Okay, the very last chapter of this fic. There wont be a epilogue or sequel. I hope you enjoyed it. I'm mainly pleased with how it turned out, but there are places I'm not happy with. Enjoy!

Mycroft had spent the whole morning getting his whole team to go through every surveillance tape that showed recordings from twelve o'clock to two o'clock. Once he found out about Moriarty, he had dug and dug into he found little snippets of information. So he knew something about the man he was facing. He was very similar to Sherlock in many way.

So he waited for his team to bring in results. And at two o-clock in the afternoon, twenty hour hours after Sherlock had been kidnapped, they struck gold.

A video of a large, out of use warehouse. The camera only showed the empty car park, and an indistinct door. At the far edge of the camera's screen, the door opened, and two men carried a third, tall, pale man through the doorway. It was barely ten minutes after that that the same procedure was carried out, but this time was Dr. Watson.

Mycroft called his very special team. The one he used for extra delicate missions, and then told Anthea to get his car ready.

Sherlock said nothing as he was pulled to his feet by two thugs. Did nothing as he was hauled from the room. John watched them go, a cold shiver of foreboding creeping up his spine. He had thought that he would be the one to be killed, and Sherlock would be released.

Moriarty thought that Sherlock would fall apart. But John thought differently. He dared to hope that the detective would miss him. Maybe even mourn him. But become incapable of doing anything? Definitely not. Moriarty was wrong.

It didn't seem good however that Sherlock had been the one taken. So he sat in silence, a hundred fearful thoughts running over his mind.

The minutes ticked by, and nothing happened. Not a sound was to be heard.

John was really beginning to wonder what Moriarty was playing at, when the door burst open, and Sherlock appeared.

John stared at him.

"Get up. Quick!" Sherlock snapped, grabbing his arm a hauling him to his feet.

John followed him, more out of habit than anything, trying to figure out what had happened.

Sherlock looked unharmed. And there was no alarm being raised. Just deathly silence except for Sherlock's panting breath.

"What happened?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, clearly saying 'shut up'. They ran along a corridor, up a flight of stairs and through another corridor. Sherlock would occasionally pause for a heartbeat, looking around, evidently trying to work out which way they had to go. Finally, they hurried through a doorway, and into a huge warehouse, full of creates, dim and empty. A little light filtered through impossibly grubby windows.

They hurried across, toward a huge doorway.

Then John stopped.

"Sh-Sherlock." said whispered, pointing at the detective.

Sherlock stared at him, face frozen. Playing across his face was a horribly familiar red dot. A few moments later, one appeared on John's chest.

"Got you!" Moriarty's singsong voice echoed from somewhere.

Sherlock closed his eyes, mouth clenching.

Moriarty appeared from a patch of creates, hands in his pockets, sauntering over.

"Well. This certainly reminds me of something." he said, eyes cold and hard.

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Except this time, you wont escape."

Sherlock felt a feeling he had never experienced. Total despair. He knew in that split second that there was no way they could escape by themselves. Moriarty had them. He had been a fool to think he had escaped. It had all been just that little bit too easy. Moriarty had got him.

So he did the only thing he could, and stood passively, awaiting his fate. Which would be death. Moriarty wouldn't want to risk him escaping again. He was to dangerous.

Sherlock vaguely wondered if anybody would care. John wouldn't, because he would be dead too. Mycroft would know, but whether he would care or not was a totally different matter. Lestrade might never learn. To him, they could have just disappeared of the face of the earth, and he would never know the truth. Mrs. Hudson would be told he had been killed. Murdered. And she would probably care. Molly wouldn't ever learn. Mycroft wouldn't tell her, and Lestrade couldn't.

After going over this short list, Sherlock felt that nothing mattered. So he stared steadily at Moriarty. He wasn't scared.

"It will be sad, not to have an equal adversary." commented Moriarty, tipping his head.

"Poor you." Sherlock drawled.

"But it's been good fun while it lasted, hmm?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Because, yes, when it started, it had been fun. Something new, something interesting. But his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"Get on with it Moriarty." he snapped.

The morbid amusement left Moriarty's eyes.

"Very well." he said, voice cold as stone.

Sherlock knew by the deep breath John drew that he had closed his eyes. But he didn't, looking his nemesis in the eyes. And it was only because of this that he saw a small red dot appear on Moriarty's forehead. He didn't show his surprise, just waited for either Moriarty or he to drop dead.

It was Moriarty that died. The bullet struck his forehead, the light left his eyes, and he crumpled to the floor.

Sherlock turned his eyes away, letting out a shaky breath. Moriarty was dead. Gone forever.

The next few hours passed as a blur. Mycroft and his men appearing from behind the creates after taking over Moriarty's snipers. He and John been hustled outside where an ambulance waited. Those ridiculous orange blankets. Mycroft going on about many unequally interesting topics. And finally being shipped home in Mycroft's black car.

Once they got home, Sherlock threw himself on the sofa. Not sure how he felt. John had barely said a word, and stood for a moment, before going of to make a cup of tea.

A few minutes later he reappeared, handing a cup to Sherlock who took it without complaint. Then he sat down and watched the consulting detective closely.

"He's gone Sherlock." he said finally, sipping at his tea.

"I know." said Sherlock, voice without a drop of emotion.

"Are you... Sad?" asked John, obviously not knowing how to phrase his question.

Sherlock understood what he meant though.

"No." he said.

And it was true. Before the pool thing, he would have been... disappointed if Moriarty were killed. Because he knew what it was like to be bored. He knew how to play a game. But after that, it had all changed. Moriarty wasn't going to play fair.

But then again, Sherlock didn't feel any elation at the death of Moriarty. Just felt strange. Wiped of any feeling at all.

"Well, I for one am pleased that there is one less psychopath running around, intent on killing us." said John, smiling slightly.

Sherlock smiled a little too.

The End

Finished! I really hope you enjoyed it, and considered it worth reading (= I'd just like to thank SymmetryGirl for reviewing so often. Sparrow33 for making me smile for hours. And Rivers of Angelic Roses for the best review (= And many thanks to everybody else who reviewed, they mean an awful lot to me.

I've currently got another Sherlock Fic on the go, so if you check it out, that'd be great! Along with a drabble. Enjoy Sherlock tonight, if your British :D I'm really looking forward to it.