Warning: Cursing, violence, blood, and major (character(s)?) death! Also a psychoanalysis on yours truly!
Chapter Twenty Eight: The End of All Things
"A man who won't die for something is not fit to live." Martin Luther King, Jr.
The resulting explosion of difficult to recall, especially for those who were caught up in the immediate blast zone.
The source of the explosion, as it turned out, was located on the first floor, in an area that would cause the maximum amount of damage.
It was a very powerful blast, all things considered. More powerful than Moriarty himself had anticipated. It didn't cause the building to collapse on itself right away, but the ensuing chain of disruption was already assured. Anyone trapped within the upper floors needed to escape quickly, or risk being crushed when the building eventually toppled under its own weight.
There was smoke, obviously, and fire. Falling debris added to the chocking mist, making the air almost unbreathable. The suvivors stumbled around, unable to get their balance.
The scene of devestation was unreal, like a dream sequence. Or a nightmare, with the participants groping wildly around, unable to see any color in the toxic atmosphere.
No color, of course, except that of the flames and the blood that poured into their eyes.
It wasn't at all like Moriarty had planned.
"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!" James screamed, trying to get himself heard through the flames.
Sherlock finally managed to pull himself up into a standing position, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the blood pouring down his face. After Moriarty pressed the button, he was knocked backwards, losing his grip on his pistol, which was now somewhere on the floor.
Nevertheless, the missing weapon was the least of Sherlock's concerns at the moment.
Sherlock stared at Moriarty, only a few meters away, his face still visible, even in the thickening smoke. "Your little worker at the Yard, Baxley, really shouldn't leave his toys in his car! Who knows who may come along and take them? And if said person should plant the bomb in the corner of an abandoned building, along with some that he made himself…"
James's face fell as he realized what Sherlock was implying. The manic light in his eyes dimmed. His face crumpled in grief as he raised both of his hand to grab at his black hair, heedless to the blood that leaked from the cuts to his face.
His mouth hung open as if he was screaming, but no sound came out.
To be out-played by someone, to lose so completely?
How could this happen?
How!?
Sherlock observed Moriarty a few feet away as his mind broke as he tried to grapple with the fact that he truly had been outdone. The once genius psychopath was a picture of abject misery as he breathed quickly and tears of rage started to form at the edges of his soulless eyes.
And Sherlock didn't care.
If he could make Moriarty feel even an ounce of the desolation and solitude he had suffered, this will all be worth it!
"As you no doubt deduced, the bomb Baxley was entrusted with never reached its destination. And after you pressed the button, sending the command, the bombs detonated, as you knew they would. Isn't it amazing what simple chemical compounds, combined with the right incinary device, can accomplish?"
"You stupid arsehole! We are both trapped in here!" Moriarty screamed, his voice already hoarse from the fumes that poured into the room.
"Really? Oh, dear! Whatever shall we do? Maybe we should jump? Would you like to go first, James? Stupidity before brilliance, and all?" Sherlock taunted smugly, before hacking from the fumes.
"So this is what this is all about, Sherlock?" Moriarty said through clenched teeth. "You going to be a hero now!? Take out the evil criminal and lose your life in the process!? Just like you tried to do with Dzundza!"
Sherlock instinctively reached for his scarf, then pulled back his hand, which was slick with blood.
A few of his stitches have ripped open.
Instead of being upset with this turn of events, Sherlock looked even more elated. "So you finally figured it out? Yes, Dzundza did manage to give me a scratch or two. Hardly worth talking about!"
"I'll make you choke on your own blood!" Moriarty screamed.
"Now who is throwing the hissy fit!" Sherlock shot back, a smirk playing on his features.
"No matter where you go, I'll find you!" Moriarty raged. "I will personally feed you pieces of your own flesh, and watch as I put you through every pain I can think of!"
"You misunderstand me again, James. But don't worry! I'll try to use small words so your pathetic mind can catch up!" Sherlock retorted mercilessly. "I am not a hero! And I never will be! I am, however, willing to do anything, including being burned alive, to take you down and win this game! You and I will finally meet in Hell! If it exists, of course! Do you believe in Hell, Moriarty? My life has certainly been comparable to it, especially after you showed up!"
"What about your daughter!?" Moriarty shouted. He was really starting to panic now.
He knew the truth. Sherlock was going to kill him. Even at the cost of his life.
And there was no one there to stop him!
"She will get along fine without me! Donovan would tell you that I make little girls scream anyway!" Sherlock smirked humorlessly. "And she's a smart girl. She understands the meaning of sacrifice! Better for her to have a normal, dull life than for either of us to exist, to always be a danger to her!"
"You would leave her to fend for herself!? I'm not the only one who can go after her!" Moriarty yelled.
Sherlock didn't change his expression. "Unlike Danielle, who couldn't afford to lose her life without someone able to step in to watch Sheridan, I actually have family members who will make sure that Sheridan will be taken care of! So I can die, knowing that she will be in my brother's care! She will be protected, and that's all that matters!"
"What about Lestrade? Johnny Boy? What about your friends?!"
"Jimmy!" Sherlock smiled broadly. A cold smile, without a scantilla of mirth. "Don't you remember? You burnt the heart out of me! I don't feel anything anymore! I'm dead!"
Sherlock paused as he looked ruthlessly into Moriarty's eyes. "And the dead have no friends!"
"You fucking bastard!" Moriarty screamed. "You can't do this to me!"
Sherlock blinked once as blood began to drip into his eyes. "That's where you're wrong, Jimmy! But I'll give you a sporting chance! Get out of this building, and you live."
"But in order to do that, I have to go through you, am I right?" Moriarty shot back sardonically.
"Only be fitting! I am the only obstacle left!" Sherlock observed calmly before he coughed again.
"You want me to fight you!? Are you serious!?" Moriarty asked disbelievingly.
He was answered quickly when Sherlock took a step forward and hit him squarely in the jaw.
Moriarty fell down to the ground and stared blankly as blood came gushing out of his mouth from a knocked-out tooth and a split lip. "You fucking bastard!"
"I did warn you." Sherlock reminded him. "But even now, I'll give you a choice! Surrender yourself to me, and we will wait for the Yard to arrive, or you can try and fail to get past me, and we will burn together! Decide soon, or the choice will be made for us!"
Even as he said those words, Sherlock felt a wave of disbelief pass through him. He planned to give Moriarty a chance to surrender, more out of a sense of honor towards John (who would want him to do it, regardless) than actual compassion.
But it was one thing to plan for it and quite another to actually go through with it!
What if Moriarty accepts? Because isn't Sheridan right? Won't he continue to come after us?
Moriarty gave out a scream of rage as he jumped up and swung forward, making it clear that he had no such plans to surrender. Sherlock stepped to the side and out of Moriarty's reach, but not before landing a couple of well-placed punches on his own.
Moriarty fell to the floor, whithering.
Sherlock drunk in the pitiful sight, ignoring the pain of the various small cuts and bruises that screamed in protest every time he moved. "I'm disappointed, Moriarty! And you accuse me of getting my brother's protection? Tell me something, did your sister beat you up, James? Did little Danielle show you up at the school playground? Is that why you can't fight your own battles?" Sherlock tormented Moriarty with his words as he watched from his vantage point.
"Shut up!" Moriarty screamed. He slowly raised himself to a standing position and swayed in place, looking venomously at Sherlock. His polished, Grecian-like face was now a mask of blood and dirt.
He looked menacing, like a rabid dog ready to lunge at its tormentor. Sherlock was momentarily reminded of the Baskerville Case, when he was under the influence of that drug and believed he saw Moriarty trying to attack him like a beast from Hell. The look on his face was almost the exact same as it was now.
But Sherlock would not give Moriarty the pleasure of knowing that.
"You lost, James! And you know it! Even if you somehow beat me and escape, you will always live with the knowledge that I was always the better man!" Sherlock berated Moriarty.
Moriarty suddenly smiled. "I think not!"
The sound of a pistol shot echoed in the frigid night air.
Sherlock saw, too late, that Moriarty must have somehow found his pistol, just seconds before he fired.
Knowing instinctively that Moriarty was counting on Sherlock to duck back and try to avoid the shot, Sherlock jumped forward at the same time Moriarty fired.
The maneuver was only particially successful. While Moriarty failed to shoot him in the chest, the bullet managed to hit his side, just under his rib cage, where the bullet lodged itself.
The pain caused him to gasped out, and he bit his lip as he grabbed Moriarty's wrist and twisted it hard, feeling a brutish pleasure at hearing the wrist bone crack.
Moriarty screamed and doubled over, grasping his injured limb as the gun clattered away as it hit the floor, once again lost in the thickening haze. Not pausing for a second, Sherlock continued his assault, ignoring his injuries as he punched and kicked Moriarty.
With each hit, Sherlock felt more and more empowered. An all-consuming rage drove him as he beat his opponent mercilessly. A lucky blow caught Moriarty in the mouth, and Sherlock grinned wildly as he heard the distinct sound of Moriarty's jaw breaking.
Does that hurt, you bastard!?
Suddenly, the floor beneath Sherlock shifted, causing him to lose his balance and fall down onto his back. Turning his head enough, Sherlock saw that a portion of the floor had burnt away, and the structure was starting to fail.
I don't have much time!
Before Sherlock could roll to his side and race for the door, something grabbed his throat and began to squeeze. Gasping, Sherlock thrashed around blindly, kicking and frailing his arms to get his assailant off him.
No. Not an assailant.
Moriarty.
Even in the dream-like gloom of the smoke, he could still see Moriarty clearly. The man's face was covered in blood, and his jaw drooped to one side, the result of Sherlock's well-placed punch from earlier. Already his face was swelling, and his breaths came out in ragged hitches.
But his eyes were the worst.
Those cold, black, empty eyes. The very ones that had haunted his peace of mind for years now, stared manically down on him, bulging in madness.
No longer was Moriarty going to pretend anything. He was going to destroy the man who defeated him, no matter what.
Moriarty's fingers continued to press down, closing off Sherlock's air supply and ripping open the stab wound on his throat. Fresh blood spilled onto Moriarty's hands and onto Sherlock's face as the two men continued to grapple with one another, with one man refusing to relinquish his hold on the other man's neck while the other furtively tried to pry his opponent's hands off of him.
In this way they fought, heedless to the sound of the flames creeping closer to them and the groans of the building as its foundation was beginning to lose the battle to the devastation. Heedless to the thick, inpenitrable smoke and choking fumes. Heedless to the burning pain from Sherlock's throat and the stabbing pain from Moriarty's broken wrist and jaw.
Heedless to everything else except each other.
Sherlock made another frantic grab at Moriarty's hands, focusing on the one that he had broken earlier, but Moriarty ignored the pain.
Sherlock felt himself start to black out. He gasped, trying desperately to stay alert, but his oxygen-starved brain wasn't helping.
"When I'm done killing you, Sherlock, I just want you to know that this will not end in your death!" Morairty whispered through the smoke, his voice garbled and muffled as he attempted to speak with his broken jaw.
Sherlock's eyes, which were in the process of closing, now snapped back open.
"I will go after them, one by one! Everyone you have ever cared about! Everyone that you have ever known! I will go to sleep listening to the delicious sounds of their screams!"
No!
"I will lick their blood off my fingers as they cry for mercy! I will break them in every way possible!"
No!
"Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Sheridan, Johnny Boy!"
NO!
Moriarty's smile was almost fond as he leaned forward to whisper the next words to the detective. "And it will all be your fault!"
NOOOOO!
In an almost inhuman burst of strength, Sherlock threw his hands up, not bothering to try to break Moriarty's grip on his throat. Instead, he went after Moriarty's eyes, using his thumbs to try to claw them out.
Moriarty screamed and reach up to protect his eyes, letting go of Sherlock throat in the process. Without wasting a second, Sherlock instinctively curled his knees up to his chest, ignoring the pain that wrecked his body. In one swift, fluid motion, he kicked his feet upward and aimed them squarely into Moriarty's chest.
Sherlock's last view of Moriarty was bizarre, as though time had slowed down. He saw Moriarty fall back, his eyes bulged in surprise as his hands flew from them to his chest. In his panic, one of his hands had grasped tightly toward Sherlock, as though determined to bring him with him. However, his frantic snatches only succeeded in grabbing Sherlock's navy scarf, which was loose and thus slid off of Sherlock's neck as though it was covered in grease.
The scarf still clung tightly in his fist, Moriarty continued falling. His mouth was a solid "O," as if he was screaming, but it was impossible to tell over the sound of the burning timber and the crumbling bricks.
Staggering, the consulting criminal continued to fall backwards until he hit the glass window pane behind him.
The window, old as it was and probably damaged from time and the elements, could not stop his momentum.
In a shower of broken glass and blood, glittering in the flames like a mixture of diamonds and rubies, Moriarty fell backwards out of the building, his black eyes locked for a moment with Sherlock's bluish-grey ones.
It was at that one moment, suspended in time, that they both realized the game was truly over.
And then Moriarty disappeared from view, destined to meet the pavement below. Destined to suffer the same fate that he had once envisioned for his opponent. Destined to die, defeated by the one person who was willing to destroy himself so that he would keep those he cared about safe from harm.
Sherlock had no time to reflect on these matters. His brain, still reeling from being deprived of oxygen, rebelled, and he lost consciousness.
His last conscious thought was filled with immense irritation at Moriarty, for stealing his scarf.
"Here, John! You better put this on!" Lestrade said, throwing John a bullet-proof vest.
"Thanks." John hurriedly pulled the vest over his jumper and pulled it over his head. "Are we ready to go?"
"Almost!" Clarky said. "The troops are almost geared up. Oh, that reminds me!" Serrendipidously, Clarky reached into his coat and withdrew a pistol. "Glock 37. Magazine's already locked and loaded. Just stay safe, and leave us to do the shooting."
"Bloody hell, Clarky! You work in forensics! You aren't authorized to have a weapon! And just how many guns to you have anyway?" Donovan asked, her brown eyes wide with alarm. "I saw the three you keep in your desk!"
"It depends. How many guns am I legally allowed to have?" Clarky grinned slyly.
Lestrade shook his head as he adjusted his own vest. "And you wonder why we Brits think that Americans just shoot things all the time!"
"As Teddy Roosebelt once said, 'tread softly and carry a big stick.' Besides, we can't let John come without a little protection, can we? Anyway, I already gave Anderson a gun, before he left with Stanley!" Clarky said amiably.
"You gave Anderson a gun?!" Lestrade gasped.
"Of course I did! Why shouldn't I? He may need it!" Clarky said mildly.
"He'll shoot himself in the foot with it!" Donovan protested. "Everyone knows he can't shoot a gun to save his life!"
"Hey! He wanted to come! We are going to the lair of a super villain! I just want everyone to be prepared!" Clarky reasoned. "John can always treat Anderson if he blows his foot off! He can handle it!"
"Bloody hell!" Lestrade muttered under his breath.
Sherlock moaned as he half-stumbled, half-crawled, down the stairs, surrounded by flames and smoke.
After he regained consciousness (a feat made possible by the fire, which caught hold to one of his sleeves, causing a slight burn on his shoulder but succeeding in waking him), Sherlock managed to navigate down the four flights of stairs until he reached the bottom floor.
All around him, the building was burning. It was a raging inferno on all sides, while the support beams groaned as they threatened to collapse at any moment.
There was no escape at all.
Except for one.
"What happened?" John breathed as he, Donovan, Clarky, and Lestrade raced up to Hopkins, who was watching the blazing pile of rubble crackle and burn in front of him.
All around them was a scene of utter tumult. The London Fire Brigade were rushing around with hoses and working to douse the fire which lit up the night sky. Thick, bellowing smoke rose to the sky, while the flames continued to burn brightly. Other members of the Met were rushing around, engaged in their various duties.
"Don't look at me, mate! The building was like this when we got here!" Hopkins said, pointing towards the burning inferno of what was once the headquarters of Pyramid Housing. "According to witnesses, the fire started about fifteen minutes ago, after what they describe as a very loud explosion. Fire fighters are trying to keep the blaze contained, to keep it from spreading!"
Hopkins paused and looked down toward the ground. "Right now we have found one body…"
"What?!" Lestrade breathed.
"Yeah. The witnesses all saw a man fall out of the top story window, about five minutes ago! The paramedics said he died on impact. I haven't seen it yet, but it's over there." Hopkins said, motioning to the area that was roped off.
Several meters away, on the pavement in front of the building, was a white sheet, which served to protect the body until the scene could be processed.
"Oh, God!" John whispered disparingly.
On impulse, he ran over toward the body, ignoring Lestrade's voice bellowing behind him. Ducking under the tape, he ran over and flung the sheet off.
Please Sherlock!
Please!
This better not be you…
It wasn't.
On the stone pavement, spread out in a gruesome parody of what he forced Sherlock to do a year and a half ago, lay the body of James Moriarty. Blood oozed to make a sticky halo around his head as his arms and legs laid in positions impossible for a person to do in life. The metallic smell of blood and the fried smell of burnt human flesh assaulted John's nose.
Despite the damage to the body, there could be no doubt. Moriarty's eyes, his cold, black eyes, stared out behind the mask of ruined flesh. Still intact, they stared upward, glazed over and lifeless. His mouth was open, as though he was locked in a silent scream, or perhaps he was shocked that someone like him could ever succumb to something as common as death.
Regardless, he did not die peacefully.
Despite the disturbing scene, John could not help but feel an immense sense of relief and satisfaction.
Moriarty, the bastard that killed people for fun and was the principle architect in the misery that had been John's existence over the last eighteen months, was finally gone!
Of course, when he's buried, I may just stand over it with a gun that shoots silver bullets and a wooden stake! Just in case!
"JOHN!" Lestrade ran over, breathless. "Is it…"
"It's Moriarty." John replied. His tone was cold, with a touch of exuberance. "Bastard got burnt up real bad before he fell down here!"
Lestrade looked over John's shoulder and gazed upon Moriarty's ruined shell. "Maybe he jumped." Lestrade muttered humorlessly.
Donovan came up beside him, then slowly circled the body until she was on the opposite side of John. She breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank God! It's really him, isn't it?" Donovan sighed, her voice laced with satisfaction and relief.
"Yeah." John said. He looked haggard in the dancing yellow and orange light of the flames.
Clarky smirked. "Ding dong, the bastard's gone!" Stepping around to get a better view of the body, he narrowed his eyes in thought. "I'm kind of disappointed, actually. I thought he would be...taller."
Lestrade looked wonderingly at the corpse. "I still can't believe it! Is it really over?"
"Not until we find Sherlock." John replied firmly. "He's probably around here somewhere! We need to see if he is pretending to be a member of the London Fire Brigade again…"
"Oh God!" Donovan muttered softly.
Moving slowly, as though she was sleepwalking, she bent down beside Moriarty's body. With surprising gentleness, she carefully unwrapped a piece of cloth that was clutched in Moriarty's stiffened hand, ignoring all procedural protecal on handling evidence.
"Donovan?" Lestrade asked. "What are you doing?!"
"Oh God!" Donovan muttered again, the distress evident in her tone. Eyes filling with tears, Donovan silently held the fabric up for the men to see it.
It was a scarf.
A very familiar blue scarf.
And it was saturated in blood.
"JOHN! You can't go in there!" Clarky yelled as he struggled to hold John back from racing into the building.
"Get the fuck off of me, Clarky!" John screeched.
Hopkins gritted his teeth as he, Clarky, and Lestrade struggled with the former soldier. Who would have thought that a short man had so much strength? "Like hell, John! You aren't going in there!"
Donovan and Anderson stood a small distance away, stuck dumb as they silently watched the melee in progress.
"Sherlock isn't in there, John! Don't think that for one second!" Lestrade ordered as he continued holding onto John's sleeve.
"THEN WHAT THE HELL IS THIS DOING HERE?!" John yelled as he held up the blue fabric.
Sherlock's blue scarf. And it had blood on it.
Lestrade groaned as he saw the fabric. He recognized it too. "Well, that doesn't mean anything! If Sherlock was in there, which I say is still unlikely, then he would have gotten out! He is clever, John. He would have escaped!"
"Are you trying to convince yourself of that?" John whispered miserably. The crackling fire continued to burn brightly, still destroying the building and blocking all effective means of entering the inferno and searching for survivors. "He would never leave his scarf behind, Lestrade! You know that!"
John finally slumped down in defeat, his knees buckling. The three men loosened their grip but did not let go, fearing that John may still make a final lunge and try to enter the blazing inferno.
But John had no such plans. He knew, already, that he arrived too late to save his friend.
This was like his dream. Sherlock was trapped in a burning building, waiting for John to save him.
And John, like before, was too late.
Sherlock was gone. And he never had a chance to talk to him…
"JOHN! LISTEN TO ME!" Lestrade yelled, grabbing John and shaking him by the shoulders. "We'll find him! You can't give up now! Sherlock needs you! We all need you right now!"
John stared blankly at Lestrade before nodding slowly.
What if Lestrade is right? What if Sherlock did make it out?
"Good." Lestrade said, patting John on the shoulder. "Now let's get away from here before Anderson yells at us for ruining his crime scene. I need your help to search the LBG. There's always a chance that Sherlock could be pretending to be one of them."
"I'll try." John said, looking at the mass of burning rubble. The force of the explosion had already caused the building to cave in on itself. Anyone located in the lower floors would have been crushed underneath.
And if anyone jumped from the upper floors, then they would have ended up like Moriarty, broken and bleeding on the pavement.
Neither option was particularly comforting.
John shook his head wearily as he fought back the burning he felt from his eyes.
Sherlock, I don't care how or why, but so help me, if you are dead, for real, then I'll never forgive you!
How did it come to this?
He had not meant to come back to London. He would never have come back to London, if he had a choice in the matter!
He originally planned on staying away. He wanted everyone to hate him so that no one would care enough to miss him.
The great Sherlock Holmes was supposed to die alone and unloved, as he had always been his entire life.
A fraud. A monster. A freak.
It was supposed to keep everyone safe.
Sherlock coughed up more blood as he crawled through the filth and mud. His hands traced the old brick and mortar, slick with slime and mold, as he continued his fruitless search.
It is so cold here. And wet too. He was crawling in the abandoned sewers under London. To one side was the tunnel wall. On his other side was a trickling stream of water that traveled under the stone streets until it finally reached the Thames.
Sherlock did not particularly relish in being here at the moment, but it was necessary. He had to take this route or die when the building collapsed.
In a moment of inspiration (or desperation), Sherlock remembered the partially dislodged manhole from earlier. The one he almost tripped over and had spent time hiding it so that Moriarty wouldn't find it. Gropping blindly for a few moments, Sherlock had managed to find the manhole and pried the cover off. It was difficult, with finger slick with his sweat and blood, but he managed in the end.
Moving quickly, he succeeded grabbing onto the metal ladder and crawled down into the blackness below, pausing only to close the cover behind him.
A few seconds later, the entire ladder shook as the building above had finally collapsed on itself, causing Sherlock to lose his grip and fall backwards several feet. His head hit the floor below, and he lost consciousness again.
Upon waking after who-knows-how-long, he groggily crawled onto his feet, knowing instinctively that he had to find a way out.
But so far, he could find no exit anywhere.
It seemed that his escape had also become his tomb.
Why was it so damned cold?
His thin, malnourished frame shook as he continued crawling. He hadn't exactly been living healthy over the last year and a half.
Sure, he ate sometimes, to make Sheri eat. She could be incredibly stubborn sometimes, and thought that he should have to eat to.
But sometimes there was only enough food for one.
Sheri always resisted, but he made her eat, on the premise that she was still a child and growing, whereas he was an adult and unlikely to grow any taller. He did not regret any of those times, although his body was making him pay for it now, as he had lost at least two stones (or, as Sheri would say, twenty-eight pounds) since he had left home.
And when he returned to London, he was so focused on the case that he hardly ate anything at all.
He could feel the icy water as surely as if it was seeping into the very marrow of his bones, which felt brittle as an old man's. His vision swam, which was fine for now since he was in complete blackness. He couldn't see in front of him, so he navigated through the labyrinth under London's streets by touch.
Suddenly his arms, which were shaking uncontrollably, buckled under the weight of his body, and he found himself face-first in a pool of mud. Sherlock chocked and gasped as he struggled to keep from drowning in the shallow pool. He finally managed to raise himself up onto his elbows. Putrid water mixed with crimson blood as he stared out with glazed eyes into the darkness.
He couldn't go on like this. He needed a break. A brief rest. Then he would continue on.
Groping around in the darkness, he found a place near the side of the tunnel that was relatively free of standing water and settled there.
Taking short, ragged, gasps for oxygen, Sherlock rolled onto his side and paused for a moment to reflect how his plans had all came crashing down. He had faked his demise almost eighteen months ago when Moriarty had threatened three people who had somehow wormed their way into Sherlock's previously unfeeling heart.
Ms. Hudson, his landlady but not housekeeper.
Inspector Lestrade, who gave him cases and helped him get clean from drugs.
And John Watson, who had become the first true friend Sherlock ever had.
Who knew that caring could hurt so much?
As a child, he had always been alone. Misunderstood, tormented, bullied, Sherlock often wished for a friend but knew deep down that he was unworthy of having one. After so many years of trying, Sherlock had finally had enough of wishing for unattainable things.
Why invest so much just to be hurt over and over? It was better to feel nothing and need no one. Better to push people away before you became attached, just to have your heart trampled until it no longer existed.
He had fully expected the aftermath of the events at Bartholomew's Hospital to prove him right. After all, the majority of people are idiots, accustomed to relying on first impressions and determined to hold onto them. When reporters like Kitty Riley had printed scathing articles about him in the papers, he had fully expected for everyone to believe them and write him off as both a mistake and fraud.
Eventually his life and everything he had done would be dismissed and forgotten, and he would fade into obscurity.
Moriarty had counted on it too.
Oh, how wrong they had both been!
Time passed. It could have been a few minutes or a few hours. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. It hurt to think. He probably had a concussion, but he didn't know for sure. He was still bleeding, no matter how hard he held pressure to his wounds.
How much blood does a human body have? How much does a person need to loose before he dies from shock?
The answers should have come to his mind unbidden, but for the life of him he couldn't remember. Groaning, he tried to roll himself onto his stomach and back to his knees. Crippling pain caused him to cry out, and he bit his lip to cut off the noise. He flopped onto his back again and stayed completely still.
The pain, which had been like red hot daggers before, had receded to an all-consuming ache. Clutching his bloody hand to his side to lessen the flow of blood escaping from him, Sherlock pondered the next course of action.
Escape was no longer an option. He realized then that he was no longer capable of moving. Even if he could somehow ignore the pain, he was too weak from the blood loss to go forward. Fight was obviously out of the realm of possibility.
And he could forget about anyone coming to his aid. The only people who knew he was still alive were Moriarty's men.
Would Moriarty have a contingent of men ready to hunt him down, even after his death? Possibly. So anyone he met in the tunnels should be considered an enemy.
Everyone else believed him to be dead already and thus would not be aware of his predicament.
Wait! Didn't Mycroft know he was alive?
Sherlock wasn't sure. He couldn't remember much of anything, right now. Al he knew was that Moriarty could have sent his men down to capture him.
That left only two options. Die alone here or be captured by Moriarty's men, who were no doubt still hunting for him.
Sherlock closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in the darkness. No matter what happened, he would not cry out again and give his location away.
Better to die alone and in pain than being captured by them.
He already gave up everything else.
His home. His family. His friends. His work. His reputation. Even his life.
But he would be damned if he gave up his pride.
It was the only thing he had left.
He had made his decision.
Sherlock instinctively curled into a ball to retain whatever warmth he could before the darkness swallowed him up. It wouldn't be long now. Soon, he would be dead, good for nothing except food for whatever bugs or rats that may live down here.
The reality of his pending death strangely brought nothing but relief. If Sherlock had any regrets, it was not being able to see those whom he actually felt for again.
If only to apologize for what he had done to them.
Author's Note: Bad times for Sherlock! He's dying, and no one knows where he is! And it sounds like he's giving up!
I'm not good with suspense, or angst! I hope I did a reasonable job at it!
And just so we are clear, Moriarty is dead! Deceased! Gone! Kicked the bucket! Went to wherever he was supposed to go (that's a debate for another time)! There will be no miraculous return for him! So no worries there!
In a way, this chapter (and perhaps this whole story) is about solving the problems I had with the "Reichenbach Fall" episode. I wanted Moriarty to know he was defeated, in the end. I wanted him to suffer the same way Sherlock suffered. I hope I did an adequate job with that. Tell me what you think!
But what about Sherlock? Who is going to help him? Or will he join Moriarty in death, as he promised?
Looks like we will have to wait and see!
Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock." However, I have finally admitted to myself that I need help, so I went to the nearest therapist I could find!
Ella-Alright, Peaceful Defender, let's begin! Can you tell me why you are here?
Peaceful Defender-Because I have issues?
Ella-Exactly! Now, what was your childhood like?
Peaceful Defender-Uh, well, as far as that goes, my family was great! Still is! I had to struggle with being called stupid by some of my teachers...
Ella-So you had trouble focusing in school?
Peaceful Defender-Actually, no! I was making A's on tests, and I scored high enough on my I.Q. test to be labeled "gifted." But I had difficulty speaking. Turns out my vocal cords were damaged when I was young, and I had to have alot of speech therapy to talk normally.
Ella-So you are far more comfortable writing than you are talking?
Peaceful Defender (shrugs)-I guess so.
Ella-And yet you became an attorney. A profession where you are required to speak alot?
Peaceful Defender-Yes! I'm a masochist! I admit it!
Ella-No, I think this is important! Look at how you killed Moriarty...
Peaceful Defender-I didn't kill him! You heard Lestrade! He jumped! That's my story, and I am sticking to it!
Ella-You are driven by a sense of fair play, and you didn't like the ending of the "Reichbach Fall."
Peaceful Defender (gaping)-Did anyone!?
Ella-You wanted to punish Moriarty for his actions against Sherlock, so you wrote a story where Moriarty saw that the one thing he cared about was destroyed, and then had him die in the same way that he envisioned for Sherlock.
Peaceful Defender (thinking)-Wow! You're pretty good. So you're saying that my lack of sleep, which lead me to write this story in the first place, is not because I am mentally imbalanced, but because I am driven by a sense of fair play, which was triggered when I watched a rerun of "Reichenbach Fall!"
Ella-Well, you are mentally imbalanced! There is no helping that! But yes, you are partially driven by a desire for fairness and equality.
Peaceful Defender-Well, while we are on the subject, why did my self-conscious come up with Chase and Clarky? What are they manifestations of?
Ella-Dammit, Peaceful Defender! I am a doctor, not a miracle worker!
Peaceful Defender-Ok, you soooo stole that line from Dr. McCoy from "Star Trek!" No wonder John stopped seeing you! I think I will ask my readers to help me! Reviews, please!
