"It's going to be alright" Lestrade tried to reassure Sherlock as they walked up to the museum doors. Sherlock trudged next to him. he wore his usually cool emotionless mask, but inside he was actually terrified. Sherlock couldn't believe Lestrade's words of comfort. Isaac wasn't going to let any of them go without a scratch. This was going to be bloody…very bloody. He glanced at Lestrade; the only friend he had that hasn't been effected by Isaac yet. Sherlock may not be the sentimental kind, but right now he knew that he couldn't let Lestrade get hurt like him and John. He couldn't lose his friends; not because of his stupid life.

Sherlock leaned against the cool doorway as he awaited Lestrade to get finished picking the lock. He would have teased him for taking so long, but he was too busy wondering what John must be going through right now. Was he lying on the floor with three bullets in him along with some note taped to his chest? Was he even alive? Sherlock let a shaky breath leave his lips. He had to remain calm.

"Got it!" Lestrade shouted as he pulled the lock and chain from the door. Sherlock pulled himself away from where his body was resting against one side of the doorway. He strolled through, but as soon as he was inside the museum he turned around, flinging the door shut and locking it from the inside.

"Sorry, Lestrade, but this is between me and Isaac," Sherlock stated through the door.

"Sherlock! Please, let me in! He'll kill you!" Lestrade shouted, smacking his fists against the door. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, staring at the blank door. He knew that, but he couldn't let another friend almost get killed because of him. He ran a hand through his curly mess of hair and turned on his heels, staring into the dark corridors that lied ahead of him. Ignoring Lestrade's shouting, Sherlock strolled down the hallways, gun drawn.

The place was empty, but Sherlock could still make out the sound of heavy breathing. The kind of breathing you hear from someone who is terrified, tired, and hurt. That had to be John. There was no reason for Isaac to be breathing heavy. John on the other hand was kidnapped and is probably hurt badly. Following the breathing of his friend, he came to a room cluttered with dusty old paintings. It must be the storage for paintings and other art that the museum no longer bothers to show. Sitting in the middle of the darkened room was John Watson. He was sitting in an old dusty chair tied up tightly with rope. His eyes were closed and blood was gushing from his head along with a few other places. Sherlock hesitantly approached John, pointing his gun in every direction. This had to be a trap. There was no way Isaac- the careful serial killer would just leave John out in the open for him to rescue.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, kneeling down to his friend. John's bloodshot eyes opened slowly. He blinked at Sherlock a couple times and then gasped in terror.

"Sherlock, you've got to get out of here! It's a-"

"Trap," Sherlock interrupted, nodding in understanding. "I know, John." John frowned at him.

"And you still came alone?" John asked, looking rather surprised and amused. Sherlock smiled at him.

"I couldn't leave my best friend at the hands of a serial killer…again." Sherlock said while pulling out his pocket knife and cutting the ropes that bound his friend to the chair.

"Oh, how sweet…looks like the uncaring Sherlock Holmes I've read in the papers is not as he seems," Isaac mused, coming into sight. Sherlock jumped up, glaring at the man that now pointed a gun at his head. He gritted his teeth and stepped in front of John, protecting his friend.

"It's over, Isaac, the police are here and this time you won't disappear right from under them," Sherlock hissed. Isaac broke out into a fit of laughter. Tears were actually beginning to fall from his cheeks as he laughed at the detective. Sherlock's body tensed as the familiar cackling echoed through the storage room like it had in the alley. He tightened his grip on his gun and glared into Isaac's shadowy eyes, looking for any fear or uncertainty. There was none, though. Isaac was completely care-free and calm. Well, why would he be nervous? He's not the one who could lose his best friend and himself at the moment. Right now the odds were all in his favor and completely against Sherlock and John as usual, only this time they most likely were not getting out alive.

Isaac stepped closer to them, keeping his gun pointed at Sherlock's head. The murderer stopped once he was only an arms-length away and stated simply,

"No…I guess I won't, but I can still give them one last masterpiece!" Isaac's gun screamed as the bullet left the barrel.

"NO!" John screamed, pulling Sherlock down to the floor with him. The bullet smacked into an old painting and the two blogger detectives sat safely on the floor. Isaac swore and lifted his gun a second time, but this time Sherlock was ahead of him. Sherlock kicked Isaac's gun from his hand and swung a punch into the murderer's jaw. Thick red blood leaked from the tear on Isaac's lip. Isaac's fingers dabbed at the blood and his eyes scanned it in awe. A smile curled over his face, making even Sherlock shiver. The way he looked at the blood it was like…like blood lust.

"My turn," Isaac hissed, swinging his arms at Sherlock, pinning him against the wall. Isaac's free arm grabbed a wooden pole with strange carvings printed on it and smacked it over Sherlock's head. "That's for the whole business with the cane from before." Sherlock's body slid down to the floor as Isaac's voice whispered softly to him. Sherlock held his head as blood began to dribble down from his temple dripping off his chin. Isaac licked his lips, turning his head like an amused child at the blood that slowly slithered down Sherlock's face. "Blood," Isaac began. "It's the greatest piece of art in the world. It keeps our bodies alive and adds just a tad of color. It's the perfect paint for my masterpieces." Sherlock's stomach clenched in disgust. So this was what all these murders were all about. They weren't some petty feud with someone or another Moriarty fiasco. This was passion; passion for the beauty of a crime scene. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth curve up. He didn't know if it was disgust curling in his stomach after all. Now he just wondered his it was the rush and the greatness of this case. The feeling faded quickly as he felt the pole smack against him again. He groaned in pain, but quickly leapt to his feet. He had to protect himself or both he and John were going to die tonight. Sherlock's eyes searched the floor for his gun, but the weapon had skidded way too far away. He would have to come up with something else. His eyes scanned the area, falling on a glittering sword in a glass casing. Surly the museum wouldn't mind him using it for self-defense. Sherlock quickly smashed his fist against the glass, ignoring the burning pain from the broken glass digging into his skin and pulled out the ancient weapon.

"Sorry, Mr. Canary, but I'm not donating blood today and neither is my friend!" Sherlock shouted, slicing the sword at Isaac. Isaac let out a small cry as the sharp blade ripped a long deep cut in his shoulder. His eyes blazed with fiery and he lunged at Sherlock with his pole. Sherlock blocked the blow, but Isaac kicked him in the stomach, sending him hard into a pillar. Sherlock slouched against the cool stone, breathing heavy. He was exhausted. His wounds were still in the heeling process and this little fight was not what his body needed.

"Sherlock, watch out!" John gasped as Isaac lifted the pole to hit Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes fluttered up and he lifted the sword, stabbing Isaac in the waist. Isaac backed off, pulling his body off of the sword and groaning in pain by the deep cut that now stabbed into his abdomen. Sherlock, using what energy he had left ran over to John, wrapping his arm around his friend and ran up to the stairway that led to the next floor. His body ached from the extra weight, but Sherlock held onto John. He wasn't going to lose is best friend tonight; especially to this maniac.

"Where's Canary?" John's voice said suddenly before they got even half way up the stairway. Sherlock stopped running and leaned over the side railing, looking at where the battle had just happened only moments ago. Sherlock sucked in a breath as his eyes scanned the now empty room.

"This doesn't feel right," he stated under his breath.

"You can say that again," John stated, looking around with Sherlock. "He can be anywhere."

"Not just anywhere," Isaac's cold voice cackled. Sherlock stiffened. He had to be close. "I'm right above you." Sherlock and John looked up, startled. Hidden in the shadows of the rafters hid Isaac no longer with a pole but a gun carrying exactly six bullets. Three were for Sherlock and three were for John. Blood dripped down onto them from the gaping wound Sherlock had given the madman. Sadly, it didn't look like it was going to help slow him down very much.

"RUN!" Sherlock shouted, pushing john, but Isaac jumped in front of them before they could go any farther.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," Isaac sneered as he pointed his gun at the two stunned men. Sherlock and John held their breath as they the horrible blast of a gun bounced throughout the room.

"Sherlock, John!" a voice shouted at them. Their eyes stared in surprise at Isaac, who was sputtering up blood. Sherlock's eyes trailed to where Lestrade was standing at the bottom of the stairs, pointing his smoking gun at the man he had been hunting for months. Sherlock looked back at Isaac in time to see him lift his gun at him once again feebly, but with a quick kick in the stomach from John Isaac Canary went tumbling off the edge of the railing; down to the cement flooring. Sherlock and John let out a sigh of relief and slumped down onto the stairs, breathing heavy.

"You two alright?" Lestrade asked, rushing to their aid. Sherlock nodded as he stared at the body that now lied in a pool of blood in the middle of the room. It was all over. He had won.

"Well, you were late," Sherlock stated with a small smile, turning his attention onto Lestrade. Lestrade raised a brow and smiled at the detective before slouching down next to him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm not as useless as you think huh?" Lestrade asked, pocketing his gun. Sherlock shrugged.

"Perhaps, but your team is what really needs some work."

"Being rude again?" John asked, nudging Sherlock's shoulder playfully.

"That, my dear John is technically called being honest," Sherlock stated, smiling at the doctor. John laughed, shaking his head. Sherlock laughed with him and their eyes met. The stress, worry, and pain that had been haunting them was completely gone now. Everything was beginning to curl back to normal again; just how they like it. Sherlock could feel all the weight of ruining his friends' lives disappearing as he stared at John. John was his friend; his best friend. He understood that now. All those things that had been said all that long ago felt so foreign now. It was all just some bad dream.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Let's go home." John held out his hand to his best friend and Sherlock didn't hesitate as he gave John his. The two smiled at each other and got up from where they sat on the stairway. Sherlock looked down at Lestrade, who was looking up at the two. Sherlock held out his free hand, taking Lestrade's and the three of them walked out of the dark museum back home where they belonged. Back home where they would blog, experiment, work, and go on more crazy adventures. Even those crazy days at the flat were still worth it all. Neither John, or Sherlock, or Lestrade would give it up.

Well, I have really enjoyed this; this little story of mine, but I'm afraid that this is the end. I hope that all of you have enjoyed the ride and thank you to all those who have been fallowing, favoriting, and reviewing. I really appreciate it. If anyone has story ideas please let me know. I'm always writing and I love to to write about anything. Again, thank you all.