Hello, dear readers! My thanks to everyone who has left feedback and given me the desired 100 reviews! It was a lovely early Christmas present so thank you all again.

Now... this will be my last update until 2014, so enjoy! No cliffhangers this time, though as LeahMaeLaugh and AgeOfDarkness413 have informed me, I'm a terrible tease, so be warned! But as Sherlock is back on 1st Jan (huzzah! *dances around in joy*) I'm sure you'll survive!

And now, without further ado...

Never count a man dead until you've seen his corpse. And even then, you can make mistakes – Frank Herbert, Dune

'Moriarty.'

The name rang like a knell through the little sitting room. John could have sworn that the fire burned lower and the light dimmed for a moment. Sherlock sprang to his feet and began to pace up and down the room. John watched him, then, satisfied the man wasn't going to punch anything, went over to Mrs Hudson. He had just reached her rocking chair when he felt her arms go around him with a little sob. He hugged her back, keeping an eye on Sherlock all the while.

'I'm a damn fool,' Sherlock uttered as he strode up and down. Up and down. 'I've never even considered Moriarty when it comes to breaking the curse.'

John regarded Sherlock with some anxiety, but he didn't feel able to leave Mrs Hudson, who was crying quite badly from the sound of things. He kept tight hold of her, glancing over at Raghnaid. The griffin was sitting very still, watching Sherlock pace also, only the lashing of her tail giving any indication as to how agitated she was.

'Five years,' Sherlock muttered, oblivious to anything but his own musings. 'Five years and nothing. He simply vanishes, leaves us to it, never interferes beyond leaving his monsters to guard the mansion. I should have known it was too good to be true. He's back, and there'll be hell to pay.'

'What do you mean, he's back?' John asked, moving one of his hands to cradle Mrs Hudson's head gently. 'You said those things in the woods are his spies – surely he's been keeping an eye on you all the while.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'He hasn't, and I know that for a fact. I told you that he's a psychopath – what does that tell you?'

'I'm no psychologist, but I know psychopaths are supposed to have poor impulse control,' John answered slowly, as Sherlock's point began to slowly become clear to him. Sherlock nodded as he paced.

'Exactly, John – Moriarty is diabolically clever, but also remarkably impatient. It is inconceivable that he would have left me alone here for five whole years if he had been at liberty. He would have constantly been looking for new ways to torment me – new elements to the curse, mocking little reminders of his power over me.' Sherlock's fists clenched, and he finally halted in his pacing, staring out of one window where the curtains remained undrawn. 'And there has been nothing. After the first year passed, I dared hope that my nemesis had met his end somehow.'

'If only he had!' Mrs Hudson cried, from where John was still consoling her. 'It wouldn't have ended the curse, but we would have been safe from him at the very least.'

'Curses can survive the person who casts them?' John asked, curiosity overcoming tact. Still, at least Mrs Hudson's sobs seemed to be subsiding.

'Not usually,' Sherlock answered in distracted fashion. 'Typically, magic dies with the one who wielded it – the exceptions are Unbreakable curses, and anything tied to magical objects or power gained from another source. As I told you, Moriarty has almost no innate magical force. He used power gained in a deal with a malevolent spirit to cast this curse upon the mansion, and that power will endure as long as the spirit itself survives – or until we break it ourselves.'

John thought back to his and Sherlock's first night before the fire in this very room, and the story about the witch who had traded her heart and soul for the power to cast an Unbreakable curse. 'That was what he traded in, so he could cast the curse on the village,' he said softly. 'He gave the spirit his heart.'

'A blackened, twisted thing,' Sherlock sneered, still not turning round. 'But enough to curse the village and me and my home.'

John looked at Sherlock's back, which was ramrod straight, at his hands, twisted into fists, which were trembling with fury. He recognised all too well the signs of a man caught up in a dark and dreadful memory – Lord knows he had suffered through enough of them himself after his return from Afghanistan.

Sherlock meanwhile, stared out into the blackness of the night, eyes unfocused, seeing only that which had happened over five years ago. His archenemy, shirt ripped open to display the gaping hollow in his chest, those darkly dancing eyes fixed on him, the mouth curled in a mad, teeth-baring grin...

'I've whipped up a little something special for you, Sherlock,' Moriarty told him in that high, mocking voice that grated on Sherlock's finely tuned ear. He staggered to his feet and tried desperately to think of a defensive spell, but Moriarty's attack on the mansion had been too sudden, quick and strong, and his magic failed him.

'I'm going to give you exactly what you want – and isn't that the cruellest deed of all?' Moriarty prattled on in sing-song cadence. 'Imagine, just you alone, here forever, no friends, no family – no nothing!'

He laughed, a maniacal, wracking sound, as though it was being ripped from what remained of his innards.

'A dream come true, in fact – enjoy, my pet!'

Pain. White-hot burning agony that seared every nerve and fibre of his body, that wrapped itself around him in bands of sharp-edged steel, in chains of alternate fire and ice. He screamed noiselessly as it tore him to shreds. But it lasted only for a few instants, and Sherlock realised that had managed to remain on his feet and so could not be badly hurt. He reached out, intending to counter Moriarty's magical attack –

And saw the deformed paw, tipped with vicious claws.

His.

NO!

Sherlock flinched at the memory, forcibly tearing his mind away from it. But Moriarty's image played across his consciousness, as did Sherlock's lingering horror at his realisation of what he had become. It had been the worst day of his life, and until very recently nothing had managed to temper the awfulness of his beastly existence. And now the misery and revulsion return to him in full force.

John watched him anxiously. Suddenly he felt Mrs Hudson pull away from him, and felt her hand on his shoulder, drawing him down a little. He bent over, and felt a soft whisper in his ear.

'Go to him, John.'

John did not hesitate, but squared his shoulders and walked up to Sherlock. The other man did not respond or react to his presence, lost in dreadful reminiscences. John reached out and took one of the tightly clenched fists in his hands.

Sherlock, for his part, was jolted away from that worst of days, and found himself standing in his own living room, with John looking up at him. He looked down at the smaller man, seeing only concern and the warmth, the spirit he had come to associate with John Watson. No anger or disgust or fear.

Sherlock took John's hands in his own, clinging to them tightly, trying to drive away those nightmarish recollections, a drowning man hanging onto a life raft.

'Sherlock, whatever was done to you, you've fought through it,' John said gently, choosing his words with care. 'You survived five years here, and you're still fighting. You're the strong one in all this. If he's back, then you'll beat him.' John studied Sherlock's face, perceiving that reassurance was still needed. 'And I take back what I said when I first came here. I'll help you against him. Whatever you need. Anyone who does what he did to Raghnaid's family has to be stopped.'

Sherlock stared at him, watching the flickering of the firelight over John's fair hair and his open features. The misery that was clenching at his gullet slackened, and he smiled, remembering the discoveries and upheavals of the past three weeks. 'My brave John,' he said very softly.

John looked away, a little embarrassed, but he smiled in return, and Sherlock felt the familiar hitch in his breathing at the sight. After a few moments, John tried to pull his hands out of Sherlock's own, but Sherlock refused to let him go, gripping him all the tighter. John looked back up at him and their eyes met.

Neither could have put a name to what they saw in there, ice-blue studying deep-blue, and vice versa, but each saw something wild and full of promise.

Had they but known it, Mrs Hudson was watching them intently, a small smile playing about her lips as she made her way over to the door as quietly as possible. Raghnaid had stood and was making her way silently to the exit also.

Sherlock felt anticipation, want, need, thrumming through every fibre of his being, physical and emotional. This was sexual longing, it had to be. What to do? How to act? He didn't understand, not an iota, not his topsy-turvy feelings, nor his body's reactions, and so continued to keep tight hold of John's hands, feeling their strength match his own, reassuring him that he wasn't alone in the world, that he had a friend, a friend who was rapidly coming to mean more to him than anything else he could put a name to.

John, absurdly, caught between the desire surging in him untrammelled and what remained of his rational self inwardly screaming what the HELL is going on, could only think of poetry. He thought it was Robert Frost.

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favour fire...

So they gazed at one another.

And then a piece of coal fell from the grate with a clatter that echoed loudly in the noiseless room.

The moment shattered and John tore his eyes away from Sherlock's, trembling with the residue of the powerful need that had gripped him. He didn't pull away, but Sherlock realised with a spasm of inward pain that whatever had been about to happen was lost to them. He wanted to rage, scream and shout in frustration, to do something with the energy coursing through him, but controlled himself sternly. They had other matters to attend to. He gave John's hands one last squeeze and released them.

John backed off hastily and seated himself by the fire again. There was a soft groan from Mrs Hudson and another, slightly louder one from Raghnaid.

Sherlock glanced over at where they were still lurking by the doorway. 'Anything the matter?' he asked, rather harshly.

'Nothing at all, dear,' came Mrs Hudson's voice hastily. Raghnaid rolled her eyes in a gesture copied from Sherlock, and stalked back over to the fire, throwing herself down in front of it with a huff of disappointment.

Sherlock eyed both the griffin and Mrs Hudson (well, her shadow) askance, but neither of them said or sang anything more. He turned his attention back to John, who was sitting rigidly in his chair, eyes fixed on the fireplace, his hands shaking – a tremor so faint it would have been indiscernible to anyone but Sherlock.

It troubled Sherlock, as did John's evident desire to avoid looking at him, the distance he had put between them. He thought back to their first real conversation in this very sitting room, when John had refused to help him break the curse, citing his lack of conscience and his arrogance as reasons why. Had the story about Moriarty and what he had done to Raghnaid's family reignited John's old fears about Sherlock and his lack of morality?

The idea that John was afraid of him caused an intense throb of pain throughout his chest. 'I wouldn't have done it,' he said before he could stop himself.

John looked up, frowning slightly. 'You wouldn't have done what?'

'Hurt Raghnaid's family,' Sherlock told him, cursing himself for feeling so uncertain, for trying to justify himself. Then again, maybe John had earned it. 'If I had been after the artefact, I would have stolen it, but I wouldn't have hurt the griffins.'

John's frown melted away and a smile played about the corners of his mouth. 'I know that, Sherlock. You're a pain in the ar – neck,' he amended hastily, remembering Mrs Hudson's presence. 'But you're nothing like this Moriarty. I'm sorry I ever lumped you two together in my mind.'

Sherlock smiled in relief at John, who smiled back briefly before turning away again. Raghnaid stood and crossed over to where Sherlock was still standing by the window. She rubbed her head against Sherlock's middle, obviously agreeing with John. Sherlock did not grumble at her for once, instead allowing his hand to rest on her head. Mrs Hudson said something in bird-speak to her, and Raghnaid's eyes opened wide, before she uttered what sounded very like a string of griffin swear-words even to Sherlock and John's untrained ears.

'Language, dear!' Mrs Hudson reproached her. And then: 'besides, I don't think that's physically possible unless you cut it off first.'

Both Sherlock and John winced. 'What did you say to her, Mrs Hudson?' John asked hurriedly.

'I told her that the man who killed her family was also the one who laid the curse on the mansion – she knew there was a curse here, but not who cast it,' Mrs Hudson answered him, still sounding a little shocked at the griffin's threats. 'She told me what she intends to do to him when they next meet – I won't elaborate. But Raghnaid means to help all she can, too. She wants to avenge her relatives, and besides, we're her family now. She doesn't mean to lose anyone else to Moriarty.'

Sherlock smiled down at the griffin. 'Well spoken, Raghnaid. We'll need your help – everyone's help.' He glanced at the gleaming golden fire, suddenly feeling a little uncertain. Five years ago he would have scorned to accept help from anyone in facing his enemy, but needs must. Besides, going it alone hadn't worked out so well for him the last time.

He eyed John, and saw the resolute expression on the man's face. Damn, John really did mean to help him against Moriarty. Sherlock would have vastly preferred to keep John out of the struggle altogether, given that his friend's sense of self-preservation appeared to be defective, but he knew trying to do so would be futile. He was already well acquainted with John's spirited and stubborn nature.

'We'll have work to do tomorrow, John,' Sherlock informed him, surrendering to the inevitable. 'I'll need to discover everything I can about protective and defensive magicks and how to employ them. I want you to work with Mrs Hudson and see what parts of the mansion and grounds need reinforcing and which can be most easily defended. She has power over everything in our little domain, whilst your experience as a soldier will no doubt come in handy.'

'Will do,' John answered firmly, which was echoed by Mrs Hudson a moment later.

'You and I will have to sketch out a defensive strategy also,' Sherlock continued. 'When Moriarty comes, he'll come for me and I must be ready for him, so we need to consider tactics. And given you're the key to breaking his curse, John, it is best we come up with a contingency plan for you – some defensive measure in case you should encounter Moriarty. You could not fight him, but there are ways of holding him off so that you might escape.'

John nodded willingly, eager to help, but privately Sherlock vowed that things would never come to that. Moriarty would not be allowed to harm John in any way or form, or even come near him. Sherlock would kill the bastard first. There were secret passages all over the mansion and its grounds, many concealed or defended by magic, where John could be hidden away if needs be, though Sherlock doubted he'd go willingly if he thought everyone else remained in danger. Perhaps Mrs Hudson could also be persuaded to hide and they could protect one another. That would be a significant weight off Sherlock's mind...

There was another way John could be kept safe, but Sherlock was not willing to consider it. Yet.

'Raghnaid will undoubtedly want to fight,' Sherlock carried on, rubbing the griffin's head. 'But she also has magic, so we must give some thought to how best she can employ it in our defence. Mrs Hudson, you can speak to her about that.'

'Of course, dear,' Mrs Hudson answered, sounding a lot steadier than she had when she had first learned of Moriarty's reappearance. Sherlock crossed over to her and put an arm around her shoulders, smiling as he felt her hand grip his own.

'What would we do without you, Mrs Hudson?' he asked, half-jokingly, half-deadly serious.

'You wouldn't last a week,' she retorted, and Sherlock smiled, noting John's quiet chuckle and the twinkle in Raghnaid's great golden eyes. His earlier horror at the thought of his nemesis and the agony of memory was subsiding and he was anticipating the battle to come. It was not the eager, fervent excitement of yesteryear, when a fight with Moriarty meant a relief from boredom, of feverish work and study, of feeling alive.

It was something far deeper and stronger – sadder, but even more resolute than before he had been cursed. This fight was not about proving who was cleverer or more skilful: there was far more at stake. This was about protecting his home and family. This was about facing down evil, an evil he had inadvertently allowed to flourish, that he had unwittingly encouraged. This would be one victory, when it came – when, not if – that he would have truly earned.

The idea of victory made Sherlock recall the nature of his curse, and he glanced at the clock, to check how long he had to remain human. Damn – only a little more than five minutes. Sighing, he wondered how best to take his leave, given the plans they had to make and the reassurance John and Mrs Hudson probably still needed. He flicked a glance down at the latter – and felt a smile curve his mouth upwards.

He could see something in her rocking chair. Not an outline exactly, it was more of a blurry shape, see-through but distorted, as though heat-haze had concentrated itself in one particular spot, forming the silhouette of a human. 'John, look,' he commanded.

John did so. 'Oh, wow,' he uttered, sounding delighted. 'Mrs Hudson, we can see you! Sort of.'

Mrs Hudson must have looked at herself, because they all heard her gasp of delight. 'Oh, how wonderful!' she cried, and her sobs started up again in earnest.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation – surely the infuriating woman would have run out of tears by now? 'Don't snivel, Mrs Hudson,' he commanded her, but she ignored him.

'I'm sorry I'm being so silly,' she wept, 'but I must cry. I must. Five years and nothing, and now this… it's too much. I'm so proud of you both.'

Sherlock grunted a response, heading over to the door so as to be able to make a quick exit should the curse reassert itself – though given Mrs Hudson's new level of visibility, he suspected he would have yet another hour as a human. Six hours, a full quarter of the day as himself – the prospect was sublime. He watched as John rose to take his place by Mrs Hudson's side, putting his arm around her shoulders as she cried.

'Please stop, Mrs Hudson, you'll give yourself an awful headache,' John protested gently. Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced at the clock. He grimaced – if the curse was about to reassert itself at the same time as yesterday, then it would happen in a few seconds. He opened the living room door silently and stepped into the passageway to conceal the transformation from John's eyes.

The moment came and went, and Sherlock realised in overwhelming relief that he was still human. He returned to the living room, where neither John nor Mrs Hudson appeared to have noticed his brief departure. Mrs Hudson seemed to be getting herself back under control, Sherlock was glad to note – he never knew how to handle tears. Other people's naturally – he himself never cried.

Almost never.

John glanced up at him, and gave him a small smile. 'I think we'd better call it a night,' he said, one arm still around Mrs Hudson. 'Everyone is tired and upset, and I think a good night's sleep is what we need. We can make proper plans about Moriarty tomorrow. I don't think I'll be much help at the moment at any rate, I'm worn out.'

John did look weary, Sherlock observed. He himself was feeling quite chipper after his sleep that afternoon and after weakening the curse yet again, but acknowledged the sense in John's words. 'Bed for you three, then,' he conceded. 'I'm not tired, so I'll stay up and work. Raghnaid, I'd like for you to stay with Mrs Hudson tonight. Look after one another.'

Raghnaid, who had been watching their little domestic drama with interest, squawked an affirmative.

'What about John?' Mrs Hudson enquired, sounding raspy from crying.

'I'm not spending another night on the rug or the sofa!' John protested at once. 'I'll be fine in my room, just because the curse has started to lift doesn't mean Moriarty will attack at once. No need to be paranoid, just cautious.'

'I'll look in on you, just the same,' Sherlock remarked, taking care to keep his tone casual. 'I'll do a patrol of the grounds and make sure all the wards are in place, they'll give us advance warning should anything nefarious make an appearance. But as you say John, we should exercise caution but not become overly fearful.'

John nodded, though he averted his gaze. Sherlock studied him for some moments, before extending a hand to place on John's shoulder. He felt the other man start at his touch, though John did not look up. For a second Sherlock thought that John was still afraid of him, but then he felt the nervous animal tension in the man's muscles, the slight tremor beneath his fingertips, the flush that had risen to his face, and how still and contained John was standing. Sherlock realised that John was fighting to remain in control of himself, that his touch was conjuring some response in John that the other man was for some reason decidedly uncomfortable with.

He's not afraid of me – he's afraid of himself and what he's feeling... oh, that's interesting, decidedly interesting, Sherlock thought with glee as he looked upon his friend.

'Sleep well, John, you'll need it,' he said, giving John's shoulder a squeeze before releasing it. John nodded at him before bidding a quick good night to Mrs Hudson and Raghnaid and making for the door. Sherlock watched him go, musing on John's response to him – it was definitely a physical one, judging by the scene that had played itself out in John's room this morning. Did John desire him?

Oh, yes, please, ye Gods, let him desire me as much as I do him, Sherlock thought before he could arrest the impulse. He sighed at the idea, his delight fading. What good would John's desiring him do? Sherlock was still a beast, though he had won back some of his humanity at long last. He couldn't enter into any kind of physical relations with John – how could he defile his only friend in that manner? A beast could not – should not – presume to desire or be desired, particularly not towards or by a man as good and honest and straightforward as John. Sherlock's monstrousness would repulse him.

Besides which, John may be attracted to Sherlock, but he obviously didn't want to be attracted to him. Sherlock wondered why – John was happy to be his friend, so it couldn't be a personal revulsion towards Sherlock. Perhaps he was disconcerted at being attracted to a man – Sherlock had not discussed John's sexual or romantic history with him, save his cursory observations about John's single status when they had first met. Had John desired men in the past, or was his reaction to Sherlock something new and disconcerting for him?

Sherlock could sympathise, were that the case. He had never desired anyone that he could recall prior to John's arrival in his life, not even Irene Adler, despite her efforts at seducing him before she discovered the nature of his curse. He had understood objectively that Adler was a beautiful woman, of course, but she had not aroused him physically. Any feelings of warmth Sherlock had held towards her had stemmed from gratification at encountering a worthy opponent.

John, on the other hand, was making Sherlock's internal organs misbehave most terribly – and apparently now John's own body was acting in ways he didn't intend it to. Sherlock grinned at the notion, his good humour slightly restored. John had turned him and his monotonous existence upside down and inside out in the three weeks since his arrival in the mansion – it was only fair Sherlock should garner a little payback, that he should bewilder and discompose John in his turn.

A discreet cough from Raghnaid recalled Sherlock to himself, and he realised with chagrin that he was still staring after John and grinning like a moron, in front of the featherbed and Mrs Hudson, no less. Annoyed with himself, he strode over to the door.

'Good night, Mrs Hudson, eiderdown-in-waiting,' he said curtly as he left the living room and fled down the corridor.

Mrs Hudson watched him go, and shook her head in exasperation. 'Men!' she remarked to Raghnaid, who chirruped in agreement, shrugging her wide shoulders as she did so. 'Ah well,' Mrs Hudson continued. 'Let's not interfere. They'll get there in the end.'

Raghnaid made a remark in griffin-speech.

'Hopefully? I like to think of it as eventually, my dear.'

Author's Notes: The poem John was thinking of is indeed by Robert Frost, and is called Fire and Ice. If there are any Neil Gaiman fans out there, it inspired a story in the graphic novel Endless Nights, called 'From What I've Tasted of Desire...' (where I first learned of it). You can find the poem here: poem/173527.

All that remains is to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a happy and safe New Year!