At long last we have arrived at the final chapter of our dear story. I hope it lives up to expectations, or at the very least, isn't terrible. There will be a short epilogue following this, so be sure to check that out if you wish. Read and review, I'd love to hear what you think!

Chapter 26

"There's an east wind coming (...) such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared." ~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Watson leapt from the carriage and hastened up the decrepit steps of the crumbling theater that yet managed to loom over him. The idea that he may very well be too late lingered in the back of his mind, torturing him with grisly images of what he may find. He pushed them further back and carefully tread up the once grand staircase, noting how strange it was that there was no one about. No one to guard the door or simply to keep a look out. Either Professor Moriarty was overly confident, or his miraculous return was not as well received as the man would have liked, but whatever the reason, Watson was glad for it, as it allowed him to place his focus on finding Holmes. He followed voices, one welcomingly familiar, the other monstrously so, that lead him to the main auditorium. With cautious steps, he made his way to the balcony to get a better view of the scene below.

Crouched low to the ground, he chanced a glance over the rail. There was Holmes, center-stage with Moriarty circling him like a cat with its prey. It was unnerving to see Holmes in such a position. In all their years together, he never allowed himself to be caught, unless doing so served a greater purpose. He had to trust that there was one now. With his rifle loaded and ready, he settled in to wait for the opportune moment to present itself.

"All the world's a stage, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty's voice echoed through the empty theater, and Holmes' fingers curled into fists at his sides, "and you, with the role of a lifetime in your grasp, have wasted it. Domestic life has made you predictable, Mr. Holmes, and ever so dull. Even so, I cannot have you ruining my plans like the last time. You'll no longer be in my way."

The former professor raised his pistol, and Holmes felt his blood run cold as he stared down the black barrel, but he did not, would not, so much as flinch. He would not give the man such satisfaction. After all, he had often thought of dying as easy. It was living, in his opinion, that was the more difficult task. And yet, facing death in such a way proved quite the opposite to be true. His heart pounded in his chest and he was painfully aware that it may be the last time he would feel such a sensation.
It was not life itself that he would miss, he realized, but the people in it to whom he had grown more attached to with every passing day. Angelic little Mary. His dear Irene. Simza. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft. John.

What would become of John?

The crack of a gun echoed through the empty chamber and Holmes was momentarily stunned when Moriarty fell at his feet, the dark stain of blood spreading outward from the wound in his back and staining his coat.

His heart threatened to gallop out of his chest, and he worked to control his breathing as he looked around for the assassin. It was then he happened to glance up and see Watson standing above him in the balcony seats, lowering his rifle. He allowed his eyes to fall closed in a moment of dizzying relief. Only then did his body calm and his mind take control.

He gave a nod, which was returned before Watson turned on his heel to come down to the stage. For himself, Holmes turned to his adversary. He moved him onto his back, eliciting a groan from the other man that soon turned to laughter with blood staining his teeth and bubbling at his lips. "Where is Irene?" Holmes demanded, but Moriarty continued to laugh. Holmes grabbed him by the lapels and shook him. "Damn you, where is my wife!"

A sick grin pulled at thin lips. "You will burn, Mr. Holmes."

And then, he breathed his last.

"Holmes!" A strong arm pulled him away as a flaming beam from the rafters landed right where he had been kneeling beside the crazed former professor. Dark eyes met blue. "We have to go, Holmes! The whole place is coming down."

Holmes looked past Watson to the roof above them, flames dancing their way across the old wood, dropping burning embers in their path. A look of fear flashed across his face as he once again met Watson's gaze. "Irene. We have to find Irene."

Watson nodded, both ducking out of the way of more blazing debris. "Come, there's no time to lose."

Irene felt the sweat that lined her brow trickle down the sides of her face and down her nose as she watched the flames burn higher and hotter. Gagged and bound to a chair in the basement prop room of the old theater, she racked her brain to come up with a plan to escape. When Moran had tied her up, he had promised to look in on her niece. At the mention of Mary, Irene drove her heeled boot into the vile man's shin, a favor which was returned by knocking her out for an unknown length of time. But now that she was awake, she'd be damned if she allowed him to touch a single hair on her sweet girl's head.

She watched as one by one the costumes, set pieces, and props around her were swallowed by flames. Her eyes landed on a near by coat rack, and an idea began to quickly take shape. Pushing her feet against the floor, she scooted her chair close enough so that when the flames began to lick at the old wood, she thrust her arms back, allowing the rope binding her to catch. She screamed when the flames touched her skin, the searing pain a brief and sickening jolt. She yanked her wrists apart and threw herself from the chair as it too was engulfed in the blaze. On her knees, she untied the gag, and eyed the door that had nearly been swallowed by the fire. She rose to her feet and quickly shimmied out of her skirts and removed her singed jacket, offering them as a sacrifice to the flames. With as much of a running start as she could manage, she leapt through the narrow opening, sure she could feel the fire brushing its burning fingers past her arms and through her hair, trying to keep her within its grasp.

Now in the smoke filled hall, she glanced around to get her bearings. She had counted the turns when Moran had first dragged her down to the basement and could only hope she would be able to retrace her steps now that she could scarcely see. The roar and crackle of the flames was deafening, and her eyes and throat burned with a ferocity she had never felt before, and hoped to never feel again, and yet she pressed on. One foot in front of the other, she turned down one hallway and then the next, praying she would soon find the stairs and that they had not yet been claimed by the inferno.

"Irene!"

In spite of everything, she smiled. "Sherlock!" she tried to shout, but the smoke filled her lungs and choked her so that she could barely manage the word. Even still, she tried again. "Sherlock!"

Somewhere above her, a door opened, and two shadowy figures were silhouetted against the smokey haze. The shorter of the two appeared to move closer. "Irene? Darling, can you hear me?"

"I'm here!" she called, her throat raw and aching as she did. She coughed and struggled to regain her breath as the figure moved toward her.

Just when her legs felt ready to collapse beneath her, she felt herself being lifted and held securely against solid chest with a heartbeat so blessedly familiar. "I have you, my dear," her husband's voice soothed her gently in spite of the hell surrounding them.

"Holmes!" Watson's voice shouted from the floor above them. "The stairs! Quickly, they're giving way!"
With no time to lose, Holmes bounded back up the stairs with Watson grabbing them both and pulling them to safety just as the narrow staircase at their feet went up in flames.

The three raced out of the building as it collapsed around them, all but tumbling out onto the street in their haste. "Clark!" Watson called, his chest seizing from the action, a violent string of coughs stealing his breath. He sank to his knees beside Holmes, who had gently lowered Irene to the ground, still with his arms around her shoulders, allowing her to lean on him.

Luckily, the constable took one look at the nearly unconscious Irene and understood. He summoned another constable, but when they moved to help her, Irene shook her head and roused herself enough to push herself up to grab Watson's arm. Her throat felt as though she had swallowed shards of glass, but she held his gaze and whispered, "Moran... after Mary..."

His eyes darted from her to Holmes who met his panicked stare with one of his own before he began barking orders at the officers, for once getting no argument from Lestrade.

The entirety of Scotland Yard was headed to Baker Street with all due haste.

No one could ever know whether it was coincidence or providence that led Simza to the window at the precise moment Sebastian Moran exited his carriage. Her blood ran cold and she flew to alert Mrs. Hudson stay with Mary and Tommy in the kitchen no matter what happened. She had enough time to draw her knives and steel herself before he broke in.

A smile that turned her stomach and fueled her rage spread across his face. "Well, well. If it ain't the grand Madame. What a nice surprise."

She didn't wait for him to make the first move. With a dagger in each hand, she rushed him. She plunged the blade into his shoulder. He howled in pain, and with his good arm, threw her back against the stairs. She scrambled up them, thinking only to keep him away from Mrs. Hudson and the children. Moran recovered more quickly than she would have liked, and gave chase, catching her ankle and pulling her down and back toward him. She cursed him in French and kicked her other foot, bloodying his nose with a satisfying crunch.

Simza didn't wait to hear the slew of names he called her, but pulled herself up and ran for the flat. Slamming the door behind her, she hurried to where she knew Watson kept a pistol in his desk. With a steady hand, she loaded the weapon, Moran's heavy footfalls echoing up the last few steps. Her own heartbeat echoed in her ears as she raised the gun, aiming it at the door. She would have one chance. And she was determined to make it count.

The door opened, and Simza waited until he stepped fully into the room before she fired, the sound reverberating up and down Baker Street as the bullet found its mark in the center of Sebastian Moran's chest. He fell, never to rise again.

Simza let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding and sank down into Watson's chair. It was finished.

To say the scene they came upon was alarming would be a grotesque understatement. The door to 221B was ajar. Watson, Holmes, and Irene stepped inside to find Simza's daggers scattered about on the floor. "Simza! Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes shouted, constables standing behind him and waiting for further instruction.

"We're here! We're alright," Mrs. Hudson answered, coming out of the kitchen and into the hall.

Watson immediately took Mary from her arms and held her close. "Papa, you're smokey!"

Watson huffed a breathless chuckle into her curls. "Yes, I'm sorry, darling. But, oh thank Heaven you're alright!"

"Watson."

The dark tone of Holmes' voice had him lifting his head once again. He set Mary on her feet and looked to where his friend had indicated and he too, saw the trail of blood starting at the bottom of the stairs and continuing all the way up to the flat.

Simza.

No. God, no. He couldn't do it again.

Together, they raced up the stairs. His scarred lungs protested each breath that dragged along his throat, but still he called for her. "Sim! Simza!"

The door to the flat was open, Moran's body sprawled out before it just inside. Beyond that, bruised and exhausted, yet standing tall, was Simza.

For both men, their relief was immediate and overwhelming. Watson moved to take her in his arms and press a searing kiss to her lips. Her hands came up to grip the scorched lapels of his vest and her sparkling dark eyes sought his once they parted. "Marry me."

Watson laughed and cupped her dear face in his hands, kissing her again. "Yes, you wonderful woman. Of course."
Behind them, Holmes clapped his hands and beamed. "Ah, a wedding! What a lovely ending. Lestrade," he called out to below, waving his hand in the direction of the floor, "send your men to take care of this, we have a celebration to plan! Mrs. Hudson, we must discuss a menu..."

That night, Holmes excused himself from the company of Mrs. Hudson, Simza, and Irene to seek out Watson who was putting Mary to bed. Violin in hand, he entered the bedroom just as her dear little eyes were falling closed. Tucking the instrument under his chin, he accompanied Watson's lullaby.

"Sleep my baby, on my bosom, warm and cozy will it prove. Round thee Father's arms are folding, in my heart a father's everlasting love abides. There shall no one come to harm thee, naught shall ever break thy rest. Sleep my darling babe in quiet, sleep on Father's gentle chest."

The familiar song, sung by such a dear voice, and the ever present sound of her uncle's violin soon lead little Mary into the land of fairies and the sweetest dreams.

Holmes smiled and gripped Watson's shoulder. "She is safe, Mother Hen. As are we all. It is well and truly over."

Watson smiled at his dearest friend. "Merely one chapter. Another is only just beginning."