A/N: Warnings for violence and references to drugging and character death and all that stuff. Thanks to WickedWanton for brainstorming and general awesomeness, and to Nocturnias for same!

Sherlock stepped over the ledge and onto the asphalt-tiled roof of Molly's building, taking in the sparse details (virtually nothing had changed since his last sojourn on this rooftop eighteen months earlier) before settling his eyes on the form of Jim Moriarty.

The other man was sitting comfortably on the low wall bordering the roof, taking a pensive drag off the cigarette he held in one hand, gazing out over the limited view provided by the building's relatively short height. Without turning his head, he said, "Hello, Sherlock. Good of you to join me."

Then he turned and, with a nasty smirk, drawled: "Molly's looking good, don't you think? Considering?"

All the control Sherlock normally prided himself on evaporated with those carefully calculated words; without even realizing he'd moved, he found himself directly in front of his adversay, reaching down and yanking him forward by the lapels of his very expensive, very much soon-to-be ruined designer suit. "So, dear Jim," he snarled, "what happened to not liking to dirty your own hands, hmm? It doesn't get much dirtier than raping a woman, does it?" He shook him, but a faint grin remained on the other man's face. "Or forcing drugs into her system, causing her to miscarry her child – my child?!"

Moriarty, appearing completely unfazed by either Sherlock's ire or his precarious condition on the edge of the roof, had the temerity to laugh. "I told you I'd burn the heart out of you," he chortled. "I just had to wait until you found it first!"

Sherlock's fist slammed into the other man's face hard enough to break bone, knocking him onto the roof but only because at the last minute Sherlock pulled the punch. Much as he wanted this man dead, to see his brains and blood splattered all over the pavement below, to hear his screams as he hurtled to his death – much as he wanted all that and so, so much more for what Moriarty had done to Molly – he needed to make sure that Molly and John were safe first.

And the other man knew it, too. It was there in his eyes as he pushed himself up onto his elbows and grinned at his opponent, even as he spat out blood and bits of tooth.

And then he laughed, and Sherlock went very still. Something was off. Something wasn't right about this. Sherlock forced himself back under control, shoved the rage and desire for revenge into a box and slammed the lid, making himself stop reacting – stop letting this man push his buttons – and just think.

The conclusion he reached seemed so ridiculous, so far-fetched, that at first he couldn't articulate it. Moriarty was watching him, though, must have read the truth in his face, because he finally stood up and thrust his face directly into Sherlock's. "That's it, you've got it. Now say it."

"You want me to kill you."

"Yes."

Sherlock simply stared at him, still not wanting to believe he'd reached the correct conclusion. Therefore he did something he rarely liked doing: he repeated himself. "You. Want me. To kill you."

Moriarty nodded, blood-stained lips lifted in a mockery of a grin. "I believe I already said 'yes' to that question, but since you seem to be a bit slow today...Yes. I want you to kill me."

"Dare I ask why?"

The look Moriarty gave him held so much contempt it was a wonder his face didn't crack under the weight of it. "Really? You have to ask?"

Sherlock matched him contempt for contempt. "Of course not. I simply wished to give you the option of admitting it rather than making me say it."

"Oh, but it's so much more fun to have you do all the heavy lifting, darling," Moriarty replied in mock-flirtatious tones. "Please, do explain it. Let's see if you actually have figured it out or if you're just bluffing."

"You're ill. Something terminal, something that will take a long, painful time to finally do the world a favor and remove you from it," Sherlock replied without hesitation. "But it's not simply that you want to spare yourself that, no, you want to take me with you...but not literally. You don't want me to die, you want me to live and suffer." His eyes narrowed as he rapidly considered and discarded several scenarios, finally settling on what he knew had to be the correct one. "You want me to leave evidence behind, and to ensure that I don't pretend to do so and then clean it up after I've – shot you? Shoved you over the side of the roof? Injected you with an overdose of morphine from the syringe in your left jacket pocket? – Moran is holding Molly and John hostage down below with instructions to – what? Kill them?"

Moriarty watched him with the rapt expression of a child being told a fascinating bedtime story, not interrupting, simply waiting for Sherlock to indicate that he'd finished. "That's it," he said after a second, a very brief second where the rage threatened once again to overwhelm him. "If I don't do as you want, if I manage to somehow wiggle out of this latest trap, then he'll kill them." His lip lifted in a sardonic smile that never touched his eyes. "Am I close?"

Moriarty gave three slow, equally sardonic claps. "Well done. Yes, that's it exactly. Got it in one. Well, mostly," he corrected himself as he backed up a few steps, out of Sherlock's personal space. "If you don't kill me and implicate yourself so well that even your brother can't cover it up, I'll have Moran kill John Watson and make it look like he killed himself after he murdered Molly. There'll be lots of her blood about – his too, Seb's already taken care of that by now – and fingerprints, the works. But Molly will just...vanish." His grin turned nasty, eyes glittering with malice as he added: "Seb likes her, he misses having her around to fuck. She'll be his reward for a job well done."

"The hell I will!"

Both men turned and stared as Molly stumbled onto the roof, glaring furiously through the bruises and bloodstains marking her face. Sherlock thought she'd never looked more beautiful – especially after he saw John Watson clamber up over the ledge to stand by her side, Sebastian Moran's gun aimed steadily at Moriarty's midsection. "You know I'm a damned good shot," he said tightly. There was a bruise on his cheek and his lower lip was split and bleeding, but he looked just as determined as Molly. "So don't try anything, Moriarty, or you'll end up just as dead as your friend downstairs."

Clearly John hadn't heard the first part of Sherlock's exchange with the other man, only the very end, or else he'd realize what a hollow threat that was at the moment.

Just as clearly this was not the outcome Moriarty had either predicted or planned for; his expression was very nearly comical, he was so outraged and red-faced and spluttering. "How the fuck did you two idiots kill Seb?" he finally managed to spit out, fingers curled into claws by his sides. "He was supposed to keep you tied up until it was all over!" His eyes narrowed as he glared at Molly, adding: "He was supposed to shoot you up with heroin, and make Sherlock's pet watch while he raped you...how the hell did he manage to fuck up such a simple plan?"

Molly had been glaring right back at him, her own hands fisted, but her voice was very soft, very calm, as she answered him. "Because he underestimated me, Jim. Just like you did. He never saw me when I wasn't drugged up and helpless. You both though you broke me, and you know what? You might have." Then she turned her eyes very deliberately to meet Sherlock's approving gaze. "But lucky for me the man I love was right there with me, every step of the way, making sure I had the strength to put myself back together. And nothing you or anyone else could ever do to me will ever be enough to destroy me as long as Sherlock and I are together."

"Sentiment," Moriarty spit out contemptuously. "What a load of utter shite. It has nothing to do with how strong you are," he sneered. "No, Seb untied you before he injected you. Somehow you got the fucking needle away from him and gave him the jab instead."

Molly nodded, her grin just as nasty as any Moriarty had ever managed, much to Sherlock's pleasure. "He had two, and dropped one when John and Sherlock showed up. I guess he forgot about it, just grabbed the second one out of his pocket, untied me, shoved me onto the floor, and, well, you can guess the rest. I untied John, Moran tried to shoot me, and John shot him instead. End of story."

Her words trembled a bit at the end, and Sherlock realized immediately that she wasn't nearly as unhurt – or as confident – as she was attempting to project. His admiration for her, already high, shot up a few degrees – and he was absolutely dying to hear the full details of the story from her, all the things she wasn't saying, but not now. Later. "You can put the gun down, John," was all he said, however. Knowing there was a time and a place for everything – and right now, he needed to take care of their remaining adversary rather than sweeping Molly up into his arms and kissing her senseless the way he wanted to.

Moriarty's glare had settled on Sherlock. "Well, well, look at that. You finally beat me. Who knew."

"I knew," Sherlock replied without hesitation. "Molly knew. John knew. It was simply a matter of time. And your time," he added softly, "is finally up, dear Jim. Isn't it."

He held Moriarty's gaze until the other man gave a brief nod, his lips curling up into a humorless grin. "Well," he said, backing up a step, "I wish I could say it's been fun." He dropped his gaze and turned to look over the waist-high barrier, leaning over it with his hands on the edges, his next words sounding almost academic. "Hmm, wish the building was a bit higher, might be able to survive that unless I do it just right..."

Then he turned back, straightened, and pointed the gun that was suddenly in his hands dead at Sherlock. "Course, plans have changed now, haven't they." Without removing his eyes from where they'd locked with the other man's, he called out, "Molly, be a luv and come over here, will you? Or I'll shoot his fucking brains out, right in front of you, and you can show me how brave and strong you are when he's not around to prop you up, hmm? And Doctor Watson, no matter how good a shot you are, I can assure you, you can't guarantee I won't take Sherlock with me."

"Don't do it, Molly," Sherlock ordered, but he heard her footsteps, heard John's protests and knew that she was moving forward. She passed between him and Moriarty – closer to the other man than to Sherlock, not nearly close enough for him to even lunge for her – turning to give him a look full of such love and sorrow that he felt his breath catch in his throat, and then he knew. "I love you," she said softly, then turned to face Moriarty as she continued toward him.

"Molly! No!" Sherlock shouted, already moving toward her, but it was too late. She'd reached Jim's side, allowed him to grab her roughly by the arm – and then she was throwing her entire weight against him, screaming and struggling in his grasp, doing her best to knock the gun out of his hand...

...falling with him when she finally managed to overbalance the two of them enough to push them both over the edge.

A/N: DON'T HATE ME! It ain't over till it's over...next chapter coming soon, PROMISE! (Cringes in anticipation of extreme reader anger... but remember, I promised at the beginning of all this that there WILL be a happy ending...)