Jim Moriarty stood in the living room of 221B Baker Street, holding his arms out. Sherlock stood in front of him with a gun pointed at the criminal's skull. Molly had disappeared into the bathroom again, locking the door behind her.
"What do you mean, it's all your fault?" demanded Sherlock, his voice raw. Moriarty laughed, a short, grating laugh. "Oh, Sherlock," he said with a grin. "How disappointing you are to me." Sherlock didn't move.
Moriarty turned, with his arms still extended, and walked over to the mantel. He looked at a picture placed right in the center, of Sherlock and Molly in their wedding attire with the twins clinging to their backs.
"So sweet," said Moriarty. He turned back to Sherlock. "Why didn't you tell me Molly was pregnant?" he asked. "I would have made the dosage less… fatal." Sherlock cocked the gun he was holding. "What do you mean?" he asked again.
Jim laughed. "I'm honestly a bit surprised she didn't recognise me," he said. "She dated me for two months." "What do you mean?" Sherlock insisted. Moriarty gave a fake sigh. "You're boring, you know that," he said. Sherlock didn't respond.
"I was the waiter," said Moriarty. "Duh." He rolled his eyes. "It was only a little bit of poison," he said. "It was meant to make Molly sick. Nobody would've ever questioned it, 'cause of, you know, cancer. I suppose the baby absorbed it all and it killed it."
Sherlock remained a statue. Inside, however, he was a pit of broiling, seething anger. He was glad that Molly wasn't hearing any of Moriarty's words. "When I heard about the baby," he was saying. "I knew I just had to come out to offer my deepest sympathies."
In his mind, Sherlock could see the doctor's face as he told them that their child hadn't made it. He could see Molly sitting at the kitchen table, bawling her eyes - and heart - out over a cup of tea. He could see the questioning looks in his children's eyes as he told them, "Mum is sick."
Sherlock could also see the faces of all Moriarty had ever hurt. All the families he had ripped apart. Now it was Sherlock's.
He also saw Moriarty's face as Sherlock pulled the trigger. Jim fell to the ground, crumpled in a heap.
The bathroom door didn't open. Sherlock looked at it, and then down at the gun in his hands. He started down the hall towards the bathroom when the doorbell rang.
Swearing, he threw the gun onto the couch as he turned towards the door. He wrenched it open.
John stood outside. He looked furious. Standing next to him, soaking wet, was little Mikey. Mary and Ayana were nowhere to be seen. "John?" he asked. John looked up, and Sherlock saw the anger burning in his eyes.
"She left," he said, sounding hollow. "Mary took Ayana, packed up, and left."
