A/N: Sorry this took so long to complete! Got a bit sidetracked. Anyway, enjoy the ending!

Chapter Six

He woke up suddenly, with a surprised and painful start, as though someone had just stuck a pin in his bum.

Blinking confusedly around him, gradually his blurred vision cleared and he realized that someone had just stuck a pin in his bum. The purpose of this exercise was yet to be understood, thought probably it had at least some small thing to do with waking Sheridan up. He grunted fitfully and clapped a hand to his irritated rear, which is actually a phrase I never thought I'd use. Granted I never thought of it till now, but even so the sentiment holds true.

Gradually and with much fuss, Sheridan got to his feet. It was only after he took in the fact that he was naked from the waist up and didn't have much on even then that he realized that who it was that had stuck him with the pen.

He grunted.

"Croft."

"Actually," said the woman, tilting her head to one side and looking at him with alarmingly-blue eyes, "I'm her twin sister."

Sheridan blinked at her. "Really?"

"Of course not, you moron. I'm an only child— how else do you think I inherited all my money when Mummy and Daddy died?"

Sheridan frowned and waved a shaking finger vaguely in her direction. "I thought you just said you were a twin?" Croft just shook her head at him and settled further into her seat, relaxing against the wicker back. "Wait a minute," Sheridan rumbled thickly. "How'd I get here? How'd you get here? Where is here? Who are you? Who am I? What is our purpose in life and how do we fulfill it?"

Croft gazed at him levelly. "Such philosophy from a man with a hangover is truly impressive."

"Hangover? Oh, God," Sheridan groaned, and sank backwards onto what he thought was his bed but which turned out, after he'd banged his head, to be a thin sheet of cardboard over some cement. "What's good for a hangover?"

"Drinking heavily the night before," said Croft coolly, staring at him. Sheridan glared at her.

"Stop staring at me, you're beginning to creep me out."

"I can't help it," Croft purred, "you're just so lovely."

"Well, yes," admitted Sheridan, "there is that. But tell me. How did we both end up here?"

"You probably didn't notice," said Croft, "but you've been pursued by several people for the past several chapters."

"Didn't notice, no."

"You were probably too busy staring in mirrors."

"More than likely. Go on."

"Well, these people— the people who were pursuing you, you ken—"

"I ken."

"These people had finally caught up with you, but you were busy flirting with some random woman and so didn't notice."

"Very believable," he said. "And your narrative flow is quite enjoyable. Have you been taking writing classes? There's definite improvement over the last time—"

"Terry."

"What?"

"Shut up."

"Take it easy, Croft, I only want to kill you."

"Can we discuss that later? I'm in the midst of a fine expository monologue here."

"Carry on."

"Thank you. As I was saying, they caught up with you, but you didn't notice. So they hit you over the head with a brick. However, it is at this point that things begin to differ from the norm."

"Oooh, intrigue," said Sheridan, leaning forward with a great show of perkiness.

"Because, you see, it was a this point that they got their first good look at you. And several people from several governments with several reasons they wanted you dead suddenly decided that you were far too pretty to be killed in so callous a manner; and so they called me to come and pick you up. Which I did, despite my misgivings, because as you recall, I had left you for dead when we last met. I wasn't too keen on the notion of picking up a zombie, even a sexy Scottish one, and so that is why I came armed with a gun— which I see you have stolen."

"Very observant of you," said Sheridan commendingly.

"Not really," said Croft. "You've got it pointed at my head."

"As you so aptly stated," said Sheridan, "when last we met, it turned out that you killed me and then left me there to rot."

"Here to rot."

"What?"

"I left you here to rot. Have you not noticed that we're back in the Cradle of Life?"

"Didn't look around much, actually," said Sheridan, "was busy waking up, banging my head, and delivering off-the-cuff death threats. Tell me, love, why we're back in this awful place? I mean, really, this is one cave that could do with some redecorating. A little Feng Shui."

"Because," said Croft coolly, going cross-eyed as she attempted to gaze down the muzzle of the gun, "I like the idea of things coming full circle. I thought you would appreciate the poetic irony of it all."

"As I do, let me assure you. And now shall we contemplate the possibilities of me impressing what exactly poetic irony is on you and killing you as we sit here?"

It took Croft a moment to meander through that sentence, but "killing" was one word she understood.

"Look, Sheridan," she began.

"Don't try and reason with me. It won't work."

"But—"

"And no buts either," warned Sheridan. Reminded by this, he checked to see that his pants were riding correctly and was well pleased with the result; or rather, well pleased to find that he wasn't actually wearing any but looked just fine anyhow.

"Sheridan," said Croft, her voice going low and sultry, "lets get married and have little big-lipped babies."

Sheridan stared at her for a moment.

"You really are the most inappropriate person on earth," he said, and shot her.

Some time later he wandered off out of the cave, waltzing into the sunset. Many years later he made history as the first man ever to play golf on Pluto.

But that is then, and this is now.

And Lara Croft is dead.

Lucky for her this is the Cradle of Life—