Chapters, chapter, chapters. Do not ask me where I'm getting this time from, because I believe it may explain the extreme tiredness I am experiencing.

:)

CHAPTER 38

Howell residence

Toorak

Melbourne, VIC

Australia

Sherlock had planned his move long before Moriarty had even approached the bed from the side, even as the psychopath was slipping the key into his pocket, and was more than ready to fight as he came closer, ever step reading predator and sending a nervous shiver down the detective's spine.

Calculating perfectly, Sherlock lashed out with a stinging kick to the abdomen that sent the smaller man flying, catching him unawares, so caught up in the idea that Sherlock was finally all his, that he hadn't been paying close enough attention to the detective.

In an instant, Sherlock was off the bed, ignoring the dizziness that hit him as he stood. He made for the door, fully planning on kicking it down, when Moriarty came at him from the side, fury in his expression and the punch that Sherlock knew was going to more than bruise, pushing him up against the wall, bringing them into very, very close contact, so close, in fact, that the green in Moriarty's eyes looked like it might have been glowing.

The consulting detective landed awkwardly as he pushed the criminal away only to trip on the table and roll so that he was in a crouch, sizing Moriarty, close by, up.

The atmosphere in the lavish room had changed completely, not seeming to suit the old furniture and the gilded metal that reflected the light of the Chandelier, hanging above them, moving slightly

From the original calm, almost peaceful sense, one could now have almost tasted the built up tension finally being released,

"So you're going to play hard to get," Moriarty asked, trying to keep his composure, but anger marring what Sherlock might have once considered handsome features, his jet black hair, grown a little longer than normal, having lost its gelled place.

"Maybe," Sherlock panted back, before launching himself forward, grabbing the criminal by the shoulders and going for the pocket where the key was.

Sensing this, Moriarty rolled so that his hip banged into Sherlock, loosening his grip. Moriarty laughed and he pulled himself of the floor, putting some space between them,

"Sherlock, we've only just started. Someone's hands are getting a little adventurous," The detective growled in frustration and also stood up.

There was barely a metre between the two men, both equally observant, both equally smart for either to have the upper hand.

Only the sounds of their rough breaths were heard as they both checked themselves for injuries and assessed the other, "We're even, Sherly," Moriarty said, a pain in his back distracting him slightly, but not enough to lose concentration.

Sherlock, on the other hand was in a severe amount of pain, his formerly bruised ribs now sending sharp pains down his side, cracked from that last blow Moriarty got in. He wondered if he could dive out of the window, but knew the house had three stories and a fall from this high would kill him.

"Shut up," he finally said, taking a step towards Moriarty and watched as the psychopath, who stepped backwards, mirrored the action in reverse, keeping the distance between them the same,

"Shouldn't have come alone, Sherlock," Moriarty said,

'Because you're such a threat?" The detective snapped, his eyes like dark chambers, drawing Moriarty in like never before, the grey so, so cold, so empty and yet like flames as they swept around him, the brilliant mind behind them trying to work a way out of this situation,

"No," Moriarty allowed a small smile to spread, "Because I don't fight fair," and he pulled out a gun from only God knew where.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and the man laughed, "Don't ask, Sherlock, it would be better," he said, guessing the consulting detective's confusion and Sherlock gave him a look of disgust,

"Get in the bed," Moriarty ordered, gesturing with the gun and Sherlock weighed his options. Get in and stay alive but be without control, or stay there and die, but maintain his dignity.

An image of John flashed into his mind, and the thought of never seeing him again, never holding him occurred to a man who once claimed to be a sociopath.

Sherlock relaxed his stance reluctantly and Moriarty grinned, "Good boy," he said, gesturing with the gun again and watched as Sherlock, despite every particle of his being telling him not to, moved towards the bed.

Then the doors blasted inwards.

Sherlock screamed as a splinter of wood entered his leg and he was thrown against the wall with the force from the explosion.

The next few minutes were a blur.

People were yelling and shouting. There was the sound of more breaking glass.

A warm hand was on his elbow, picking him up, talking to him, but he wasn't listening.

With his ears still ringing, Sherlock was searching the room for a body, and it didn't take the dazed man long to realise Moriarty had gone out the window.

His pain numbed by shock, and his mind focused purely on one thing, Sherlock broke free of the hand that was holding him.

He was sure there was a lot of yelling as he took a running leap out of the window to fall onto something that acted as a slide, but was invisible. At a guess, it was some clear fabric that Moriarty had set up just in case Sherlock hadn't come alone. Which he had, but as usual, he never went unwatched.

Bloody Mycroft.

The detective landed hard on the grass but didn't stop to let the adrenaline wear off, to let his hearing equate, to listen to anyone above, yelling his name. The warm blood soaking his left leg was ignored as he spotted a figure running around the building, somewhat slowly, and with rather a strange gait.

Gathering every last iota of strength he had left, Sherlock ran after him, gritting his teeth as jarring pain went up his leg, reverberated around his body and leaving him gasping for air. There was only one thought that didn't let him slow down.

John

This was the bastard who almost took his most precious, beautiful, gorgeous, stupid man away from him. And that was an unforgivable crime.

Sherlock rounded the corner and found the figure that he was now certain was Moriarty resting against the brick wall of the mansion, stooped but still standing. Sherlock slowed to a walk, every step causing excruciating pain.

The grass below his feet was damp from the chill night, and the moon cast its slanted light to reveal more of Moriarty's features as the detective approached, looking ghostly and pale in the white light.

There was no sound now, the agents voices on the other side having faded away completely, leaving Sherlock alone once again with Moriarty.

"Always chasing me, Sherlock," the consulting criminal still managed a small grin, and Sherlock stopped, barely a metre away, resting against the wall, refusing to give in to the urge to sit down, his eyes on the criminal's abdomen, "Tell the senior Holmes it was a fun game," Sherlock didn't break eye contact with Moriarty as the criminal looked up at him, and a drop of blood rolled off his lips, his once bright eyes showing only pain,

'It could have been different," Sherlock suddenly blurted out and Moriarty allowed himself a chuckle, clutching his midriff. Sherlock was sure the suit was soaked in blood by now, the criminal's hands having been turned entirely red, showing even more clearly in the moonlight.

"I'm dying, Sherlock, don't lie to me," he slid down the wall with a groan and Sherlock wondered if it were normal to watch another human in so much pain and not help. For once, he silenced John in the back of his head. He was not the compassionate doctor. And the man in front of him could not count as a human being,

"You always would have…" Moriarty paused a moment, unable to get the words out as he took a gasping breath,

Ribs shattered by shrapnel from the door, punctured lungs, collapsed one, serious internal haemorrhaging, fifty-eight seconds until unconscious. These thoughts went through Sherlock's mind like a soft breeze, no effort, no trace, stirring no emotion. Three minutes until death. Moriarty continued,

"Chosen your pet over me,"

"Say his name," Sherlock said, feeling the world sway as blood continued to soak his leg. He could feel it in his shoe, and he knew he needed to sit down but actually couldn't bring himself to. Moriarty , with some difficulty raised his head, coughing up blood as he did so. His next words, were slurred,

"No. He took what was rightfully…mine," the consulting criminal, the only man to ever provide a real challenge to Sherlock closed his eyes, and spoke for the last time, "John…"

Sherlock watched as the destroyed body heaved in one more breath, before that stopped too and Moriarty's head lolled to the side, the world's only consulting criminal most definitely dead.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes of the body as his own laboured breaths filled the night and finally, with the aid of the smooth, cold brick wall he slid down to the ground, a moan of agony escaping his lips.

He sat there for a moment, He's dead, was the first thought as his eyes left the body and looked at the place there were in. Tall, clipped hedges lined the small walkway, which Moriarty had no doubt intended to go down, and rose bushes acted like guards of honour along the gravelled path, the fence not visible in the dim lighting, the grounds seeming to stretch forever in the late night.

Sherlock heard the voice before the footsteps on the gravel as the men, whom he had little doubt were hired by Mycroft, searched for them.

"John," Sherlock muttered, smiling at the name on his lips. As the criminal said it, it had just sounded wrong, like it was a word that just didn't belong and Sherlock sighed, in what he hoped was not too dramatic a way before he realised just what a strange thought that was, considering they were completely alone.

I need some sleep.

Sherlock closed his eyes and marvelled at how he nearly always ended up in hospital at some point of whatever they were doing.

Oh well.

He could request to be put in John's room this time.

The voices were nearer and the footsteps louder as Sherlock slipped away, but for the first time since that night at the pool, the consulting detective realised something.

From off his shoulders, it felt as if a great weight had been lifted off – John was safe, and so was he.

Looks like happy endings were conceivable.

You can probably tell we're wrapping things up, but it's not the end yet. There's a few more things I need to do.

:P

No cliff hangers for once, eh?

Thanks for all you support!

Aza

xx