Last chapter, y'all.

I have loved writing this fic.

There's only an epilogue left.

Oh: Angst warning.

Dedicated duck: Thank you so much! I love you for this review. Molly deserves the world 3

Guest: Hope you slept well! Thank you

He didn't think he had that many options.

Once the terrace of Barts was entered, there were a diminishing number of things he could do. The ideal, of course, would be to avoid death. At this point, however, it seemed unlikely. The real question was whom he would call. Who would be his priest in this moment of mortal repentance?

He could call Molly.

Molly would be an easy one to call – her brows would furrow, her concern available for him to exploit. Her eyes had this annoying quality of making him think of everything he was doing wrong. His chest ached at the thought of calling her before death.

Sherlock snorted. Death had made him a romantic.

She looks tired.

Sherlock shook the thought out of his head. Now was not the time to ponder the idiotic doings of Molly Hooper – and everything that happened in her life.

She's been keeping things from you.

Sherlock snorted at the thought.

He was sure Molly Hooper had been keeping secrets, but he'd let her. It was one of those things he gave Molly Hooper, because of the slightly unique position she had in his life – as one of his oldest… acquaintances.

"Molly!"

"Oh, hello. I'm just going out."

"No, you're not," he commanded imperiously.

"I've got a lunch date," she said quickly.

Old friend. School friend. Someone she was comfortable with, she didn't bother dressing up for it. She liked him, whoever it was.

"Cancel it. You're having lunch with me."

"What?"

"Need your help. It's one of your old boyfriends – we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty," he added with a little relish.

"It's Moriarty?'

"Course its Moriarty."

Something strange happened – Molly Hooper had this tendency, when she was preparing for the little battles of her life, to grip her bag – or her hands – or her sweater – with a tiny, tiny little tug. She drew back a little, her pony tail swished just enough for him to narrow his eyes.

"Er – Jim actually wasn't even my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it."

Interesting.

She wasn't lying. She was hiding something – by omission.

"Yes, and then he stole the crown jewels, broke into the bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."

As the door swung behind him, he could swear he heard her say a very soft, "Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Alkaline," said the soft voice at his elbow.

"Thank you, John," he said distractedly.

"Molly," she corrected with resignation.

"Yes."

Molly turned away, and Sherlock briefly considered looking at her – or speaking to her, for a small second. Then his attention was dragged back to the work.

Chalk.

Asphalt.

Brick Dust.

Vegetation.

He was muttering to himself, and he knew it.

"What did you mean, 'I owe you?'" she said. Her voice repeatedly anchored him to the real world, continuously bringing him to a reality that he had no interest in appreciating.

"You said, 'I owe you,'" she soldiered on. "You were muttering it while you were working."

"Nothing," he said shortly. "Mental note."

He didn't need Molly looking at him, not at the moment. Writing him, carefully – embroidering the edges of his canvas with her floral patterns.

"You're a bit like me dad. He's dead."

She was so cautious – every touch, a gentle pry at him – no expectations, none.

"Molly," he said cuttingly – attempting to stop her, before she got too far. She'd done it before, and he believed wholeheartedly in her ability to do it again. She was dangerous, in that way – finding him when he had over dosed, forcing him through rehab – making sure he had cases and experiments – all the while, peering into him, as if he were a slide under a microscope.

The more uncomfortable part of him reminded him that that was how he made everyone feel.

"You look sad," she ploughed on. "When you think he can't see you."

Sherlock looked up at John.

It was easy to be friends with John. To fight for John. To be loyal to John.

"Are you okay?"

He attempted to answer her, but she stopped him –

"And don't just say you are, because I know what that means – looking sad when you think no one can see you."

He had to stop her. Before she saw too much.

"You can see me."

"I don't count."

She'd seen too much.

Jim smiled.

He'd been causing a little unease in the ranks, as reported by Moran. He wasn't unstable, but he'd become a calmer. He had always wondered if that frightened people more – and it seems it did. A good technique to employ, if he wasn't planning on his death.

Every time he shut his eyes, Molly appeared in front of him. The fluttering reality of her existence – the plaintive, small smiles, her brown hair. It was impossible to rid himself of her.

By far, the most entrancing game he had played. It would be good to die on this note – knowing that Molly Hooper hadn't won, no – she'd simply made him realise the repercussions of gaming.

Sherlock would know.

If anyone asked Molly, the whole situation was ridiculous.

"Criminal masterminds and consulting detectives are drama queens," she swore to herself.

It was absurd. There they were, playing God in a situation where nothing was to happen except the death of a very mortal man. She knew Jim intended to die, and she knew she wanted to prevent it – but unlike Sherlock, she knew he won't be forthcoming at all. Sherlock would come to her, because he wanted to win.

Jim wanted to fucking die.

Not that she hadn't tried. She'd tried to call him, tried to speak to Moran. She'd called Irene, who had laughed – albeit, a little sadly.

She was trying.

It wasn't her fault people tried to be so muttonheaded. She was sure there was a larger cause or something, or Jim wouldn't be wanting to die. It was a calculated decision – he wasn't impulsive, much as everyone liked to believe the opposite. She was sure someone had done something to anger him – threatened Sherlock, perhaps. It had to be someone who was yet another super genius, and frankly, Molly had had it with super geniuses.

Maybe someone threatened you.

She told herself to shut up.

It was spotless in the lab. Molly always made sure it was.

It's usually subtext.

That's what John had said before punching him. Sherlock's subtext said something along the lines of being "punched in the face."

What was Jim Moriarty trying to say?

It was an early game. What did Sherlock feel when he saw Moriarty? What did he want to do?

It didn't – it didn't matter. Right now, everything Jim Moriarty said simply implied a one word command: burn. He could not afford to burn, not when everyone was going to burn with him.

"You're wrong, you know."

She gasped – turned around quickly. Her fingers grasped the strap of her bag, her ridiculous jumper jarring in the darkness.

"You do count. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you."

Of course he had. It was impossible not to. She looked even more surprised – but oddly determined.

"But you were right. I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong."

Molly gripped her bag – that little sign she made, when she was about to become warrior.

"Molly, I think I am going to die."

"What do you need?" Her body was tensing up again, mentally regrouping – planning battles.

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?"

She looked up at him, her eyes boring into him.

"What do you need?"

Sherlock had to be honest right now. "You."

He wore his suit, his perfect, immaculate suit.

He clipped his tie carefully, the silver shaped bone glinting in the light.

And now -

To convince Sherlock Holmes.

For death.

To fall.

For her.

It had been – so far – strange.

Jim Moriarty had been Jim Moriarty, of course, but some part of Sherlock couldn't quite place what was different. Something in the beast was off, something in the dragon was different – something that he couldn't pinpoint.

Oh, Sherlock was more convinced than ever of his plan. It was almost certain that Moriarty had prepared for his death.

John would be sad.

"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort," advised Moriarty.

Sherlock turned away, pacing distractedly. He didn't quite know what to make of this – he could die now, this minute – and Molly would resurrect him. She would perform a small miracle and bring back a dead man from his grave.

Moriarty would know.

Sherlock didn't like this.

As far as he was concerned, there were two secrets on the rooftop. Whatever Moriarty was keeping from him, and what he was attempting to protect. He had a nagging suspicion that Moriarty knew.

"Go on. For me."

What was he playing?

"Pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase?" begged Moriarty.

Frustrated, Sherlock gripped Moriarty by the collar, dragging him to the edge of the building. Jim looked unconcerned – if a little interested.

"You're insane."

"You're just getting that now?"

Sherlock nearly did it in that minute. Nearly tossed Moriarty's mortal body off the building.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."

Sherlock frowns.

Moriarty's voice was strange during threats. Savage, but terribly intimate. "Your friends will die if you don't."

It wasn't as dramatic as his life flashing before his eyes. But Sherlock looked down from the building, thinking of John Watson. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade.

It was a mercy he had few friends.

He didn't entirely know what Moriarty was playing at – even now. There was some part of the game that had been kept secret from him, something that he was not sure of. If Sherlock's secret was Molly Hooper – what other cards had Moriarty entered with?

Why was he not playing them?

Sherlock started laughing.

"What?"

He had to find out what was being kept from him. He had to know. So he continued to laugh.

"What is it?" asked Moriarty angrily. "What did I miss?"

"You're not going to do it?" asked Sherlock, hopping off the ledge. "So the killers can be called off, then – there's a recall code or a word or a number."

Despite having no cards left, Sherlock circled Moriarty. He had his secrets, but he needed to know what was kept from him.

"I don't have to die… If I've got you."

"Oh!" Moriarty laughed, delighted. He sounded almost relieved. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "So do you."

Moriarty was amused again. "Sherlock your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" said Sherlock, viciously. He had to know he had to know he had to know – "I am you. Prepared to do anything; prepared to burn – prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. you want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint."

"Naaah," said Moriarty. "You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock was crackling with a suppressed – something – "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

Then Moriarty did something strange.

He looked serene.

It was coming – whatever had been kept from him.

He smiled again, but not in that – insane way. He was – he was smiling, without expecting more. It was deeply disconcerting. Sherlock stood his ground firmly.

"If you show me yours, I'll show you mine."

It was salaciously said, as everything with Moriarty was. But Sherlock's eyes flicked downward, to Moriarty's fingers, which unbuttoned his cuffs. Moriarty lifted the cuff delicately, softly, cautiously – he saw half his name peer from behind the sleeve, the cursive decorating Moriarty's wrist: Sherlock.

Very well. If that is what it took.

He undid his cuff button, ripping it savagely behind. The name shown ominously in the sunlight, over the faded building – as bright and black as Moriarty himself: Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty laughed. "Not that one, my dear, although I am flattered. I already knew, so you needn't worry – you didn't have to make so passionate a declaration."

Sherlock's face was impassive.

"The other one."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Come on, Sherlock," whispered Moriarty.

"You first," said Sherlock stonily.

"Oh, that gives it away. I already know, Sherlock. I want you to show me."

Sherlock undid his second button carefully. He was slower this time, folding his sleeve upward.

Molly Hooper

Jim Moriarty retreated perceptibly, his eyes fluttering briefly. "Yes. You're not an angel, Sherlock Holmes. You're me."

"Your turn," said Sherlock, his voice rough.

"Bless you," said Jim quietly. He undid his button, reached for Sherlock's hand. "Between you and me, you have a better chance. Her thighs are one of her sweet spots."

For the first time, Sherlock felt properly afraid. As Sherlock grasped his hand, determined to see the truth, Moriarty pulled him forward – using his other hand to pull out his concealed revolver.

Jim Moriarty fell backwards, the gun shot ringing true and strong – through him, through his heart. The last smile plastered on his face like some grim reminder of everything that Sherlock had lost in that second.

He had to know.

Her thighs are one of her sweet spots.

Sherlock gripped his sleeves, ignoring the blood.

You have a better chance.

He nearly tore away the sleeve.

You're me.

In the bright sunlight, in a pool of blood, Molly Hooper's name was shone on James Moriarty's wrist. Her cramped handwriting almost impossible not to mistake.

One more epilogue left, friends.

Don't worry, the ending will not be what you expect it to be.