are you fighting?" he rasps. "He's…dead. Won't…change that."

And with that, Sherlock snaps back into himself. John's dead, the last two years have been in vain and what does he have to live for? Who would he return to London for? What would he do, just slip back into crime solving? With no foil, nobody to tell him when he's breaking all the rules of polite society and still love him for what he is? And the only person who's ever been anything like that is…just a few steps away, a few steps backwards…There's only one logical thing to do in this situation. Sherlock disentangles himself from the dying assassin, none too gently, and hops onto the ledge. It is rather similar to the previous Roof. His bloodstained scarf and tattered coat billow and snap in the wind, as he spreads his arms out as if he's flying and leans backward. Hold on, John, I'm coming.

Sherlock Holmes falls for the last time with a smile on his face.