Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but by all the tea cups in England, he owns me!

A/N: To All-

This is the final chapter of PART II. As this is a TRILOGY, I will be back in TWO WEEKS with the first installment of PART III. I wish to thank everyone for staying with me thus far, and be prepared, PART III will a different beast than the previous two!

Thank you to all my readers, followers, reviewers, and fans. I will be back. And I'll be bringing the Big Bads, the Epic Loves, and the Major Angsts! Things are going to get evil, mean, ruthless, and all kinds of fucking sexy.

WARNING: This epilogue contains evil, lost loves, and pain.

Pay attention my dears, I'm leaving a trail of blood splatter to the villains of PART III!

Chapter 58

Epilogue of Part II

"Rest in Peace"

December 31st, 4:00 AM

221B Baker Street

Something was wrong. His mind was rebelling, casting him about, as if there was conflict between the rigid order he maintained and a wayward thought that struggled to free itself.

Sherlock gave in, and vowed to resolve the conflict from within. Let his mind free, to see what exactly was disturbing his equilibrium.

"I am always with you, Sherlock Holmes."

This dream was rare, a foreign place out of alignment with the glorious order of his Mind Palace. His cityscape was usually a place of rigid, perfect control, even in his dreams. To now be watching this moment in time while fully aware he was asleep, but unable to stop it or control it, was unnerving and captivating. His mind must need to release this moment in time, to show himself something vital, something imperative for him to know.

Sherlock stood on the cold, wet street, the wind harsh and driving the rain before it, stinging his cheeks and eyes. It was late autumn, and the fire brought to mind long ago memories of bonfires and warm cider, cold damp air and dark figures in the fading light.

Flames roared in front of him, the clinic collapsed and partially destroyed by the explosion that ripped through the front of the building. He was stuck, firmly encased by his own traitorous mind in this one spot.

He was dreaming. Dreaming of the night John was taken from him, and he nearly lost his life to a dangerous woman with a broken heart. This was the night that Jaime Moriarty, known then as only Death, had laid a trap for him and John. Sherlock, in his arrogance and bloodthirsty need for vengeance, blithely walked into it, and nearly died.

Sherlock saw Mary and her remaining men leave the clinic, an SUV roaring up to the curb, doors opening and slamming shut, tires squealing as the vehicle sped off. He heard the crackle, the hiss of the flames, and he knew that at this moment within the living memory, he was attempting to drag himself free from the ruins of the clinic before the flames consumed him.

For all that Mary hadn't meant for him to die, her need for revenge, her need to assuage the pain in her scorned heart, nearly took his life in zealous execution of Death's plans. He recalled crawling, dragging his broken and bleeding body across the floor, fires burning, flames scorching, with dead bodies littering the front lobby of the clinic.

The memory changed, and so did his perspective. He was removed from the relative comfort of the icy street, and he felt his illusionary body convulse, become battered, ravaged by pain, covered in blood dripping from his lips, hands burning, surrounded by savage heat. He became the memory in whole, consumed by it. Whatever he needed to see was within this torment, this moment….

Smoke. Heat from flames, so near. The air was burning. Sherlock was burning.

He rested, face in the blood dripping from his lips, shallow gulps of air chasing back the darkness. Sherlock reached again, feeling the faint brush of cold night air from the door. He was so close, so very close. He refused to die in here, refused to let John suffer for his failure. Mary had said it was too late to stop Death, but not too late to follow. And Sherlock would follow Death. To Hell if need be. He already felt the flames.

"Sherlock!" He barely registered the sound, so loud were the roar of the flames. He ignored it, and reached up again, grabbing at the floor, and pulled. The pain rode over his mind, flooding his eyes with black spots, red ribbons of light. He pushed back at the pain, breathed again, and pulled as hard as he could.

The brush of cold air on his hand was his reward, but it came too late. Sherlock heard the creaking, the rumble above him, as the roof was devoured by the fires. He knew it was too late, it would fall on him any moment.

Sherlock was falling, the heat and flames withdrawing from his awareness. He fought to stay awake. It was so hard; his body had failed him. Sherlock was failing John.

"Sherlock!" It came again, that sound. Too late for him to realize what it was, as the darkness came back for him, pulling him under. He didn't feel the hands grab him under the arms, lifting and dragging him from the floor. All he could feel was that small flame burning in his soul, the flame that hissed John's name in the shadows.

The cold blast of the clean air once they reached the street invigorated him, briefly letting his eyes open against the pain, his thoughts fading even as his body attempted to revive his mind. He saw a figure above him, and knew this living shadow in the orange light cast by the flames held him safely, securely. Strong hands under his arms dragged him farther from the flames, the fire hissing in displeasure at being denied his death.

The shadow laid him gently on his back, hovering over him. A hand white in the flickering shadows and flames reached out, and cradled his cheek, cool to the touch yet strangely warm. It was a struggle to breathe, his lungs unable to get enough air to remain awake. The cold autumn air filled him anyway, and gave him the strength to see the face of his savior, hovering over him.

"Not yet, Sherlock. She has yet to finish her move in the game, and it'll soon be your turn. Can't play if you're dead, now can you? And I can't deny her this, her game. It's a treasure, no, a pleasure, to see her fulfill her potential at last." The whisper fluttered out softly over his face, the living shadow so close to him now he could see the dark, wild eyes. His eyes. The accent was familiar, the Irishman speaking in a fluid rhythm that ripped at his sanity, with a lyrical quality that entranced him even now.

His shadow was a ghost, a demon resurrected from the ashes of the past. Sherlock felt the shock override his mind's last defenses, his body succumbing to the stress. He was shutting down, and fast, unable to comprehend, unable to survive the bitter terror, the brutal rage, the sickening pleasure at seeing his long-dead adversary alive and well.

Jim Moriarty stroked his cheek gently, his hair longer than Sherlock recalled, hanging over his eyes, yet not enough to obscure the tantalizing insanity that drew Sherlock as an addict to his poison of choice.

"You'll live. I hear them coming for you even now. If you survive my sister, perhaps you and I can pick back up where we left off. I'll be watching…"

Sherlock collapsed, the wet pavement under him, the cold wind, and that strong, oddly reassuring hand caressing his face the last things he felt before the darkness took him under.

"I am always with you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock snapped awake, his whole body seizing. He remembered now, and every single cell in his body was revolting, demanding he expel the vile, roiling sense of satisfaction and anger that was welling up from within. Sherlock leapt from his chair, waking John as the doctor slumbered in his armchair beside the now long dead fire.

Sherlock ran down the hall, and slapped open the bathroom door, making it to the toilet just in time to vomit violently into the bowl.

"Sherlock, love? You okay?" John asked him, entering the bathroom as Sherlock continued to get sick. John gently rubbed his back, easing the cramping muscles that made Sherlock heave again.

John stood, and filled a small cup from the sink, handing it over as Sherlock sat back on his lower legs, shaking violently. Sherlock rinsed his mouth, spitting into the toilet. He shakily got to his feet, John hovering, and he moved to the bedroom door. John helped him, and together they collapsed onto the bed.

John's warm hand brushed over his brow, and Sherlock let John tuck him in.

"You've got a fever, mild. I'll get some aspirin, and some more water. Be right back, love. Stay here."

Sherlock huddled under the covers, shaking, his whole body shocked numb and freezing by the revelation he experienced in his Mind Palace.

He saved my life.

Jim Moriarty is alive.

St Bart's Hospital

5:00 AM

Anthea's Suite

The tall stranger slipped easily into her room, his long shadow gliding behind him as he strode across the tiles, silent as a ghost. For that was what he was, a long dead ghost pulled from the past, cheered beyond measure that it was time. Time to stop hiding, to come home.

He stood over her supine form, elegant even as she slumbered. Her injuries were extensive, and he mourned the temporary loss of her beauty, her injuries marring the once perfect features. She was beautiful still, her rich brown hair tantalizing, and he reached out a long-fingered hand, gently carding through the soft tresses. He caught the faint scent of lilacs and some sort of fruit, and he smiled.

She was far more appealing than he was expecting, and he wondered what her eyes looked like. His intelligence on her said they were green, but surely so simple a descriptive could not be attributed to such a beauty as she. Surely she had eyes as green as the emerald depths of rainforests, as green as gems gracing the brow of the queen she reminded him of…. For she was a queen.

Mycroft's queen, to his king. And he was here to steal her from him. Mycroft was about to suffer a loss beyond his capacity to recover, and it would be the start of his undoing. He reached inside his long coat, and pulled out the syringe and vial. He measured out the necessary amount, and tapped the bubble free as he adjusted the dosage.

All must be perfect. She is perfect. Exactly what I need.

Suffer Mycroft, for she is now mine. I will come for you next, never fear. I have waited this long, I can wait as long as I need to… As long as is needed to bring you and everyone else to their knees.

I am coming for you, Mycroft.

The tall, elegant stranger injected Anthea's IV with the drug, smiling cheerfully as he did so. It would take effect soon, and he capped the syringe, taking one last look at her graceful visage as he backed away from the bed.

"I'll be back for you, my dear. Sleep, my love. Sleep, and forget," his voice was deep, a velvet rumble of upper class speech patterns and years spent abroad. He laughed as he stepped out into the empty hall, and he walked away. He heard the first off-beat beep from the monitor as he took the stairs, heading down to the guarded ward where John Woodley struggled to live.

Woodley's imminent death wasn't necessary for their plans, yet it dovetailed neatly with the tall stranger's desire to kill. Woodley had the gall to touch, to harm Violet Hunter, and Jaime Moriarty bled for her part in saving young Hunter. So he would satisfy his blood lust, and end Woodley.

His partner in tonight's lovely outing was waiting for him, the shorter man grinning at him in delight. The mania in his dark eyes danced along with his feet as they went down the stairs, the taller man smiling indulgently as his companion giggled in glee.

5:10 AM, Mycroft's Townhouse

Greg rolled over, blinking in dismay as he saw what time it was. The sun wasn't even up yet, and getting Mycroft to sleep had taken hours. He sat up in bed, and saw that Mycroft was still sleeping, undisturbed by the mobile chiming incessantly on the nightstand. Greg reached past the spymaster, intending to silence the mobile, but he saw the caller ID, and answered it instead.

"Hello?"

"Is this Mycroft Holmes? This is Nurse Cleary, from St Bart's."

"Mycroft is sleeping, what's going on? Is it Anthea? This is Detective Inspector Lestrade, tell me what's going on." His heart thumped hard in his chest, and Greg sat up completely, rubbing at his face.

"I regret to inform you sir, that at 5:02 this morning, Anthea passed. We attempted to revive her per Mr. Holmes's orders, but she was unresponsive. I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Oh God… no."

"Sir, I am sorry for your loss. We will be keeping her in her room until a new pathologist attends to her, as Dr Hooper has declined to perform her autopsy. If you wish to pay your last respects, we will wait for you to arrive."

"Of course…. I…. will we be there. Thank you." Greg dropped the mobile, the bright glow from the screen lighting up the blankets. Greg reached out with one arm, and rubbed Mycroft's shoulder.

"Greg? What's going on?" Mycroft grumbled at him, slowly rolling to his back. He reached out, and flipped on the small lamp on the nightstand. He looked at Greg, and Greg knew his expression said it all.

"Oh God, darling. I'm so sorry. That was Bart's; Anthea is gone." Greg's heart broke in two at the helpless and devastating expression than transformed Mycroft from the most powerful man in Britain to a man destroyed by loss.

5:20 AM

Violet stared at her mobile, the text from Greg glowing in the darkness of her room. She heard a soft chime come from downstairs, and within moments, she heard John stumbling down the hall. She stared at the text, and waited passively as John climbed the stairs, his tread as familiar to her as Sherlock's.

He knocked on the door, and carefully opened it. She watched as he stuck his head past the frame, and when he saw her awake, he crept in, gently closing the door behind him.

"I take it you got the same message from Greg?" John asked her gently, Violet nodded, and she clicked the Lock button, sending her mobile to sleep. Darkness came back to her room, and she bit her lip hard. A sob wracked her body, and she wrapped both arms over her head.

She felt the bed tip under John's weight as he gathered her in his arms, pulling her to his chest as her sobs wrenched free. Tears ran from her eyes, scalding hot down her cold face.

6:15 AM

St Bart's

Mycroft took his last look. She was free now of the bandages, the tubes and needles. She rested, sleeping now forever, at ease and free from pain. The fine lines that had stressed her lovely face were gone, a sign that even as she rested in the coma, pain had reached her. He ran his fingers through her hair one last time, touched her soft cheek, the pink blush of her lips.

Anthea was dead, gone now this hour past. The second he awoke at Greg's touch, his heart knew that she was gone. And with her she took a piece of his soul. He lived, he breathed, and he functioned only because Gregory was at his side, lending him voiceless support and strength.

"Mr. Holmes?"

It was the nurse, lurking in the doorway of Anthea's room, trying again to get his attention. They wanted to take her away, put her in the cold and lonely morgue, cut her open, and tear her to pieces.

"No." He shocked even himself at the vehemence and venom in that one word.

"Sir?"

"No. No autopsy. We all know why she died. How she died. You'll not destroy what's left of her in a prurient search for the exact piece of her that failed. I said NO."

"Mr. Holmes, it is our policy that we perform an autopsy…."

He finally lifted his gaze from Anthea's face, and skewered the nurse where she stood in the hallway. She stumbled back a step, hand at her throat, her face gone white at the rage he let seep past his mask. She looked for reinforcements, as if expecting him to leap across his angel and tear her apart. Gregory shifted on his feet, his hand holding Mycroft's securely, grounding him.

"Um… I'll explain the situation to the administrator, sir, and the new pathologist. I'll be right back." The nurse ran down the hall, her heels clacking loudly on the tiles.

A new shadow moved to the doorway, and Mycroft returned his attention to Anthea as Sally Donovan carefully entered the room. Greg squeezed his hand, before moving to his sergeant and speaking quietly.

Anthea is dead.

He heard snippets of their conversation, mentions of Dr Hooper abstaining from performing an autopsy on Anthea, something about how Sally was feeling, and then a soft whisper that snagged his attention in full.

"Say that again," Mycroft demanded, his voice as cold as it ever was as the Iceman. Sergeant Donovan froze, and her eyes pleaded with Gregory to save her from Mycroft's sole attention.

"Mycroft, John Woodley is dead. He died about fifteen minutes after…. He died about an hour ago. Blood clots or something." Gregory slowly returned to his side, caution in every movement.

Mycroft shook hard, his whole body seizing in a wild rush of joy and bitter satisfaction that Anthea's killer was dead now at last. She was past the reach of pain, and so was Woodley, yet not one part of him found it in him to regret the drug lord's passing. If he hadn't died on his own, Mycroft would have finished him on his own, very messily, with a blunt scalpel and a bone saw. Woodley dying on his own freed Mycroft from having to bribe and dispose of too many witnesses, and he could now focus on her. On Anthea.

"Good. That's good. Let him burn to ash, and be forgotten by all."

Anthea is dead.

Mycroft breathed past his chaotic emotions, and finally, at last, let go. The tears came now, fast and hard. They ripped from his chest, poured from his eyes, tore his carefully constructed façade of cold indifference to shreds. He was grief, and unfulfilled promise. The love he might have shared with Anthea was now naught but a wasted moment in time, and had Gregory not taken a chance on them both, Mycroft knew without a single doubt that Anthea would have been his in all ways. She was his partner, and it took her departure from his life to ram home just how deeply he loved her.

A greater love won the battle for his heart, yet the lesser love had been a vital and vibrant part of his life, and its loss was crippling.

Mycroft reached out blindly, and Gregory was there, his unselfish support shoring him up, as grief and anger, pain and loss rushed over him in a wave he couldn't escape.

Jan. 1st, 2:30 AM

St Bart's… The Morgue.

"I promised you I would be back, my love. Shush now, don't be frightened. Soon the pain will be gone, and you can rest in peace. I'll be there, every moment, and you'll find no better companion in the months to come."

The stranger who visited her once before was back, whispering lovingly to her, his voice so familiar. He sounded like someone she knew, someone she cared for deeply. She drifted, anchorless in the sea of pain and confusion. She heard him, yet couldn't respond. She was so tired, and the pain wouldn't let her go. Her whole body hurt, and there was something wrong with her eyes. She couldn't open them, she couldn't see. She was so cold, and the powerful voice chased her, relentless, goading her thoughts as she struggled inside a body rendered useless.

"Is she ready to go? I'd rather not be here if my precocious ex-girlfriend decides to return and pay her last respects." The accent was familiar, the new voice even more so, yet she was too far removed from her own mind that she couldn't place him. "Though that would be rather exciting, wouldn't it? Maybe I should pay her a visit while I'm in town. Heard she's single now, might try my hand again."

"Are you attempting to make me jealous, my dear boy? You know how I feel about your flights of fancy. Though I do appreciate your forays into the romantic realm, always entertaining when the screaming starts."

"I know that's your favorite part… the screams…"

A sickly ingratiating giggle filled the emptiness of the cold room, and a deep chuckle answered.

"I have her now, my dear boy. It's your turn….. I know you won't disappoint me."

"Have I ever?" Asked the lyrical voice, somehow seeming younger than the profoundly provocative owner of that rich chuckle, while still sounding dangerous, and somehow vicious.

"Only once, and you've been making it up to me ever since…"

"And I keep telling you, I let him win on purpose…"

She drifted in the grey abyss as her body was moved, gently lifted and carted about. A strong, warm chest cradled her, arms like steel bands lifting her, holding her tenderly. She found a strange comfort in his embrace, the sensation akin to one she'd felt only once before. She tried to recall that long ago embrace, yet the man who held her distracted her wayward thoughts. She smelled the iron bite of blood and freshly chipped wood, smoke and seawater.

January 2nd, 11:00 PM

Scotland Yard Processing Center, Inmate Intake Holding Cells

Getting in was easy, child's play. In fact, he felt like a child now, skipping slightly on his toes, his suit straining the tiniest amount across his lithe shoulders as he danced to a tune only he could hear. Well, if he had ever had the luxury of being a child in truth he couldn't remember it now, and so he spun the illusion of what it would be like for himself as he perused the cells that lined the wall to his left. The hall was long, the old ceramic tiles gone a sickly green with age, polished by the traffic of countless bound men and women, heads hung low in despair, or raging against the unfairness of it all.

He relished in the whispers of agony and anger, and he was glad his older companion was not present on this little side trip of his, as he would not appreciate the frivolity with which he was treating this task.

He was short compared to most men, yet nothing in his frame suggested fragility. He was lean, wiry, yet his face had a boyish air to it, even with the lurking madness that flashed in his dark eyes, reminiscent of lightning striking within ink black thunderclouds. His dark brown hair was wavy, thick, and longer than he usually kept it, but the appraising looks he got from people as he passed indicated that it was worth keeping that long, if merely to tickle his vanity.

The hall was dark, but for the emergency lights that cast off a dull glow every five yards or so, leaving the inhabitants of the cells a margin of darkness in which to attempt sleep. The scent of unwashed bodies, the odor heightened by fear, stress, and anger clung to every surface, and permeated the jailhouse from lobby to shitters.

He giggled, the faint sound traveling far in the subdued environment, the scattered few prisoners instinctively aware, on some deep level, that danger walked among them. Even the most brutal of them averted their eyes as he passed, a devil dressed in a fine, expensive suit tailored exactly to his sculpted frame.

"Where oh where can you be, oh Peter…. Peter, dear, don't be shy….." his whisper snuck through the bars of the cells, and the searcher paused at the one he wanted, the cells on either side barren of occupants. He would have this conversation in private, and all the better for it.

He placed both hands on the bars of the cell, at head height, and leaned forward, the dim lights of the hall lamps providing just enough illumination for him to see the frail creature huddled on the floor beside the cell's lone bench.

"Helloooo, Peter." The searcher said, his voice full of mischief and malice. "Care to have a visit with me?"

"You're dead," came the sniveling reply, as Peter lifted his head from his skeletal arms, dirty face reflecting his disbelief at seeing the man before him. "I'm high and seeing things."

"Oh, Peter. I am indeed dead. But then, sooo many people are these days. Everyone keeps dying, and coming back to life, do they not? I did it, my companion did it, and even the Great Detective did it! It's all the rage now, haven't you heard?"

His giggle spread out like a fog through the bars, inescapable. It was not childish at all, but infested by purest mania. He snickered as Peter reacted to it, shrinking back against the bench, eyes widening as doubt fled, and he truly believed that the searcher was real, and not the remnants of Winter's Night in his veins.

"What…. What do you want from me, sir?" Peter dared to ask, and the searcher caught the fleeting hope in the faded eyes of the junkie that all this meant he would at last be free, his body left to grow cold on the unforgiving tiles of his cell.

"Tell me of her," the searcher snapped, a fierce pride burning in those clipped words. "And do not lie, and say you don't know who I'm speaking of."

Peter gulped, and the searcher saw in him the second he capitulated, and gave himself over to a new master. The searcher grinned, and waited.

"She came out of the air like a fury, sir. One of those old tales of women warriors, taking men on the battlefield. She killed Woodley's men like they were nothing, every action was effortless. She terrified me."

"As she has many a man. Go on."

"She beat Woodley down to red meat, left him on the floor for Scotland Yard to pick up."

"That's not all Peter. I see you hesitating to tell me something. Must I join you in there, and help you find your courage?"

"Okay! Okay! She got shot!"

"WHO SHOT HER?" The searcher shouted, his polite yet manic attitude evaporating, spittle flying from his lips, eyes flashing with that hidden lighting. The cells and their occupants blinked, and froze, awaiting the outcome from within Peter's cell.

The scent of urine reached the searcher, and he curled his lip in distaste as Peter pissed himself in terror. He was about to open the cell and go in there, when Peter's helpless answer reached him through the shadows.

"She killed the men who tried to kill her. She killed them as they bore down on her and Violet Hunter, even as she bled out on the floor. I saw the whole thing, and if I hadn't, I still wouldn't believe it."

"She has killed many men, what's so unbelievable about it?" The searcher returned to his volatile polite façade, a small smile on his lips.

"She…. She stepped in front of Violet Hunter, and took the shots meant for her. She sacrificed herself. I know who she is, I know who you are, and that's why I don't believe it."

The searcher stepped back from the bars, confusion clouding his handsome face. He tilted his head to the side, eyes far away, with his thoughts spinning quickly. As suddenly as he retreated from the world, he was back, eyes pinning Peter to the floor of the cell. He grinned, a feral expression full of malice.

"This is an unexpected twist, Peter. Many thanks for explaining. I appreciate the hospitality, though you may want to clean up your mess before you get more company." The searcher made to leave, plucking at his cufflinks, straightening out his sleeves.

"You're not going to…." Peter let his voice fade away, the lost light of his eyes dimming.

"You shall live, Peter. I have uses for you yet. Stay here, cooperate, and tell them nothing." The searcher stressed that last word, hissing it through his teeth. "I shall tell you when to speak, and you will not suffer for obeying me."

"Yes, Master."

"I don't think I'll ever tire hearing that from you, how lovely. Laters!"

January 3rd

Boxgrove, West Sussex

Sherlock walked along the cold pathway, John at his side, both of them dressed somberly in dark suits, fitting the dull atmosphere of the cemetery. Violet walked up ahead between Mycroft and Lestrade, her long black dress at odds with her usually vivacious personality.

Molly Hooper and Sally Donovan had already left, wary of Mycroft's tumultuous aura, as if the spymaster was a heartbeat from collapse or manic rage. Only Violet and Lestrade seemed immune to Mycroft's disdain, the spymaster letting them both near in a way that left Sherlock and John on the outside.

The ceremony was short, and to the point, Anthea's remains reduced to ash, interred in her hometown. Mycroft remained silent through it all, not a single emotion leaking past his iron-clad control. Sherlock had made one attempt to approach his brother, only to be rebuffed politely, as if a stranger.

Sherlock saw in Mycroft the need to blame someone for her death, and as Woodley was past punishment, it was Sherlock who took the full force of Mycroft's bitterness and anger. Lestrade tried to buffer the brothers, yet Sherlock knew his brother well, and stepped back, returning to John's side without a word.

"He'll come around, love. Give him time. It's only been a few days." John tried to reassure him, and Sherlock tugged him closer, under his arm as they returned to the waiting limos.

"I'll not hold my breath waiting for that eventuality, John. He blames me, and by extension you, for her passing. We were there after all, regardless of the attempt on your life at the time. So we shall suffer his absence, which is preferable to his wrath. If not for Violet and Lestrade, I think we'd both be in Eastern Europe at the moment."

"What? There's no way he'd do that, you're his brother. I know he loves you, Sherlock."

"He loved her more."

Speaking that truth was as brutal as ripping away a bandage, and Sherlock pondered why it hurt to such a degree. He knew this day would come, eventually. That the day would arrive that Mycroft would turn from him, and let their tenuous connection go, regardless of the cause, be it real, or illusionary. He knew Mycroft loved him, and he also knew that love could be soured to become hate. The longer Mycroft nurtured the pain in his heart, and the blame he harbored for Sherlock, the more likely it was that his remaining brother would come to hate him.

John had no reply, and Sherlock buried his face in the soft hair behind his doctor's ear, breathing in his scent. John was all he needed, and he felt the ring on his finger, a constant reminder that no matter how dark life became, how deeply buried one may be beneath pain and loss, nothing stayed the same. Eventually the sun came out, the earth warmed, the wind rose in the west and pushed away the clouds.

"Let's go home, John. Mrs. Hudson is waiting on us, presumably with tea and biscuits."

"She's been feeding us a lot, hasn't she? Poor woman has been out of sorts since you gave Bear back to Carruthers and Little Vincent." John hugged him around the waist, offering comfort.

He'd sent for Bear on New Year's Eve, the car service rather put out to be fetching a massive beast of a dog on the year's biggest party night. Just yesterday Sherlock and John had reunited Bear with his tiny master, the little boy overjoyed to see his 'puppy'. Bear was beside himself, so happy he knocked over Carruthers, sat on Vincent, and licked the boy senseless as he giggled happily.

"I'm surprised you gave him back. I was certain you were going to keep Bear."

Sherlock was quiet, and he slowed their pace. The others pulled ahead, and Sherlock sighed as the rest of his family took a turn on the path, disappearing from sight.

"A long time ago, when I was a child, I had a dog named Redbeard. He was my must loyal companion, and dearest friend. I loved him more than anything, and the greatest loss of my childhood was the day he died. Of course I gave Bear back to Vincent."

"I saw a picture of you and a setter pup in your old room. Was that Redbeard?"

"Yes, that was him." Sherlock felt his heart give a faint twinge in pain, thinking of his first and truest friend, the feel of silky fur under his hand, the soft touch of a tongue joyfully giving him kisses. Redbeard walked along with them even know, and Sherlock smiled as his mind provided the ghost image of his Irish Setter darting among the gravestones of the cemetery, tail high and flagging, and his nose buried in the grass as he gamboled about.

Sherlock and John continued along the path, sharing warmth between them as a bitter winter rain began to fall. It was light, yet cold, and soon would turn to snow. Sherlock let the vision of Redbeard fade, the comfort he got from that momentary lapse into sentiment worth the nagging doubt at allowing himself that weakness.

The first flakes fell as they cleared the final boundaries of the cemetery, their limo purring at the curb. The other was long gone, another sign of the separation between Sherlock and his brother. He took it in stride, mindful of John's snort of anger at Mycroft's callous behavior.

Sherlock gathered John to his side as they settled back on the lush leather seats, and the powerful rumble of the limo was the only sound as they left Boxgrove Cemetery behind.

It was a long drive back to London, and Sherlock watched as the streets flashed by outside his window. He saw the lives of the people who existed for a second before being replaced by another view, and he idly catalogued and analyzed the world they passed as they traveled north.

He had yet to share his epiphany of Moriarty's continued existence with the good doctor. The mourning of the last few days was a welcome respite from the overwhelming knowledge crowding his mind, and every part of him ached to tell John even now. His niece and his lover steadfastly avoided Violet and Mary's concerns over the location of Moriarty's 'body', leaving Sherlock to deal with it for the current time, especially after Anthea's passing. He would wait before discussing it with his lover, savoring these last few peaceful hours together, as they all mourned the passing of a singular, brave soul. Once they returned to life on Baker Street, and their hearts given a rest, only then would Sherlock tell John that Moriarty was alive.

An interminable amount of time passed before John stirred at his side, the doctor blinking sleepily up at him. The soothing motions of the suspension was lulling the good doctor to sleep, and Sherlock smiled at him as John gave up the battle with his exhaustion. John spent the last three days comforting Violet, the young hacker refusing to let John go, her grief as deep and abiding as Mycroft's.

Just before sleep took him, John whispered to Sherlock in the soft quiet that filled the rear of the limo.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"I love you, Dr. John Watson."

End of Part II

Part III will begin with the next chapter.

Posting in two weeks.

... All families contain a shadow, a hint of malice and evil. Whether we acknowledge it or not, evil is always with us.