37.
Elspeth couldn't breathe, her hands balling into fists as she struggled to clear her blurry vision, clutching onto Sherlock's coat like it could somehow keep her steady. She stared at Moriarty. She wasn't afraid of him anymore but there was no denying she could feel the pressure of Seb's eyes on her, the laser piercing into her chest, and the thought of being shot again – probably even killed – was terrifying. But Moriarty didn't want her dead; if he did, Elspeth wouldn't be standing there in that sweet factory.
It was hard to stand. Elspeth's legs were weak and shaky, like they might collapse beneath her at any point, but she persevered, determined not to be caught at a disadvantage again. She looked across at Sherlock. His eyes were fixed on Moriarty, his jaw clenched.
"You've waited a long time for this," Sherlock stated. He was aware of Elspeth's eyes on him and the desperation in her gaze, but he couldn't look away from Moriarty, not even for a second. He was dangerous. Seb Moran wouldn't shoot Elspeth, not now, not yet. Only when she proved to be a threat to Moriarty. She could barely stand so there was no chance of that happening, and somehow, Sherlock remained calm when he considered that. He knew Elspeth was afraid and confused, and though he longed to hold her close, Sherlock couldn't. He had to face Moriarty for the final time.
"Years," Moriarty replied, his smirk broadening. He stood a few metres from Elspeth, who was frozen in place and stuck between the two men, her eyes flickering to each of them unsteadily. She couldn't focus. "It's been so boring without you. Come on, Sherlock, admit it. Even you missed this."
"Like a hole in the head," Sherlock said dryly.
Moriarty laughed softly, shook his head, and strolled forwards. "Y'know, Ellie and I . . . we had lots of fun together. Didn't we, Els?"
He paused by Elspeth, reaching out to touch her cheek, but she jerked her head away, glaring back at him. Sherlock couldn't help but smile; that was his girl.
"Oh well," Moriarty said, seemingly unaffected by Elspeth's furious gaze. He walked past her. "It was never about her, was it? It was always about me and you and the final problem – our final problem." He smiled. "Have you worked it out yet, Sherlock? How all of this was even possible? Bet you haven't. Bet you're dying to know."
Sherlock gave Moriarty a hard glare, silent. He didn't know. He hadn't worked it out – how Moriarty survived his suicide, how he had possibly missed Seb Moran when bringing down his network, how any of it was possible – and it was a niggling thought in the back of his mind, a little voice reminding him that he had failed.
"You know, I've had Ellie for ages –" Moriarty dragged the sound out in a high pitched voice, a shiver running down Elspeth's spine. "– now and you've only just found her? Honestly, Sherlock, I'm disappointed."
His lips pressed together, Sherlock looked towards Elspeth. "I'm sorry," he said to her. He hated that Moriarty could hear the conversation but there were things he needed to say. "I'm sorry that I put you in danger, Ellie. I miscalculated everything – I never meant for you to become part of this. Any of this." His voice was soft and genuine, and Elspeth felt hot tears spill onto her cheeks as she stared back at him, wondering why he was talking like that. The last time Sherlock had made such a heartfelt confession, Elspeth had been convinced they were all going to die in an explosion.
"No," Elspeth whispered. She shook her head. "No." Stumbling forwards, Elspeth reached blindly for Sherlock, unable to stifle her yelp when a gunshot rang through the building. Seb had shot the wall, narrowly missing Elspeth, and it sent her falling backwards onto the floor so her head collided with the ground and her vision went blurry. She groaned.
Sherlock took an instinctive step towards her but Seb's laser landed directly on Elspeth's chest, a deadly warning not to get too close. Sherlock looked towards Moriarty with a dark expression.
"Well," Moriarty commented. "This is all very touching."
"Let her go," Sherlock commanded, pointing towards Elspeth. She struggled to push herself up. "You said it yourself, Moriarty, this was never about her. She isn't part of this."
Moriarty just closed his eyes. "I love the way you say my name," he murmured.
"Let her go!" Sherlock's voice echoed and, for a brief moment, Elspeth was afraid. She had never heard Sherlock get angry like that and the way his voice suddenly rose almost reminded her of Moriarty. His eyes flashed towards her. Elspeth flinched.
Opening his eyes, Moriarty also faced Elspeth. She hated the way he looked at her but she refused to break eye contact first, glowering at him with as much hatred as she could muster while sitting up straighter, her hands on the ground for support. He was cold and calculating, smirking when she began to squirm under his intrusive gaze, and his hand went to his pocket.
"I don't like to get my hands dirty," Moriarty said casually. He tore his eyes from Elspeth and met Sherlock's gaze instead. "But I think I'll make an exception, just this once." There was a gun in his hand. "Do you know how to use a gun, Ellie?" he asked over his shoulder, taunting them. "This here's the safety – with it on, I can't do anything, but if I take it off . . ." there was a click and Elspeth found herself staring down the barrel of the gun, her life in Moriarty's hands. "I can do anything I want."
Sherlock stiffened. No, he wouldn't. This was about Moriarty and Sherlock, not Elspeth. It was never meant to be about Elspeth.
"How fast can you move, Sherlock? Think you can get to her before I do?" Moriarty's face lit up. "It could be our new game! Does Ellie Holmes live . . . or die?"
"Don't," Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself. "I can't. You know I can't."
"Oh dear, is the great Sherlock Holmes afraid?" Moriarty asked. He knew the answer. Sherlock was terrified when he considered that Elspeth might be in danger; he was willing to die if it meant keeping her safe. Even so, he nodded, a quick jerk of his head that made Moriarty laugh. "Go on, Sherlock, say it. For me. Please."
"Yes," Sherlock said stiffly. "I'm afraid. Now let her go."
Moriarty looked thoughtful, pretending to consider Sherlock's plead, then screwed his nose up. "Nah," he said. "You know what? I'm going to keep her right there for a bit of extra incentive. Did you like the touch with the blood, by the way? I thought of that all by myself."
"It was all to get my attention," Sherlock remarked, diverting the conversation away from Elspeth. He smiled. "Clever. Those two years must've been so frightfully boring for you."
"You have no idea. You were a busy little bee though, weren't you? Making your grand entrance, going to your pet's wedding, Magnussen – and little baby Watson!" Moriarty added as an afterthought. "I must send them flowers. Or deliver them myself. I do like the personal touch, you see."
Sherlock's blood boiled. "Stay away from John Watson."
"Why? Who's going to stop me? You? Her?" Moriarty gestured towards Elspeth with the gun wildly and Sherlock was aware that the safety was off; all it would take was for Moriarty to pull the trigger . . . "No, no, after tonight, no one's going to stop me," Moriarty told him. "Do you know why, Sherlock? Do you?"
He was like a puppy, Elspeth realised. A crazy, gun wielding puppy desperate for answers and approval and attention. The man was clever. So clever.
"Because you're going to kill me," Sherlock said. Elspeth's heart missed a beat. Kill him? No, no, that couldn't happen, Sherlock couldn't die – not again. Not permanently. Two years. That's all Elspeth had spent with Sherlock and it wasn't long enough. She'd lost it when she thought he was dead, sunk into full blown depression, and she didn't know how she'd cope without him, how any of them – John, Mary, Molly, Lestrade, even Mycroft – would cope without him. More people loved and cared for Sherlock than he seemed to know. But he didn't say it with fear in his voice. He accepted his death.
Momentarily, Elspeth felt a surge of hatred for Sherlock. How could he? After everything they had all been through, he was going to throw it all away, let Moriarty win – let them down. Then she realised; if Sherlock didn't die, Moriarty would kill her.
Elspeth stared at Sherlock and he gazed back at her, and she could see that he was so sorry. Even though he'd said it aloud, Sherlock was sorrier than his words could ever express. He let her get hurt on numerous occasions. He couldn't stop Moriarty from assaulting her or terrorising her, or Magnussen from putting her in the bonfire with John and flicking her face, and there were so many things that Sherlock had done wrong himself; shouted, said the wrong thing, let her think he was dead for two years . . . Sherlock loved Elspeth and he had let her down so many times.
She shook her head silently, pleading. Sherlock simply looked away from her, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Elspeth crumble, ducking her head as more tears ran down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking. Sherlock was only doing it because he loved her.
"Full circle," Moriarty said, drawing Sherlock's attention from Elspeth. "It's all very poetic, isn't it, bringing you back to the case that ruined your career? I thought of that myself as well."
"Clever," Sherlock remarked. He let his arms hang by his side, his gaze passive. "Go on. You brought me here to kill me – here's your chance."
Moriarty tilted to his head to the side and scanned Sherlock. Satisfied that the detective was not concealing a weapon or bluffing, he raised his gun, smirking as he aimed, and fired.
Click.
Elspeth gasped and Sherlock flinched and Moriarty laughed hysterically, throwing the empty gun down to the floor. He wasn't going to get his hands dirty, not even for Sherlock Holmes, but it had been so worth it just to see the look on Sherlock's face. Behind him, Elspeth was pale and trembling, close to breaking point.
"Oh Sherlock, you silly boy," Moriarty chided. "Did you really think I was going to kill you myself? No, no, no, I have Seb for that." On cue, the laser went from Elspeth and landed on Sherlock, darting about his chest wildly to mock him. Sherlock sighed.
"I should've expected that," he murmured. "So you kill me. What do you do then?"
"Who knows? Without you stopping me, I can do anything." Moriarty smirked at Elspeth over his shoulder. "Ellie and I are going to have a lot of fun together, I can promise that."
Sherlock shook his head. "The truth is out there, Moriarty, everyone knows who you are. Rich Brook is gone and Jim Moriarty is in the media, exposed."
"Do you really think I'm going to let that stop me?" Moriarty scoffed.
Nothing was going to stop Moriarty. Sherlock was only beginning to realise that now.
Mycroft looked up at the sound of the door slamming open, raising his eyebrows when John Watson stormed in.
"Please, come in."
"Sherlock's gone," John said, flustered and red in the face. Mycroft sat up straighter. "He's gone to meet Moriarty because Ellie's in danger and he is going to die, Mycroft, unless your men intervene right now –"
"Calm down, John," Mycroft interrupted coolly. John stared back at him.
"Calm – calm down? This is your family we're talking about, my best friend and his daughter! If you don't do something then we won't see either of them again."
"The situation is being dealt with as we speak," Mycroft told John, who felt the anger seep from him. John blinked, took in a deep breath, and sat down in one of the chairs by Mycroft's desk because he wasn't sure if he could stand for much longer. The Holmes family was going to be the death of John. "As you're perfectly aware, I maintain a constant surveillance of Sherlock. I was amongst one of the first to know he'd left 221B in preparation to confront Moriarty."
"How do you know where's he going?"
"As I said, constant surveillance. Miss Hooper also expressed her concern for my brother shortly after he left the hospital, and was very helpful in recollecting her and Sherlock's conversation."
"Wait, you interrogated Molly?" John demanded, suddenly feeling rather defensive of his friend. Molly was timid and kind, and he didn't like the idea of Mycroft or one of his agents barging into the morgue to demand answers from her.
"No." He'd sent Anthea to speak with Molly, but Mycroft didn't mention that. "They're returning to the sweet factory –"
"Where Sherlock found the children, yeah, I know. I remember."
Mycroft nodded. "Rest assured, I've sent a highly skilled set of men to assist my brother in his confrontation."
"But Moriarty's clever. He's probably expecting you to intervene."
"And if that is the case, hopefully it'll provide a long enough distraction for Sherlock to act or leave with Elspeth. Their safety is my priority, John," Mycroft added, staring grimly at John.
"I know."
There was a brief silence in which the two men regarded each other. Mycroft had not forgotten his previous conversation with John, nor had he forgotten that he had little time to remind Sherlock and Elspeth of how much he cared for them.
"Moran's quick," John said quietly.
"As are Sherlock and Moriarty, but hopefully it won't come to that."
"I'm going to help," John announced, rising to his feet and striding towards the door. Mycroft started to protest. "You can't stop me, Mycroft. Sherlock is my friend and I'll be damned if I let him do this on his own." He couldn't let Sherlock do it alone, no matter what he said. He wasn't alone, not this time.
The laser disappeared from Sherlock's chest suddenly and he looked down, frowning. He then laughed quietly.
"Mycroft."
Elspeth perked up at the mention of her uncle, blinking back the black spots in her vision. Mycroft. That meant help, men stopping Seb and Moriarty from hurting them, getting saved. It was a childish notion but Elspeth still clung onto it desperately, hoping that she and Sherlock could walk away from this unscathed.
Moriarty sighed. "Oh dear, all the King's men are here," he said in a bored tone, unimpressed that his sniper had been stopped by a bunch of ordinary men; how incredibly disappointing that was. "Never mind."
"Still going to kill me?" Sherlock asked, taunting him. Oh, how the tables had turned . . .
There was a dark smirk on Moriarty's face as he turned his back on Sherlock, walking towards Elspeth and reaching down. Sherlock jerked forwards when Moriarty hauled Elspeth to her feet, whirling her around, holding her so her back was pressed against his chest and she was facing Sherlock with fear and desperation her eyes. Her breath hitched as Moriarty reached round her, a hand sliding into the pocket of Sherlock's coat she was wearing.
"No, I'm not going to kill you," Moriarty said, his voice making the hairs on the back of Elspeth's neck stand. Holding the gun in one hand, Moriarty grabbed Elspeth's wrist with the other. She was suddenly wielding the gun, both of Moriarty's hands on top of hers, crushing her, forcing her to hold the gun. He pushed her finger towards the trigger and she was too weak to fight him. "Ellie is."
"No," Elspeth whispered. She started to panic. "No, no no no." She whimpered pathetically and squirmed, wriggling against Moriarty's grip, fighting with what little strength that remained. "No, please, no!"
Sherlock froze. There was fear and anxiety in his eyes when he stared at his daughter, out of control with panic.
"Let her go," a voice said from behind them, Moriarty spinning Elspeth round to face John as he stood in the doorway of the sweet factory. He was red in the face and appeared slightly out of breath; with the incentive of a very large tip, the taxi driver had paid no attention to speed limits and got John as close to the sweet factory as he could, and John had run all the way from there, desperate to find his friend. He stopped when he saw the gun, his eyes flickering up to Elspeth. She was pale and sweaty, her eyes bloodshot and her lips dry, fighting feebly against Moriarty's strong grip on her.
"Johnny boy," Moriarty sung. "How nice to see you. Over there now, there's a good boy."
Forcing Elspeth to aim the gun at him, Moriarty ushered John to Sherlock's side. Sherlock glanced at his friend, irritated that he hadn't listened to him, but touched that his friend was willing to risk his life to save theirs.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock hissed when John stopped next to him.
"Helping you."
Idiot. John was an idiot. He had a wife and child waiting at home for him – why was he putting himself in danger?
"Now," Moriarty said thoughtfully. He rested his chin on Elspeth's shoulder and pushed his head against hers, ignoring the way she recoiled with a quiet sob, still trying to get away from him. "Who should we kill first, Ellie? John Watson, the brave doctor and your daddy's little pet?" The gun aimed at John for a few seconds. "Or daddy, the most important man in your life?" He forced Elspeth to aim at Sherlock. "Decisions, decisions."
Elspeth whimpered again, shaking her head desperately. "No, please," she begged. Moriarty's hands crushed hers.
"It's alright, Ellie," John assured her, his voice strangely calm despite being held at gunpoint.
"No, it's not," she sobbed. Without Moriarty holding her, Elspeth would've fallen to the ground, and she would've much rather be there rather than in his arms, aiming a gun between her father and John. If one of them got hurt – if she shot either of them . . . "Dad," Elspeth whimpered.
"It's going to be ok, Ellie," Sherlock told her, reassuring her. There was nothing she could do; the situation was beyond her control. But Elspeth hated herself.
"Clock's ticking, Ellie," Moriarty scolded, his lips close to her ear. "Sherlock or John? Who goes first?"
The gun was heavy and cold in her hands, and Elspeth's heart was racing, her head was pounding, she couldn't see or hear or think properly. Desperate, wild, she fought with a sudden burst of strength, adrenaline coursing through her as she managed to tear her hands from Moriarty's, lunging for the gun before he could pull the trigger.
It all happened so fast after that. Sherlock and John yelled, running forwards, both aiming for Elspeth. There was a scuffle, Moriarty and Elspeth fighting for the gun – it was in her hands, then it wasn't, then her fingers brushed against the trigger, Moriarty's hand grabbed hers, the gun was aiming and –
There was a gunshot.
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