This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes...again

- The Doors

The air seemed to fall still. Moriarty didn't move – he didn't even seem to be breathing – he simply stared vacantly at John, almost as if he was looking through him and at the bare wall behind his head. He was clad in a dark blue suit, his feet were shoeless and as he padded across the room John could hear the sound of his socks softly swishing against the concrete. He stopped about a meter away and sat down cross legged on the floor. This close, John could clearly see his face and the dark shadows that fell across his cheeks seemed to swallow up his eyes making them look like two black chasms.

"I had hoped," Moriarty said as he played with the cuff of his suit jacket, "that you would have gotten the hint by now."

When he didn't elaborate John asked, "What hint?"

"That Sherlock Holmes is not a man that you should have as an acquaintance – let alone a close friend." Moriarty cocked his head like a quizzical puppy, "Why didn't you pack up and leave after that little incident at the swimming pool?"

John's mouth was extremely dry but he didn't want to give Moriarty the satisfaction of seeing him swallow, "I'm loyal."

Moriarty snorted, "Boring." He said in a sing song voice, "Loyalty isn't an attribute, it's a weakness. Martyrs are loyal, victors are selfish. If you took a page out of our dear Sherlock's book then you wouldn't be sitting in a windmill being used as leverage right now. But then where would you be? Who is John Watson without his Sherlock? Would you simply cease to matter?" Moriarty asked as he pouted at John in mock sympathy.

"Don't worry; I'm not going to kill him."Moriarty said as he stroked John's knee, "I'm going to get him to kill you." He whispered as he removed his hand and stood up.

John felt his skin grow clammy and suddenly the feeling of his clothes pressing against his body became sickeningly restrictive and claustrophobic.

"But I don't want to ruin the surprise until Sherlock gets here," Moriarty said as he peered out of one of the windows, "I've been planning this for a while and I don't want to lessen the drama by revealing to you what's going to happen. I want to see both of your faces; I've even invested in one of these."

Moriarty pulled out a small camcorder from inside his suit jacket. He must have pressed a button because suddenly the thing came to life and cast a blob of bright light across his face.

"Let me just zoom in." He said as he pointed the camera at John, "This can be my pre-performance recording. I'm going to edit it when all of this is done." He said as he slowly side-stepped his way around the room, taking in both John and Irene from different angles, "I'll add some emotive music and some special effects. It's going to be amazing." He sang with glee, "I'll send a copy to Sherlock so that he can play it over and over and over again. Maybe I'll get a film deal, a big blockbuster production... shame there won't be a sequel." He said with a sigh before he turned off the camcorder and put it back in his pocket.

John watched as Moriarty walked over and sat himself next to Irene – who had been staring impassively at the ceiling. He rested his head against one of the wooden beams that ran down the wall and laid his legs over hers, almost like she was some sort of cushion.

"Do you know the best bit... well, there are many best bits but I can't tell you about all of them yet can I? Otherwise I'd ruin the surprise, but the best bit as thus far is that Sherlock actually thinks that he's winning. He thinks that he's going to ride in here and outsmart me and escape with both you and Irene in tow. It would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic." Moriarty said almost sadly as he pulled out an apple from his trouser pocket and began buffing it against his knee.

No one spoke for a few moments and all that broke the silence was the sound of Moriarty munching on his apple. John watched as Moriarty stared intently at Irene.

"Do you want a bite?" He asked as he held the apple to her lips.

Irene continued to stare up at the ceiling although John could see her lips twitch slightly towards the piece of fruit.

"Bless her," Moriarty said as he took the apple away, "I haven't really been feeding her very much, I'm a bit of a careless host." He said conspiratorially to John, "I had a rabbit as a child but I constantly forgot to feed it or give it water. I was a forgetful child. I forgot to bring it's hutch inside when the weather got colder and so it froze to death. Are you cold Irene?"

Irene made no move to suggest that she had heard him instead she just continued to stare up into the darkened recesses of the roof.

Something pinged and John watched as Moriarty bit down on the remaining apple to keep it in his mouth and used his – now free hands – to pull out his phone and scroll through his messages.

"Oh good," He said around the apple. He looked up at John, the light from the phone's screen made his eyes shine with excitement, "Sherlock's here." He bounced up off the floor and threw the half eaten apple out of the window, "I was hoping that he'd arrive at the break of dawn. The lighting would have been better."

Moriarty looked out at the blackened night sky disappointedly before he reached into the waistband of his trousers and pulled out a gun, "Get up." He said to both Irene and John.

When neither of them moved he rolled his eyes in exasperation, "Don't be difficult, I've been waiting for this for months and now the night has finally arrived I don't want either of you to spoil it by being defiant." Moriarty approached John, the gun – which had been pointed at his head – slowly travelled down to point in the direction of John's stomach,

"Dr Watson how painful is a gunshot wound to the abdomen?"

John clenched his jaw to prevent it from trembling, "I wouldn't know, I got shot in my leg."

Moriarty stared at him vacantly, almost as if he were dreaming, "Would you like to find out?" John watched as Moriarty's finger curled around the trigger, his fingernail starting to turn white from the pressure of pushing down...

"Are we planning on leaving any time soon?" Irene asked as she unsteadily got to her feet. She swayed slightly – no doubt from a combination of hunger and the cold. She held her hand out to John but kept her eyes on Moriarty, "Shall we?"

Moriarty stared at her for a few seconds before he smiled and gestured with the gun towards the open door,

"After you."

John reached up and took Irene's hand. He hadn't realised that his legs were shaking until he got to his feet and found it almost impossible to stand. It was the adrenaline, he could feel it, as cold as ice, running down the length of his spine and pumping into his organs. Whether it was because she was also finding it hard to stand – or because she knew that John wouldn't be able to make the journey alone – Irene linked her arm with John's as they made it out of the room.

After a rather laborious climb down an incredibly narrow staircase, John and Irene found themselves in another dark room facing another locked door.

"Pull the deadbolts back and open it." Moriarty instructed from somewhere close behind John.

Irene did as he said and, with a hand that only trembled slightly; she reached up, slid the deadbolts out of the locks and flung the door open.

The freezing night air hit their faces and John felt both himself and Irene shiver simultaneously. All that lay before them was a large empty field, with a border of black trees that boxed them in. It was too dark to see very far but John thought that he could see the faint outline of two figures standing a little way off in the distance.

"Excuse me," Moriarty said almost bashfully as he nudged his way towards the wall, "I forgot to turn on the lights." Something clicked and suddenly ten massive stadium lights, that encircled the area, came to life. The light was blinding and it completely illuminated the field and the surrounding trees.

"Why don't you wave?" Moriarty asked as he waved enthusiastically at the two men who were standing a dozen or so meters away from the windmill. Even though he was too far away to see clearly, John could tell by the trademark hair and coat that Sherlock was one of the men.

A light nudge at the small of his back – no doubt from the tip of a gun – sent both John and Irene into the night. The grass was frozen solid and powered white with frost, it crunched beneath their feet as they wandered closer to the centre of the field. John quickly realised that the man standing next to Sherlock – who had his hands on Sherlock and was holding a gun to the left side of his temple – was the same sadistic bastard who had ambushed John in the alleyway. But John wasn't paying much attention to him. He was staring at Sherlock.

He watched as Sherlock's eyes quickly scanned him from head to toe – do doubt looking for signs of injury or damage – his eyes rested briefly on the spot where John and Irene's arms were interlinked before moving on to scan John's chest and shoulder and… Sherlock was looking at everywhere apart from John's eyes.

Was he still angry about the argument? About John smashing the violin? Surely he couldn't be so petty as to actually be sulking now when there was a real likelihood that John was going to die... but then maybe that was the reason. Maybe Sherlock couldn't look him in the eye without betraying the fact that he knew that it was all over and that there was nothing that he could do to save John.

"Sherlock." John said in desperation.

His eyes finally found John's. They stared at each other for what felt like an age and the longer their eyes remained locked the calmer John became. Everything was okay, Sherlock had a plan – John could see it in the way his irises seemed to glow with excitement. A bad hand might have been dealt but the game wasn't over yet and if John hadn't felt so tired or so cold or so frightened he would have jumped for joy.

"I must say Sherlock," Moriarty said, effectively forcing Sherlock to break eye contact with John, "You've been incredibly slow these past few months. I left you so many clues, gave you ample opportunity to work out what was going on but you just... didn't... quite... twig. I should have just sent you a map. What was it that finally gave me away?"

Sherlock remained silent for a few seconds before he said, "There were traces of Agrostemma Githago on the feet and knees of all the victims."

"Ah yes, I'm glad you picked up on that, it took me ages to grow all those flowers." Moriarty said as he slowly circled Sherlock. He stopped in front of him and just stared unblinkingly at his face, "Here," he said as he handed the camcorder to the man by Sherlock's side, "Start recording this."

The man removed his hold from Sherlock's arm and pulled the gun away from his head so that he could turn on the camcorder and manipulate it with two hands. "Action!" He said as he pressed a button and the machine pinged to life.

Moriarty took a few steps back from Sherlock and stood in between John and Irene. He cupped the backs of their heads with his hands and began stroking their hair softly,

"You're a fan of games aren't you Sherlock? Have you ever heard of the card game called Seven Devils?"

"Do you really want me to answer or are you just employing rhetoric to increase the dramatic tension of your little monologue."

Moriarty's soft strokes turned savage and he roughly yanked both Irene and John's heads back, making them hiss loudly in pain, "Don't. Test. Me. Sherlock." He said staccato, "Otherwise I shall rip off both of their heads and the game will be over before it's even had a chance to begin."

John could see Sherlock's jaw clench shut.

"Good boy," Moriarty cooed as he went back to softly stroking the back of John and Irene's heads, "The wonderful thing about Seven Devils is that there's no re-deal, no second chances. If you make just one little mistake you lose – very much like life." Moriarty took his hand away from Irene's head and placed it on John's chest,

"You had a chance to kill me once but you didn't because you didn't want to blow up your friend. You lost your round and now it's my turn."

"You did all this just to kill me?"

Moriarty shook his head, "As I told you before Sherlock, I'm going to kill you anyway, but until then I want break your mind."

Sherlock seemed unmoved by Moriarty's admission; in fact, he looked a little bored,

"So if you're not going to kill me then you're going to kill them? Wait, let me guess," Sherlock said in mock excitement, "you're going to make me chose which one to save and which one to die? It's hardly original."

"Do you really think that I'd drag you all the way out here for that?" Moriarty tutted, "You wound me Sherlock, I'm an evil genius not a naughty school boy, I have no intention of making a remake of "Sophie's Choice". This," he said as he extended out his arms and circled a few times, "This is the damnation of Sherlock Holmes."

"That's the problem with evil geniuses; they have a penchant for being drama queens."

Moriarty ignored him and instead slowly bent down, pulled up his trouser leg and untied the gun that was fastened to his calf. It was a revolver and he opened up the chamber to show Sherlock that there were two bullets inside. He snapped the chamber shut and then threw the gun to the ground, just shy of Sherlock's left foot.

Sherlock picked it up and clasped it securely in his hand, "So what are we going to do? Walk twenty paces and see who has the quickest reflexes?"

Moriarty smiled an ugly, heart-freezing, smile at Sherlock, "You're going to kill Irene Adler and John Watson yourself. Two bullets for two brains."

John watched as Sherlock's body became very still – it was obvious that he hadn't been expecting that. He quickly recovered and said, "And exactly why would I do that? What's to stop me from putting a bullet in your brain?"

Moriarty shrugged as he pressed the gun he was holding to the side of his own head, "Just from a purely mathematical stand point it would be extremely unlikely for you to deliver two fatal shots – using only two bullets – without getting yourself killed."

John watched in horror as Sherlock mimicked Moriarty and pressed the gun to the side of his own head, "What if I'd rather take a bullet?"

"You wouldn't do that."

"Why not? There doesn't seem to be an incentive, either way they both end up dead."

"Your incentive is that either you kill them quick and painlessly by putting a bullet through their skulls or... Alexander kills them slow and torturously by cutting off tiny pieces of them until they either bleed to death or die of shock."

John watched as Sherlock's face grew deathly pale and as the colour drained from his face so did the light from his eyes...

"Wait a minute." John said suddenly, "This is completely insane..."

"Of course it is; I'm a mad man." Moriarty sang, "But it's also perfect." Moriarty said as he walked over and pressed his forehead against John's, "He'll kill you out of mercy." He said in a mock whisper, "There's no way that Sherlock could stand there and listen to my pet butcher his little puppy. He'd hear you yelp and cry and scream for him to help you and it would destroy him. But then, if he puts a bullet in your brain he'll have to live with the fact that he killed you and that will ruin him as well."

Moriarty slid his arm around John's shoulder and turned to face Sherlock again,

"But you're going to do the right thing aren't you Sherlock? You're going to kill Dr Watson so that he doesn't have to suffer. And then you'll go home and sink into a pit of despair, replaying this moment over and over and over again. That's one of the problems of having such a good memory or – what is it that you call it again? – Your "Mind Palace"? You'll get to capture the image of John's face just before you pull the trigger and the image of his body as the life drains out of it."

Sherlock's eyes fell on John's as Moriarty spoke, almost as if he was already seeing the images flash before his eyes.

"Maybe you'll last a day or so, before you start shooting up again just to make your mind go blank. And I'll leave you like that for a few months, just letting you circle that proverbial drain and then," Moriarty said dramatically, "When you least expect it, I'll send you a copy of the recording that Alexander is filming right now. And it'll just be too much for you… and not long after that it'll be… bye, bye Mr Holmes. That housekeeper of yours will find your brains splattered all over the walls and they'll bundle you up and take you to Bart's where that sorry little thing…Molly is it? Well, she'll cry for you. But no one else will because you would have already killed the only person who truly loves you!"

Moriarty clapped his hands together gleefully, "There's a sort of poetic licence to the whole thing don't you think?"

In all the time that he had been speaking, Sherlock had been staring intently at John, his eyes boring into his. At first John thought that he had completely shut down and that he was simply staring through John… but then he caught the sight of movement coming from his right, from… Irene? And before John could turn his head to look Sherlock made a subtle movement of his head and the message was as clear as if Sherlock had actually said the words out loud: Keep your eyes fixed on me John.

"I see you've left me with no choice." Sherlock said hoarsely and John felt a spark of excitement flutter in his chest because he knew that Sherlock was lying. He watched as Sherlock ran a hand through his hair which – to anyone else – would appear to be a sign of agitation but John knew differently and, sure enough, as Sherlock brought his hand away from his hair John saw something tiny and metallic glint in the light.

"I want… I want to kill John first." Sherlock said, directing his statement at Moriarty.

As he spoke John felt Irene slide something small and cold into his palm. He traced the thing with his fingers and realised that it was one of her earrings. Before he could explore it further he felt hands on his shoulders forcing him to kneel in front of Sherlock. The ground felt hard and cold against his knees and for one brief, ridiculous, second he thought that out of all the times he had fantasised about kneeling in front of Sherlock, this was never how he had imagined it.

John frantically felt around the dimensions of the earring in his hand, searching for something, for anything that he could turn or twist or press... A button! He just felt it, the tiny bump of a button sticking out of the surface. He didn't know what it would do if he pushed it, nor did he know when or what he should do with it, but he was willing to trust in Irene and take his lead from Sherlock.

He did this now, staring into Sherlock's eyes as he raised the gun and pointed it at John's head. He searched his eyes but he saw nothing. He searched his face but saw nothing. Sherlock was telling him nothing, his face was blank, his eyes vacant and resolved and as he pulled back the firing pin from the revolver John experienced a moment of sickening fear. Perhaps what he was feeling wasn't a button after all but rather just part of the design and that Sherlock wasn't acting he was serious and the roughness of his voice and the trembling of his lips were just involuntary acts of fear and that Irene had placed this piece of her jewellery into his hand as a way of… what? Comfort? So that he felt someone or something with him in his last few moments.

He stared at the gun and then back at Sherlock. He watched as his lips parted and then heard Sherlock say, "John," and his voice was rough and his eyes looked tortured and John knew that this was it, that he was going to die; that Sherlock was going to have to kill him.

John swallowed. He had to tell him, he had to say that it didn't matter and that he forgave him and that he didn't blame him for everything that had happened and that he was sorry that he had broken his violin and had been acting like such a shitty friend lately and that he loved him. John opened his mouth because he had to say it, and despite the sound of his blood pumping through his ears and the thickness of his throat and the tightness of his chest he just had to say it. Because this was it, this was the last moment of his life and he just couldn't die without telling Sherlock that he...

"Press down now and aim for the east." Sherlock said before he clenched something in his own hand and threw it in the direction of Alexander.

Smoke exploded and an errant shot rang out. John pressed the thing in his hand and threw it in an easterly direction like Sherlock had told him to. More smoke filled the air and John could faintly make out Irene throwing a similar devise. He was blinded by the smoke and he coughed as he wildly searched for Sherlock.

Another shot and this time it must have made impact because someone... a man... Sherlock screamed out in pain.

"Sherlock...!"

"Run John!" Sherlock said and John could hear that he was in pain.

John couldn't move, he couldn't leave Sherlock there but then two hands tugged at his jacket and he turned to come face to face with Irene. Before he could do or say anything Irene began forcibly dragging John away from the smoke, away from the mad men and away from Sherlock.