The Crown Jewels, the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison; Moriarty had played a strong move. Because it was a game. A game that Sherlock did not want to play but could not forfeit. A game that Sherlock knew was going to end with his own death.

Sherlock stepped up to the stand, his eyes fixed on Moriarty's smirk as he took his position. It was a smirk that he had seen before, one that could tint even the worst crimes with a sense of playfulness and charisma. But not this time. Now, when Sherlock looked at Moriarty, he saw nothing but the night under St. Bart's Hospital; when all he could do was watch through a pane of glass as his only chance of becoming a father evaporated in front of him. At the hands of that man, wearing that smirk.

III

"Sorry are you in the queue?" Margaux asked an old woman who was standing in front of her in the newsagents.

The woman shook her head and moved to the side, allowing her to join the queue. Margaux stood patiently, hugging a packet of Oreos to her chest and glancing at her watch; she had six minutes to get back to work. The queue shuffled up.

"Mad isn't it. Makes you sick," a man said as he paid for his things. "No way a man gets away with something like that. My neighbour went to jail for eighteen months over a dodgy insurance claim and you're telling me he's walked away scot free? Load of bollocks."

Margaux looked up to the counter, the man was holding a newspaper. She glanced down to the racks at her side, a sudden feeling of nausea wrapping around her like an unwanted hug. His face. His smug, calculating face plastered in black and white across every pile of papers.

'MORIARTY WALKS FREE: SHOCK VERDICT AT OLD BAILEY TRIAL.'

"Excuse me, love. I'm in the queue now, are you still waiting?" said the old woman from behind her.

Margaux's shaking hands grasped the packet of Oreos and pushed them back onto the closest shelf. "No, sorry. You go ahead." Her words were barely audible as she ran out of the shop.

Outside, the air seemed colder, smoggier. She sat down on a step and began to cry.

"Margaux?" A warm voice startled her.

She looked up to see Dr Grant standing above her. He was wrapped in a coat and scarf, holding an earphone in one hand, the other one still playing music in his ear, just loud enough for Margaux to recognise the song.

"Dr Grant." She sniffed.

"Hey, now if I can't call you Dr Cave then you can't call me Dr Grant. It's Oliver." He smiled, offering her his hand.

She took it, allowing him to help her up.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Oh, I just… saw someone I didn't really want to see."

He gave an understanding sigh "Ugh that's the worst, I'm sorry. Here." He extended his arms and pulled Margaux into a hug. It made her feel safe. He really was lovely.

"Dr– Oliver," she began "we never did go for that drink…"

"Oh, right, erm,"

After a moment of silence, Margaux smiled, "Girlfriend?" She asked sincerely.

"Yeah. She's amazing." Dr Grant gave in. "We've not been seeing each other long but things are going great. She's just… You know when you're with someone who's really romantic and affectionate and they just make you feel so… happy?"

"No. What's that like?" She thought about Sherlock; the cold, distant sociopath. She thought about how even his body was cold; clean and pale like marble. She thought about how his touch was cold; inducing goose bumps with nothing but his fingertips, how his eyes glowed blue like a glacier, and froze over whenever he felt he was getting too close. She had grown to love the cold.

Dr Grant smiled. Margaux smiled too, wiping the tears that had escaped onto her cheeks.

"Do you want me to walk you anywhere? Just in case you see this person again?" He asked.

"No, don't worry. He's kind of unavoidable."

Unavoidable. Moriarty was everywhere.

III

Sargent Donovan looked around smugly as she stepped into 221B Baker Street behind Lestrade. Sherlock knew she was begging for it all to be true, for him to be caught out as a fraud, she was revelling in it. He outstretched his hands, allowing the handcuffs to be tightened, remaining silent as they pushed him out of the flat.

Donovan stepped towards John, suppressing a smile. "Well I said it. First time we met–"

"Don't bother," John interrupted.

"Solving crimes won't be enough," she continued, folding her arms across her chest proudly. "one day he'll cross the line."

Moriarty was everywhere. This was something Sherlock knew all too well. Moriarty was everywhere, and then suddenly, he didn't exist. All that remained was a man who appeared to be solving mysteries he had created for himself.

III

"Stop," said Margaux suddenly to her taxi driver. She climbed out of the cab, blue and red lights illuminating her face. Led by panic, she ran towards the police cars.

The door of 221B was wide open, with officers wandering in and out. She stepped onto the pavement, pulling her badge from her pocket and showing it to an officer as he tried to stop her.

"Inspector Lestrade," she called out quickly, catching him as he came down the concrete steps.

Lestrade seemed concerned, flustered, "Margaux, you should probably go–"

"What's going on? Are they okay? Sherlock and John? Mrs Hu–"

"They're fugitives. Well, not Mrs Hudson. She's fine, she's inside."

"Fugitives?"

Lestrade looked around before he spoke, "Someone's made it look like he's been staging his cases. And well, John just chinned the Chief Superintendent for calling Sherlock a weirdo."

Margaux looked across to the man holding a bloody tissue to his nose.

"Go. Margaux," said Lestrade, staring intently into her eyes, "fugitives need places to hide," he said quietly. She understood.

She walked back into the road, away from the noise and the lights.

"You had a lucky escape," a voice shouted from behind her.

She turned back to see Sergeant Donovan standing next to a police car. "Sorry?" she called back.

"He's sick. I don't even want to think about what lies he spun to have you drooling all over him."

"Excuse me?" Margaux said with more anger as she approached Donovan.

"Ask yourself, what sort of man would kidnap two kids just so he could impress us all by finding them?"

"Ask yourself, what sort of police sergeant would target and harass a man based on a personal dislike?"

Donovan shook her head. "You're deluded."

"And you're shit at your job," said Margaux angrily before turning around and walking away.

III

"Got your message," said John as he rushed into the lab.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor of the lab, bouncing a ball against the wall. He stopped. "The computer code is key to this. We find it, we can use it. beat Moriarty at his own game," he said.

"What do you mean use it?"

"He used it to create a false identity. So we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook."

"Bring back Jim Moriarty again," John nodded.

Sherlock stood up. "Somewhere in 221B, somewhere on the day of the verdict he left it hidden."

"What did he touch?"

"An apple, nothing else."

"Did he write anything down?"

"No," Sherlock said, growing frustrated.

John tapped his fingers against the counter and walked away, the noise causing something to click in Sherlock's head. He tapped his fingers against the counter, a specific sequence, he had it. he turned away from John; this was it. It was going to start where it would end. That's what Moriarty had told him.

He took out his phone and typed his move.

'Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH.

PS. Got something of yours you might want back.'

III

The London landscape blended with the dull, grey sky. A breeze lifted the curls from his forehead and placed them down again gently. The game was coming to an end, power shifting rapidly between the two players. This was it.

He took a deep breath and stepped out onto the roof.

III

"I'm a doctor," John slurred as he pushed through the growing crowd, "he's my friend," he muttered as he knelt at his side, the thud of his knees hitting the pavement echoed in his head like a heartbeat. He felt arms wrapping around him, pulling him back. He grasped at his wrist, pressing his fingers in hard, begging for a pulse, squeezing harder as if it was trying to get away from him. He felt nothing. They turned the body on his back; his stark, blue eyes the only feature undistorted by blood and bruising. They were looking straight at him. "No, no, no," John continued to mutter as they pulled him away.

III

"He's gone. I'm sorry," said Molly softly, patting John's shoulder.

"I just. He can't."

"The trauma was… It was severe. He died shortly after impact."

"I don't…" John blinked, trying to make the spots in his vision disappear.

"You have to go home, John. You need to rest." Molly spoke with sincerity, as if she could cry at any moment but wouldn't allow it.

"This was all him. Moriarty."

"They found him too. Dead. Up on the roof."

John's breath stopped for a moment as a lump grew in his throat. "He wasn't a fraud. Sherlock, he wasn't a fraud." He turned to Molly, "Moriarty was real. Everyone must know."

"They will."

John picked up his jacket and left, stepping past police in every corridor. He came to the hospital reception. Even more police; fighting off a sea of photographers and news reporters. John turned to find a quieter exit. Then he saw them. The lump in his throat turned to acid and his limbs felt hollow, he stormed towards them.

"You," he growled.

Standing with Lestrade was Philip Anderson and Sargent Donovan.

"You. Well this is what you wanted," John began angrily "to see him disgraced, ruined–"

"John," Lestrade tried to interject.

"Well is dead good enough for you? Because you did this." John flitted between Anderson and Donovan.

"John, we're all feeling–" Lestrade tried again.

"No! We're not 'all feeling' anything! Sherlock Holmes is dead. My best friend is dead." John began to walk away. Stopping and turning back suddenly. "And he wasn't a fraud. He didn't do any of those things. So you make sure the world knows that. It's the least you can do." He turned away, walking slowly, feeling his limp again for the first time in years.

III

She stood in the middle of her living room staring at the television. Her eyes burned but she refused to blink; 'SHERLOCK HOLMES DEAD' flashed across the bottom of the screen, like a banner, as casually as a football score. She forgot how to breathe, her lip quivered as the first warm tear escaped the corner of her glossy amber eyes. Margaux hit the ground, crumpling in on herself like she was deflating, gasping for breath, clutching her stomach as it twisted in agonising grief.

He was gone.