Sherlock jumped out of the cab, throwing a wad of cash at the driver. He had asked Mycroft to pay all of his cabs in advance for the next year so he wouldn't have to bother with paying when he was in a hurry, but the older brother refused, saying that he didn't have that kind of power (which, of course, was a lie). Sherlock now walked briskly toward the old, run down house, eyes fixed upon then cracked door that was falling off its rusty hinges. When he reached the door he simply kicked it down rather than bothering with forcing it open. He was immediately surprised by the interior of the house. It was not two stories as it appeared on the outside but rather one big room with a high ceiling. The room was furnished with expensive blue sofas and arm chairs along with silver tapestries and curtains which hung lazily across the windows. The entire left wall was covered in tall bookshelves that held old dusty biographies of people long since dead. On the right wall however, there was nothing but a stone fireplace, which happen to be lit with a soft, crackling fire. In front of the fire was one of the many blue armchairs. The whole house gave a feeling of sophistication, which, as Sherlock knew, fit the man who owned it perfectly.
"I rather liked that door," said a soft voice. A dark haired man rose from the chair in front of the fireplace. He walked gracefully up to the detective, his eyes piercing Sherlock's in a way that would send a shiver down any man's spine.
Except Sherlock's. Never Sherlock's.
He grinned slightly to himself. The game was not, in fact, over. It was only beginning.
He could tear everything down. Watch it burn. But why would he destroy something so beautiful? What would be the point in ripping apart his greatest creation?
"Oh how I've missed you," Moriarty whispered softly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly.
"You know why I'm here," Sherlock said, not breaking eye contact.
"The case files? No, we both know that's not really what you came for at all, is it?" Moriarty said, still whispering. "You came for me! I must say, I'm a flattered, really. I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten about me."
If only you knew.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and began walking around the room, deducing.
Maybe it's time you knew.
He almost immediately found his case file in a box beside one of the couches. He bent down to pick them up only stand back up again, turning around.
"You don't care about the case files. You could find out anything you wanted about any of my cases with the snap of your fingers. So why take mine?" Sherlock asked, pressing his hands together tightly. Moriarty laughed, shaking his head.
"You really don't know," he mumbled in disbelief.
"Know what?"
"You have disappointed me yet again," he said louder now.
Burn.
"These aren't your case files. They never were. They aren't even your cases."
Sherlock's mind went blank.
"I don't-," Sherlock began to say. Moriarty laughed manically, eyes gleaming.
Yes.
"I CREATED YOU AND EVERY CASE YOU EVERY HAD! I GAVE YOU YOUR NAME, I GAVE YOU YOUR FAME," Moriarty almost screamed. "AND MOST IMPORTANTLY – I. GAVE. YOU. JOHN."
Oh, the blood on his hands.
Sherlock heard Moriarty's words from far away. He shut out his thoughts and his deductions for the first time in his life. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. Then everything was black.
Author's note: Sorry for any typos or whatever. I am half asleep but wanted to finish this so I will edit when I am more rested. Also, sorry again for the late update.