Author's note- I'm sorry! I'm so sorry I haven't updated in ages! In all honesty, I've been so busy and stressed with school and homework and Pokémon Y that I have found it hard to even find time for an hour to myself on the computer to type. It's half term, so I'll be sure to update more. Wow, 50 reviews! I can't believe it. Thank you so much to everyone who is reviewing, you have no idea how much it means to me.

Trigger warning for self harm/ suicide ideation.

Disclaimer- If I owned anything, the UK would have a series 3 release date by now.

Chapter 20

That day, Lucy hadn't spoken much. She refused to talk to anyone about what had happened when she ran off from them at the crime scene, and she could see that it was annoying Sherlock. He wanted the information, he wanted to know what was going on so that he could solve this, but if she were to tell him then she couldn't escape. If he had the knowledge that she was in possession of a gun, she would have zero privacy, and would probably have to be babysat twenty four seven. And that wasn't going to happen. By this point Lucy was long past caring about the murders and the case- in the end it was all just a sick little game to push her over the edge... literally. And she'd had enough of playing the game. Now, she knew for definite that she would never get closure over her parent's death; in the back of her mind she would always think that they truly hated her, after all, how else would she have seen the video and the note? Whatever it was that Jim Moriarty was doing, he was doing it well.

Night came around as the golden sun set in the sky, basking her bedroom in many shades of orange. What a pretty sight to witness, she thought almost bitterly to herself. The colours reflected off of the shiny metal that glinted ever so slightly in the smooth palm of the young teenager's hand. It was bad that night. The cuts got deeper and deeper, sinking into her flesh over and over again. It was like she was in a trance. But she relished the feeling. It made the numbness go away. Both arms were soon covered in rows of cuts, all varying in depth. But not too deep, never too deep, no permanent damage, but probably enough to leave scars. The pure white tissues quickly became marred as the blood splattered onto the delicate colour. The pain seemed to fade; she didn't feel the physical pain anymore. Curing emotional pain with physical pain- she laughed once to herself. How screwed up was she? Why would Sherlock and John even want her around? That question baffled her every moment she spent with them; but at the same time, she had never felt more loved. Another day, another wound, what else did she have left to lose? A million thoughts jumbled as one, cut upon cut, closer to that gun.

She stopped, letting the tears and blood stop flowing as- with shaking hands- she carefully placed the blade back into its hiding place. It was late. Wandering into her ensuite bathroom with legs like jelly, she looked into the full length mirror. What a mess. Lucy winced, and another tear squeezed its way out to roll down her cheek before falling to the tile floor. She must have been in a trance. On her neck, were four cuts. None were central; all four were to the right side of her neck and were a tad visible. Luckily, they weren't too much more than scratches, a trickle of blood maybe, but nothing major. God, what had she become? She hated herself even more for this. Lucy knew that she couldn't let Sherlock or John see her like this, which meant that tomorrow had to be the day.

After all, why prolong the inevitable?

At four in the morning, her quiet alarm woke her up from her light slumber. Lucy barely got any sleep, but in the end, it really didn't matter. Turning the alarm off on her phone, she searched through her recent text messages until she came across the unknown number. Jim Moriarty's number. The most dangerous criminal mastermind the world has even seen. But he was a master of his profession, no doubt about that. With a deep breath she started to type out a new text message:

You've got what you wanted. Congratulations, you're the winner. Want to see you prize? St Bart's Hospital rooftop at seven o'clock. –Lucy

The teenager pressed send before placing her phone back on the side. Three hours. It's a strange thing when you put it into perspective. Everything felt surreal, but at the moment she was surprisingly calm. Giving herself half an hour to herself, she closed her eyes and relaxed.

At half four, she jumped into the shower. Lucy knew that it was pointless, getting clean when she planned to die anyway, but for her own sake she decided to just do a normal routine. Ignoring the searing burn of her cuts, she scrubbed her body, washed her hair and towelled dried herself before blow-drying her hair. It was so quiet in the flat. So very quiet. But it was nice. Hurriedly she got changed into black jeans, her favourite band t-shirt (with a black long-sleeved top underneath) a jacket, and her converse. Her favourite clothes. How sentimental.

It was now five o'clock.

Two more hours.

In a shoulder bag she checked the gun Moriarty had given her yesterday, it was loaded, so she left it in her bag. She also packed her wallet. It was unlikely she would require anything else. But she hesitated, feeling as though she had forgotten something. Glancing behind her, she saw her notebook lying open on her desk. With a slow step, she walked over to it- last time she had left it there she had closed it, so why was it open? As she neared it, she saw writing on the next page; it read:

I know you don't see it, but I do like you Lucy. It's hard for me to say and I probably won't say it to your face or even mention that I wrote this, but I'm kind of glad you came to live with us. It's nice having someone of decent intelligence around, although John is an exception. Lestrade told me that doing a 'kind gesture' is enough so I guess this is the best I could think of for now. Sorry, in the process I had a look through your notebook and you write some mildly decent songs.

-Sherlock

Lucy brushed a tear away from her eye and chuckled to herself. It meant a lot, and she could tell that she had put effort into writing something so she was grateful. In his own way he had said something that really touched her, but it wasn't enough to stop her. On the next clean page though, she started writing:

To Sherlock and John,

First of all, I am so so sorry for everything. I'm sorry for the trouble and worry I've caused and I'm sorry that I've messed you around. Honestly, I don't deserve to know people as nice and as amazing as you two and I'm so lucky to have met you. But also... thank you. I know I didn't show it, but for the first time in ages I felt truly wanted and liked. You gave me a roof over my head and a new life even though both of you didn't know me. I wish it could have ended better. Please, don't think that this is your fault, this is mine and mine alone. I can't deal with it all, I can't deal with the knowledge that my parent's hate me; and even if it's not true, I will still never be able to get closure. I've made some lovely memories in our short time together, but I just can't cope anymore. Thank you for everything. You have no idea how much I love both of you.

All the best for the future.

Love,

Lucy.

She put the pen down and wiped the tears away with a shaky hand. Knowing that this was probably the biggest mistake of her life, she hated herself even more. But what other way was there? From the side, she grabbed her phone and put it in her pocket, but she stopped and turned around to face the notebook again. Turning back a page to Sherlock's note, she ripped it out and read it again with a small smile. Carefully, she folded it up and gently placed it into her other pocket. She put the notebook back on her note again, before taking a deep breath as she walked to her door.

For once, the house was silent. Opening her door a fraction, she could see that no-one was in the living room. Sneaking out with immense precision, she left her door partially open as she tiptoed to the top of the stairs. Lucy paused, and took a good look around the flat, taking in all the sights. The shot smiley face, the kitchen full of experiments, Sherlock's violin, and John's unused walking stick laying proudly on the side... it all made her smile.

"Goodbye Sherlock... goodbye John... goodbye Mrs Hudson." Lucy murmured in an almost silent voice. With a smile on her face, she ventured downstairs.

The cool air of London hit her face as she stepped outside. With a heavy feeling in her chest, she shut the door behind her. Before she started to walk off she glanced back at the door to 221B Baker Street... her home. Lucy bit her lip and allowed one more tear to escape. But then she squared her shoulders, nodded her goodbye and started to walk off down the road.

It was quarter past six.

Forty five minutes.

Lucy had hailed a cab after a refreshing few minute walk, and ordered the driver to take her to St Bart's Hospital. It wasn't a long drive, so she arrived there early, but she knew her way around it to avoid seeing people. After paying the taxi driver, she stepped outside and breathed a deep lungful of London air. It was easy finding her way around the multi story building, and even easier to avoid being spotted. Not many people were around the way she was going, so she reached the room that contained the stairs to the top of the rooftop quite quickly.

The heaviness in her chest seemed to grow with each step she took, the ache in her heart got stronger. She was having second thoughts, but she couldn't turn back now. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she would find out who the killer is if Jim was in a good mood. Which he would be, considering he won.

The morning sun hit her as she finally reached the top of the building. It was a beautiful day, and Lucy was glad it was. She turned her head and blinked in surprise as she saw Jim Moriarty standing, facing the building on the other side near the edge of the rooftop. With tentative steps, she walked towards him, her head held high even in defeat.

"Good morning Jim." She said, stopping a few metres away from the consulting criminal.

"Ah Lucy! Lovely to see you as always." He mocked in a cheerful tone as he turned to face her. Lucy inclined her head.

"I expect you've been waiting for this."

"You have no idea." He sang with a grin on his smug face. Lucy flinched as her mobile's ringtone sounded. Jim laughed.

"I bet that's Sherlock. Oh he's such a sweetie isn't he? Aren't you going to answer?"

"No, I wrote a note," Lucy shook her head as she glared at him.

"He must be worried," Moriarty said in mock pity.

"Like you would care."

"Maybe I do."

"In a sick way."

"I have to agree with you there." Moriarty said, "Well, enough chit chat I think it's time don't you? I won. I want my prize."

"Hang on," Lucy narrowed her eyes, "Aren't you going to tell me who the actual murderer is?"

"Murderers." Moriarty corrected gleefully, clearly getting a kick out of this, "Plural darling."

"There's two people?" Lucy's eyes widened in shock.

"No shit Sherlock," Moriarty laughed, "Ha, I like that saying. I should use it more often."

Police sirens sounded below. Oh great, Lucy groaned internally, they wouldn't have a lot of time left if the police were for them. If Sherlock was with them, how on earth would he know?

"Sounds like your little friends may be joining us soon." Jim muttered, but he seemed pleased by this fact, "Should be fun."

"Dammit," She said under her breath. But feeling time running out, she said: "So who are they? You owe me this at least."

"I reckon they'll be excited to see you," he murmured to himself, "I bet the feeling will be mutual."

"Just tell me!" Lucy yelled, getting frustrated with his taunting.

"How about I show you instead?" Jim sang.

"What and they will murder me as well?" She said sarcastically.

"Now, now, play nicely!"

"Fine. Who are they?"

With a triumphant grin on his face, Moriarty pressed something on his phone, clearly sending some kind of text message. Lucy cocked her head to the side slightly in question, but Jim just smiled back, clearly enjoying the after-game. The teenager heard the door to the rooftop open, and she saw Moriarty nod.

"Take a look for yourself," he said pointing behind her.

With a deep breath, Lucy slowly turned around to face the murderers. But she stared with wide eyes as she came face to face with them. She stumbled a step back, she wanted to scream but no sound would come out. How was it even possible? With a terrified, and very much confused voice, she said:

"Mum... dad?"