There you are, my faithful readers - a chapter with closure, and an end to some of the suspense! Hope it makes up for some of the agony we've put you through. =P

Chapter Twenty-Four: Faith

You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable.

Within seconds of returning to 221B, Sherlock had locked himself in his room, something he rarely bothered to do. Usually when he wanted to be alone, the simple fact that the door was closed would be enough to make John leave him be; but he could tell this time that it wouldn't work that way. Even through his own tint of anger, Sherlock had seen the expression on his friend's face, that stubborn look which said that the other man wasn't about to just let this slide. And that was something he was adamantly disinclined to deal with at the moment.

Pacing back and forth unseeingly, Sherlock remembered the last time he had stormed back to the flat in such an agitated state - less than a day ago, though it felt far deeper in the past. At least he was slightly more in control of himself this time. Not that it was really a great comfort.

Sherlock dropped onto the edge of his bed, forcing himself to take a few calming breaths as he closed his eyes, but it wasn't proving easy to dispel that awful feeling enveloping his brain. The memories still lingered, though they were less vivid than when they had first assaulted him. He pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to block out visual distractions. He needed to be calm, rational, and composed, needed to be able to think clearly... and he didn't at all care for how difficult he was finding that right now.

"Sherlock!"

Fifteen minutes later, John pounded his fist heavily on the door to his friend's room, harder than he intended, but that didn't matter, really. So what if his hand ached in a few hours? It would be a small price to pay if he could find out what was going through Sherlock's head.

"Sherlock!" he yelled again. "I'm serious - unlock the door! We need to talk, now!"

Sherlock lifted his head slightly in response to the banging, just enough to shoot a glare the door, as though the look would actually go through something so solid and hit the person beyond. Without replying, he dragged himself backward a bit more and collapsed onto his back. One hand was clenched into a fist near his head, while the other dug unconsciously into the sheets by his side. He drew in a long, shaking breath and closed his eyes again. Maybe, just maybe, John would take the hint and go away.

But he doubted it.

Jaw tightening at the complete lack of response from the other side of the door, John again banged his fist against the wood. The side of his hand was beginning to go numb already. "Not kidding, Sherlock! Let me in!"

Exhaling loudly again, Sherlock deigned to raise his voice. "Go away."

"No, not happening. Unlock the door."

"No." Sherlock turned over onto his side, away from the door.

John drew in his breath sharply. "Why the hell not?" he demanded, attacking the door again for good measure.

"I said go away!" Sherlock sat up abruptly, seized a book lying nearby, and hurled it at the door. Almost immediately he slumped back onto the bed again, staring at the ceiling now. He couldn't understand what was happening here, it was all too confusing... but the mere thought of John helping Moriarty made him want to cringe and curl up.

That did it. Features set, John turned abruptly on his heel and walked away. Only moments later, he had returned, this time with the spare key he had never found it convenient to mention to Sherlock gripped tightly between his fingers. He stuffed it roughly in the lock and shoved the door open.

"And I said we need to talk. Right here, right now."

Sherlock sat bolt upright again as John barged in. He didn't bother to ask how the other man had got in; of course John would have a spare key, probably to every door in the flat.

"I don'twant to talk to you, John." The words were harsh but cold, as Sherlock replaced the mask of composure which he had allowed to slip while in the (temporary) privacy of his bedroom.

"We need to," the doctor said quietly. "That much - is clear."

"Oh, yes." Sherlock's voice was dripping with acidic sarcasm now. "Things really are becoming somuch clearer now."

"Well they won't if you don't talk to me." John took a deep breath. "So..." He gestured in Sherlock's direction, hoping he would take the hint.

Sherlock stared hard at his flatmate for a moment, torn between letting out what was going on inside his head, and continuing to be difficult in the hopes that John would just get tired of receiving non-answers and leave. In the end, he opted for the second path, and consequently let out a breath of frustration before falling back onto his side again.

"You think I'm still being manipulated by Moriarty." John hadn't wanted to say it so bluntly - hadn't wanted to say it at all, in fact, but Sherlock's stubbornness left him with little choice. "You think - it's been like this since that call." His tone dropped. "Don't you?"

Sherlock did not turn over to look at John again. He felt his jaw clench at the accusation, but obviously couldn't deny the truth of the other man's suspicions. Instead, he only stared hard at the wall in his immediate line of sight, as though trying to bore a deep hole into it. It was only after several long, tense moments that he spoke.

"Yes." He had to force the word out between his lips.

John's breath left him in a sharp exhalation, and he quickly turned his head away. As much as he had expected the answer, it still cut through him. "I'm not," he said after a very long silence. But he knew that wouldn't be enough.

"How can you expect me to just take your word for it?" cried Sherlock, this time rolling over slightly to snap a look of anger at his friend. "Moriarty has already proved that he can and will use you for his own purposes, John - in fact, I'm beginning to suspect that he prefers it."

"So it's useless no matter what I say," John finished for him, feeling his throat constrict.

This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. Always before it had been him and Sherlock - no, more like Sherlock and him - against whatever odds might arise. Moriarty had used him before, but as a hostage, never as something that could be seen as more than a pawn. His target had been Sherlock, and it was upon Sherlock that he had focused all his brilliant and subtle energies. He was learning, John thought bitterly. Moriarty was learning even better how to reach his ultimate rival.

Sherlock swallowed hard, his features twitching slightly as he fought back the doubts still circling around the edges of his mind. There were just too many possible layers to this. Even now, looking over at John, he couldn't prevent the thought from intruding on his consciousness - that even this, the clear dismay of his best friend, might somehow be all part of the act...

He tore his gaze away again, for once unable to discern the truth just by simply looking for a lie in John's eyes. "You can't deny that he has been using you," he gritted out eventually, his voice slightly muffled as he stared down at his pillow.

"I told you that!" John answered loudly, his breath quick and shallow as he fought to maintain discipline in a situation that was spiralling rapidly out of his control. "I told you, when I got that text, and I wasn't even supposed to - "

"Weren't you?" whispered Sherlock, closing his eyes.

John went very still, his features shocked. "You still don't - oh, my God..." He shut his eyes briefly. "Sherlock - listen - listen to me, please. It's over. Done. I am not being controlled by Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, still with his back to John. He pressed his fingers together against his lips, trying to think his way through this, but it was like a labyrinth of mist, a maze of suggestions and hints with nothing more concrete than dark suspicion. He knew now that this was what Moriarty had wanted all along, and the worst part was that Sherlock didn't know how he was supposed to find his way out of the web of lies.

What was it that Moriarty had said, all those weeks ago?

"You think I'm going to scare myself?"

"That's right - although, you may have some help with that..."

Sherlock exhaled slowly, dropping his head so that he was staring unseeingly at the floor. He desperately wanted to believe John, to trust that his friend was acting of his own will, even though in light of what had just happened that wasn't exactly a great comfort. He guessed that the chances of Moriarty only bluffing about controlling John were about seventy-five percent, if not higher. But could he take that risk?

"Sherlock," John said again, and this time there was a note of quiet desperation in his voice, "what do I have to say to convince you?" He bit his lip, hard, trying not to think that there might indeed be nothing he could say or do that would be enough.

"I don't know, John!" The words seemed to tear themselves from Sherlock's throat - loudly, violently. "All I know is that I could have ended this tonight, for good, and deliberately or not, you chose to interrupt and ruin everything -" He broke off with a kind of growl, trying to maintain control, but it was so difficult...

"I saved your life!" John shouted, looking at the ceiling instead of at Sherlock, but then he pulled his gaze back down again. "Did you honestly believe that I was just going to letyou do that - after everything that happened?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I saw the look on your face the other night, Sherlock. I knew... you were going to do something. Like this."

Sherlock rose suddenly, wheeling around to face John. "And you would prefer this, then, would you?" he demanded harshly. "You would prefer to keep playing Moriarty's little games, to remain a pathetic pawn in his schemes, and give him the immense satisfaction of watching us both run around like wind-up toys that haven't got a clue about what's going on?" A few abrupt strides brought him within inches of his flatmate, and he stared down into the other man's face as he finished, his voice a low hiss. "Is that what you want?"

For a long minute, John did not answer, but his jaw clenched as he felt the heat of anger rising to his face, accompanied by a painful sting of shock. He could hardly believe that Sherlock was saying this, that he was advocating another fall - except this time, John knew, there would be no return. "Find another way," he forced out, and despite all his efforts to keep his voice steady, he could hear its tremours. "Find another way, because we are notgoing through that again. Not... not - again."

"Well, you've done a very thorough job in ensuring that much, at least," breathed Sherlock. "I won't be able to catch Moriarty off-guard like that again - I won't be able to try anything even closeto that again. There are no second chances in his games."

"You might hate me for saying this," John returned quietly, "but right this second, I'm pretty damn pleased about that. Did it not occur to you, Sherlock, that there've been enough suicide missions already? Once - once was too many."

"'Once' saved your life," Sherlock snarled back. He wasn't even certain, any more, of where this argument was headed; he only knew that it gave him a sort of vicious satisfaction to be able to release some of the growing foreboding which had been plaguing him since John had first received the phone call from Moriarty."

"Yeah, maybe," John replied almost immediately, "but no one thought to tell me that at the time, did they?" He met Sherlock's eyes squarely this time. He needed his friend to know that he had nothing to hide.

With a tremendous effort, Sherlock managed to get a hold on his anger. "I've already explained why," he said, forcing his voice back onto an even level. He drew away from John again, taking a few slow steps back.

"The pertinent fact remains, John" - his tone twisted slightly - "that I don't know if I can trust you."

At that, John flinched away visibly. "What do I say to that?" he whispered. "Jesus, Sherlock, what do you want me to say? Because apparently you won't believe me no matter what it is, so what's the point?"

Sherlock turned away, steepling his fingers against his lips again. "The point," he answered, slowly closing his eyes, "is that until now, you have done absolutely nothing to make me think that you are not being used as Moriarty's puppet."

"Then what the hell do you want?"

John almost didn't hear his own words, only the pain behind them as they ripped from his mouth in a torrent of helpless frustration. Sherlock was asking the impossible - an explanation in words he would never believe because they came from John himself. His eyes were stinging now, for no matter how much he tried to explain, he was bound to lose.

"I - don't - know!" Sherlock found himself clutching at his head, as though trying to physically force his brain to come up with the answer. "There are too many angles, John, too many possible twists leading nowhere, and I can't sort them out - I can't even think -"

He slumped back down onto the edge of the bed, palms once again pressed hard over his eyes. The realisation that Moriarty had used him for his own plans had been hateful, but this, the thought that John had also been used, that he was stillbeing used, stirred up an even greater loathing in the consulting detective.

A minute passed, then another, in horrible silence. Then -

"John." Sherlock's voice was quiet now, as though it had exhausted all its energy in the past minutes. "I need you to try to convince me. It doesn't matter how, but you have to try." A long pause. "Please."

Something inside John deflated. "How?" he asked softly, hearing the quiet desperation in his own words. "Sherlock, I don't know how - "

"Just -" Sherlock caught himself on the verge of shouting, and moderated his voice with an effort. "Just - try," he went on, inhaling deeply. He couldn't bring himself to say anything more, about the tight feeling he got in his chest every time he thought about the idea that he really, truly, might not be able to trust his only friend.

His mouth slightly open, John stared helplessly back at his friend. He could think of nothing, nothing to say that would not already be suspect the minute the words left his lips. "Sherlock, I'm not - " He swallowed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "I'm not - God, I don't know what I'm supposed to say. You just - you have to trust me, Sherlock. Please."

"Why?" The word seemed to drop instantly from Sherlock's lips. He wasn't intentionally playing devil's advocate, but just John saying it wasn't going to be enough. After a slight pause, he added quickly, "And I'm only asking because I have to, John. I need to approach this logically."

"Because I'm your friend, for God's sake! Because if you don't think you can trust me, you might as well stop bothering with trust altogether."

Sherlock kneaded gently at his forehead. "Keep talking," he muttered, his eyes still closed. "Keep going with that line of thought."

"I'm your friend," John repeated, struggling to put voice to the jumble of thoughts in his head, "and Moriarty is your arch-enemy. You should not be putting more trust in him than you do me. This is exactly what he wants - this confusion, this - this fear - " He paused, floundering. "This, Sherlock - this is giving him what he's after."

"And what is it that he's after, John?" Sherlock kept his voice as calm as he could, in stark contrast to John's elevating levels of emotional frustration.

"I thought, before, that he wanted to destroy you." John hesitated, but he forced himself to go on. "But I think, even more than before - now - he means for you to destroy yourself. And, Sherlock - " A breathless pause. "Sherlock, it's working."

"Destroy myself," echoed Sherlock, very softly. "Yes... because he thought that I would do anything to keep that from actually happening... which was why he was so surprised tonight..."

"I'm not going to apologise for stopping it."

"Even knowing what I could have done... even knowing my reaction..."

"No."

Sherlock heaved a deep sigh into his fingertips. After several long moments, he realised that the rigidity of his body was actually, suddenly, beginning to dissipate. He still wasn't sure why, but something, something, in the way John was refusing to believe he had been in the wrong, was far more believable than any of his previous attempts at convincing Sherlock of the truth. It was just so - well, John. So completely and deeply in character that Sherlock found he couldn't reconcile it with the slightly odd way in which his flatmate had been behaving over the last few days.

Raising his head, Sherlock straightened and pulled in a steadying breath before turning to look back at his friend.

"I believe you," he said at last, as though only a second, not a minute or two, had passed since John had spoken. He paused, then added very quietly, "Thank you."

John was staring again. "I - wait. What suddenly convinced you?"

"Obviously what you just said. Only the John I know would be so moronically stubborn as to refuse to apologise for what you did."

A smile, faint and reluctant, managed to creep its way onto John's face. "Glad you know me so well, then," he murmured. "You... you do trust me, Sherlock." A question disguised as a statement.

Sherlock exhaled loudly, then nodded, before turning his head away again. His brain was starting to feel like a wrung sponge. He wasn't sure that he felt like speaking any further; some part of him wanted to preserve this moment, rather than continue the delicate conversation and risk severing that barely re-established bond of trust.

"Okay, then -" John was about to go on until he caught a bit of the expression of Sherlock's face: a strangely un-Sherlock expression, weary and uncertain. "Okay," he said again, this time leaving it at that. "I'll be... here. If you need me."

The tiniest of half-smiles twitched across Sherlock's lips, but there was little warmth behind it; only something close to bitter resignation.

"There is no 'if', John," he murmured, wondering if the other man would even hear him.

John did hear him, though he couldn't quite tell what tone was underlying those words, and he decided it would be best not to say anything. He hesitated, looking hard at his friend, and then slowly turned back toward the door. It shut behind him a moment later, softly, trying not to disturb.

Only Sherlock's eyes moved to watch him leave, and the glance was brief. Alone again, he allowed his shoulders to slump down completely. He could feel the oncoming threat of a rather severe headache, brought on by stress, lack of sleep, and far too much thinking, and much of the latter still needed to be done. Right now, though, both body and brain were slowly succumbing to a cold exhaustion.

With an effort, Sherlock rose from where he was seated and changed into more comfortable attire. He pulled his dressing gown close around him before laying down again, strangely aware of physical sensation: the slightly cool air on his skin, the uneven folds of the sheets beneath him, the lethargy of limbs which were extremely reluctant to move now that they had finally been allowed to relax.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Always, he wanted to be on the edge of his senses, ready to react to whatever information they gathered and sent to his brain. Now, though, he was just numb. He wondered dully if that might even be a good thing.

Even by the time John tramped into the sitting room, he was half-reeling with exhaustion, and to collapse with a long, drawn-out sigh into his armchair was the most wonderful feeling in the world. He sat there in silence for several minutes, rubbing his fingers along his forehead in a weary sort of massage, and then reached with a groan for his laptop. Checking his email might have seemed unusual under the circumstances, but given everything that had happened in the past twelve hours, he was desperate for even one little thing that could be considered remotely mundane.

Unfortunately, he was forced to do a double-take when he realised his only new message was from Sherlock Holmes.

With a hollow feeling in his stomach, John opened it.

John,

I hadn't intended for things to end so abruptly, but Moriarty has left me with no other choice. I already told you what my plan is, and I will follow through with it. It's the best of very few options, though I doubt you'll see it that way. I hope that things may turn out better than expected, but such hope is slim, and I wouldn't put much weight on it. At least this way, if all goes as anticipated, Moriarty's schemes will be ended, and you and I will both be free of this snare he has woven around us.

I realise that a mere note it hardly appropriate under the circumstances, but as it is, it's all I can risk if I want to ensure that this goes according to plan. Perhaps it's just as well; you know I've never been one for sentimental goodbyes. I'll say only this - I do wish things could have turned out differently. I do not regret what will happen. But I am sorry for what it will do to you. Eventually, perhaps, you will understand.

And John - thank you.

Sherlock

I like this. Where does it go from here, I wonder? Feel free to speculate in your reviews! May the Force be with you.