A/N: Sorry this is taking so long to update. Moriarty was not cooperating and was being difficulty (shocking I know) even though he barely appears in this chapter. As a special treat for keeping you waiting, I've include a big reveal for all of your patience. Some of you may want to throw things at me after, but that's a hazard I'm willing to take.

Thanks to IlCapo for following & gmgpk for favouriting. I apologize if I have forgotten anyone! I believe there may be some folks out there who have favourited the first story TNER, - I do appreciate your favourites, follows & reviews as well but I'm starting to lose track of you!

Warnings – swearing (surprise!), the foreshadowing of dashed of hopes, a little Mycroftyness and a big reveal.

Listening to Sarah McLachlan song Possession (this is a damn sexy song! makes me want to write naughty bits) whilst writing. In Canada we don't usually write 'whilst' – it makes me feel very British – I usually forget to check if I've written it as well – so on that note Any Mistakes Are Mine & any Canadianisms please forgive!

In case you forgot – I Don't Own!

Chapter 5. Hell in a Handbasket

"If we're all going to hell in a handbasket, we might as well make it a party on the way down"

James St. James, Party Monster: A Fabulous But True Tale of Murder in Clubland

One Hour Later

Sherlock sat back and looked at John. John sat in his chair and looked toward the window. He was quiet. Sometimes John needed to be quiet to process information, to 'mull' things over. He was usually quiet when presented with radical Sherlock ideas and thoughts. Such as now. The song was gone from Sherlock's head and he remembered all the little details he'd forgotten. He had just spent the last few minutes whilst they were waiting for Lestrade to show up explaining what he now remembered about the day John had died. Sherlock was feeling a strange sensation in his stomach. He thought it might be anxiety. He wasn't sure how John was taking the news about the idea that Sherlock's disappearance for a year and a bit may have been due to the fact that Sherlock had been doing him a favour. In retrospect, it didn't feel like much of a favour.

Sherlock sat on the couch, his long fingers drummed on his knee, the only outward sign of the feeling that now coursed throughout him.

John abruptly stood up and crossed over to where Sherlock was sitting. He sat down beside the detective and pulled him in for a hard kiss, his fingers tangled in the younger man's hair. "You are an idiot you know," he said softly, his forehead resting against the other man's. "Of all the people in the world who hates sentiment as much as you do and you make a deal with a goddess for me. That's more than a little hot, you know." Sherlock felt tension flow out of his body. John was not angry. He didn't mind terribly when John was angry as in annoyed as in 'you used the kettle for experiments again' or 'there are too many severed toes in the fridge'. He didn't mind John angry because he, Sherlock, had hogged all the covers again or assumed John would make tea from now until the end of time. He usually ignored that John. He did mind John angry because Sherlock had done something irreparable to their relationship. It scared him, just a little.

Sometimes John was just as good at reading Sherlock as Sherlock was at reading John. "You were worried I'd be angry because of what we went through, weren't you? I'm not angry, Sherlock, or at least not because you wanted to give me some relief. I was angry you didn't tell me and let me think you were dead, but perhaps it was out of your hands" John shrugged. "It doesn't matter now. That's the past. Can't change it. Believe me. I'm an expert." Some of John's dry humour was expressed in that statement. The doctor sighed. "But I will continue to be angry with you if you continue to neglect to keep me in the loop. I told you once already, that's the only way this is going to work." He gave the younger man a shake and then kissed him again. Sherlock was thinking it was a shame the world was ending and that his brother could show up at any minute and that Lestrade would turn up because he felt John deserved a thorough shagging.

Perhaps if the world doesn't end tonight, he thought somewhat wistfully, even if he didn't usually participate in such activities during a case. Still this was John and he felt he had a lot to make up to the man. Perhaps if he thought of it as doing John a favour.

John snapped him out of his reverie, which was just as well, considering the fact that his trousers were beginning to feel uncomfortable, with a comment.

"You are certain she said there was someone in London who practiced the old ways? A priestess of Hecate?" John tilted his head to one side. "And that your enemy, whom we can more than assume means Moriarty, would 'seek her out'? Well I guess he must have learned a few tricks from her. I have never heard of anyone besides me who was able to remember past lives."

Sherlock looked at John intensely, "It's more than remembering past lives, isn't it. He didn't have time to be reborn and grow up. He must be using someone else the way he used me, but perhaps on a more permanent basis." John tried not to shudder at the memory of Moriarty sharing Sherlock's body, but he couldn't hide it from the detective.

"We must assume it's somebody we know," the younger man continued. "Probably someone who's not the same, whose personality has changed."

"Yeah, well for a while there it was your personality," muttered John.

Sherlock looked at him darkly. He had hoped John had gotten over that by now.

At that moment the doorbell rang.

They both said together, "Lestrade."

Two Hours Later

The usual Baker Street clutter had not been enhanced by the addition of End of the World clutter. Crime scene photos were tacked up to the wall next to a map of London. File folders and boxes were stacked precariously on the table and there was a pile of books beside John's chair where John was currently sitting. Most of the books were from when Sherlock had been researching how to help John in what felt like a lifetime ago. He'd continued to purchase the odd tome long after the fact. John held a book in his lap with one hand. The other hand was up to his face, his fingers idly drummed on his lips.

Greg and Sherlock were stood and looked at the evidence tacked onto the wall. There was no sign of Mycroft. He had been informed of the events. He had yet to make an appearance.

"Obviously the next murder will happen to the north and within proximately of Baker Street. Regent's Park is north. That seems like a likely place although rather public. I think I understand the cardinal directions and how they play a part in this. It's represented in many religions, but why Baker Street. It's not of historical significance, except for inane bits of trivia."

"Like what?" asked Greg.

John piped up "The Beatles Apple Boutique was based there from 1967 to 1968." He glanced up. The other two men were looking at him one in bemusement, the other in irritation.

"What?" said John, a little sheepishly, "I know a lot trivia about the Beatles."

"Although their music is meant for consumption by the masses," Sherlock, who tried very hard to overlook his partner's musical tastes, said with a tone that implied the masses were stupid. "I do not think the fact that their Boutique was located on Baker Street is the reason for Moriarty to commit a series of gruesome killings. Not unless he was driven insane by listening to it." Sherlock was not overly fond of modern music. He considered anything past 1900 modern.

"Seriously Sherlock. You know why he's doing it here. I'm surprised you're even speculating on any other reason," John turned back to his book.

"Yes, John," irritation was creeping into Sherlock's voice, "I realize it's because we live here and it probably seems like a good idea to Dear Jim to carve up innocent people at our door step, but there must be another reason. I can not find any information on whether there were ancient temples or sacrificial sites or sites of any significance at this location and that does not include the Baker Street Tube Station as being one of the oldest surviving in the world." Sherlock kicked a random box across the flat. John just stared and turned back to his book, too use to temperamental outbursts from the detective, although he was rarely at the receiving end of them any more.

Greg ignored the rant and concentrated on what they did know. "The next victim is likely to be male if that is the pattern."

John spoke again, "Have you found anything out about the previous victims, identity wise?"

"No," Greg frowned, "There have been no hits on missing persons and nothing's come back from fingerprints. It's like they don't exist."

John put down the book he'd been looking through and picked up another. This one was a copy of Virgil, The Aeneid. Greg heard him muttering something about classic literature and hating it in school. He wondered if that was because John had probably had to read it more times than most over all those lifetimes. He shuddered. Once had been enough for all that dry, dusty literature.

Greg turned back to Sherlock, "I've got Dimmock and a bunch of others looking into anyone in London who might be practicing black magic, devil worship or anything weird and freaky like that, but there's got to be a bunch of people with ties to that kind of thing from palm readers to fortunetellers."

Sherlock grunted, "Tell them to look for someone with ties to Greek religion, although I'm sure they will be covering their tracks." Sherlock had filled Greg in about the conversation with the goddess. Greg was less than impressed that Sherlock hadn't thought to tell him sooner.

John was flipping randomly thorough the pages of Virgil, "Isn't this about Rome? Why am I reading a book where everyone ends up in Rome when this all started in Greece."

Sherlock didn't bother to turn to speak to John. He continued to stare at the map on the wall. "I'm sure I don't know why you are looking through that particular book John, I purchased several books that made reference to Hecate and that was…" He stopped and whirled around to look at John. "That's it John!" and he rushed over to grab the book out of the older man's hands. He flipped through the pages until he came to a page where he had scrawled some notes. He turned the book around and thrust it back into John's hands. "Here, read this."

John frowned at the script in front of him and then up at Sherlock. He began to read, skipping parts because the entirety was far too long:

"The Sibyl first lined up four black-skinned bullocks, poured a libation wine upon their foreheads, and then, plucking the topmost hairs from between their brows, she placed these on the altar fires as an initial offering, calling aloud upon Hecate, powerful in heaven and hell. While others laid their knives to these victim's throats, and caught the fresh warm blood in bowls, Aeneas sacrifices a black-fleeced lamb to Nox, the mother of the Furiae, and her great sister, Terra, and a barren heifer to Proserpine. Then Aeneas set up altars by night to the god of the Underworld, laying upon the flames whole carcasses of bulls and pouring out rich oil over the burning entrails. But listen! At the very first crack of dawn, the ground underfoot began to mutter, the woody ridges to quake, and a baying of hounds was heard through the half-light: the goddess was coming, Hecate."

"Oh dear Lord," whispered Greg.

John looked at Sherlock, "This is the last part, the last rite he needs to bring her here, on this plane. The first four deaths will open the door. The last four will draw her through. That's what he's going to do. He must have either read this or…"

"The Sibyl, the person who's the priestess, she told him where to look."

John' s eyes glittered. "He's not going to use bullocks though is he? That's what he meant. He's going to use us and two of our friends." They both turned and instinctively looked at Greg.

"Oh Christ," he muttered. "My insurance isn't paid up."

"I don't think you're covered for this, mate," said John.

"I wonder who the fourth is?" mused Sherlock.

oOo

Molly rushed home after work. It had been a long time since she had been on an honest to goodness date and she was looking forward to it. She let herself in, flicked on the lights. He was going to come and pick her up here and she wanted to change quickly and tidy up a bit. She stopped to pick up her cat, Toby for a quick cuddle and give him a bit of dinner. Then she rushed up to her bedroom and changed into the pretty summer outfit she'd treated herself to. She pulled her hair out of her usual ponytail and ran her brush through it. She brushed her teeth and then applied a lovely shade of pink lipstick.

The doorbell rang.

She ran down the stairs. He was a bit early. She grabbed a sweater in case it got cold later and took her old trainers and several magazines and threw them into the closet by the front door.

She was very excited. He was young and handsome and sweet.

And after the fiasco with Jim so long ago now, where it was such a mess and she had been so hurt and then to find out he'd done all those horrible things and separated Sherlock from John and she'd had to help and it been so sad and so hard to look John in the eye because she had known and couldn't tell but now they were back together and even though she felt wistful feeling towards Sherlock even still, she knew they were perfect and now she knew everything was going to be just perfect for her as well.

What could go wrong? He was a police officer after all.

oOo

"It's a little different from what they did with the first three victims," said John. "That's more of a traditional sacrifice. This is more formal. There must be an incantation or something to go with it, but Virgil didn't know it or he was just good at guessing the rest."

"Don't you know?" asked Sherlock softly, partly curious about what John knew and remembered and partly afraid for John about what he knew and remembered.

John shook his head, "This would have been knowledge given to the head priestess only. Eleri was still in the middle of the ranks. She knew enough for me to identify what's been going on, but not the final rites as it were."

Lestrade spoke up. "Okay. We know they are going to do this sacrifice North of Baker Street within walking distance of the flat, so we just need to be patrolling all around, paying particular attention to Regent's Park and see if maybe we can prevent the fourth murder from happening. John, if we can stop this fourth murder will that stop life as we know it from ending?"

John looked at Greg and then shrugged. "Best guess? Should do. Will it for sure? Hell, I don't know."

Greg pulled out his mobile, "I'll get Dimmock to set up patrols. Get him off of looking for Greek fortunetellers. I doubt he'll be thrilled about it. I'm thinking they're going to strike sooner rather than later. Maybe if I put him onto this he might be happier. Arrogant sod. Been giving underlings a hard time and making some inappropriate comments, doesn't matter your sex. Think's he's god's gift and all. Makes DI, junior under me mind, but thinks that means he doesn't have to do any legwork and can show up at work whenever the hell he likes. The bastard's gotten rather stroppy lately. Guess a promotion can change a guy." He walked into the kitchen to call Scotland Yard.

Sherlock ignored Lestrade's ramblings and sat. He wanted to ensure that Mrs. Hudson was out of the area before 'all hell broke loose'. As he was wondering where he should send her, a part of him was becoming annoyed that Mycroft hadn't bothered to show up yet.

You think he'd be interested in London being destroyed by a vengeful goddess.

That's when he heard a familiar tread upon the stairs.

"Speak of the devil," Sherlock smirked as Mycroft entered the flat.

"And he appears," finished Mycroft, smirk for smirk. "My dear brother, John, and Detective Inspector, to what do I owe this latest round of madness?" He glanced John's way as he said this. Although Mycroft had gotten over John's last bout with what he termed in his private thoughts 'as being as mad as a March hare', he was still uncomfortable around the good doctor. Even so he did have a certain level of respect for the man. After all he put up with Sherlock and lived to tell the tale. But there was only so much nonsense one could deal with when a supposedly sensible fellow like John believed he was a reincarnated Greek priestess. Of course he also owed John for keeping from him the fact that he knew Sherlock was alive and was actively helping him. Keeping track of the red and the black in the ledgers of one's life was intoxicating to Mycroft. He had lists and lists of tally marks in his head.

And then there was the little matter of the stranger who visited his bedroom last night. That had gone a ways to making Mycroft more amiable to listening to the good doctor and his little brother.

Mycroft glanced around at the mess that was all over the flat, paused here and there and assessed what he was seeing and was weighed it and judged.

"So supposedly we are looking at the End of the World according to your text Sherlock. Well I would like you to know I would have trouble believing you except for one small detail," he paused for dramatic effect.

Damn the Holmes brothers and dramatic effect, thought John.

John and Sherlock both stilled, curious as to what would change Mycroft mind about supernatural events.

"I enjoyed a rather strange visit last night by a being who claimed to be Hades."

The three men looked at each other and back at Mycroft. Sherlock narrowed his eyes to assess whether his brother was pulling his leg. Not that that was a Mycroft-like trait. Sherlock glanced over at John and locked eyes with him. He nodded sharply. Mycroft was telling the truth.

"Well," said John, "that's… different."

"Yes," said Mycroft hanging up his umbrella and sitting down on the couch, "I would say that is a bit of an understatement, John. It was more than anything I have ever experienced and I believe I owe you," he nodded at John, "a rather heartfelt apology."

"S'all right,"

"No, no I really must insist on apologizing. Frankly I have never been so surprised in my life," And Mycroft looked rather uncomfortable with this admission. "Shall I set the scene?"

John and Sherlock both prepared to listen when they overheard Lestrade yelling on the phone in the other room, "What do you mean he's on a date? I told everybody in the bloody division to forget having any free nights until this was over. Get him on the phone and tell him to cancel his date. I don't care who the fuck he's dating." They could see Greg's colour rising the longer he was in this conversation. They watched as his face turned from fury to surprise. "Really? No, no that's not my business. Call him and tell him to cancel and get this bloody thing organized. Right the fuck now!" He hung up his mobile. He strode back into the living room and noticed everyone was looking at him. "Sorry about that. Dimmock bloody decided to go on a bleeding date in the middle of a case." He paused and grinned, "You'll never believe with who."

John was the only one to bite. "No idea."

"Molly Hooper."

John's eyebrows went up. "Well good for her. Maybe she'll smarten him up. I rather thought he was a decent sort."

Greg ran his hands through his hair. "Yeah, I guess. I always thought so, except…"

Sherlock's head swiveled in Greg's direction. There was something in his voice. Snippets of the tirade Lestrade had been on before he went into the kitchen flashed through his head.

I doubt he'll be thrilled about it.

Maybe if I put him onto this he might be happier.

Arrogant sod.

The bastard's gotten rather stroppy lately.

Been giving underlings a hard time and making some inappropriate comments, doesn't matter your sex.

Guess a promotion can change a guy.

Thinks that means he doesn't have to do any legwork and can show up at work whenever the hell he likes.

"Except something's different now, isn't it? He's different." Sherlock said softly. "How long?"

"What?"

Sherlock snapped at Greg, "How long has he been different? When did he change for the worse?"

Greg looked startled. "How did you know he's worse?"

"He's been coming in late for work hasn't he? And not doing his job. He's been arguing and making snide comments, perhaps inappropriate or lewd remarks. You've had complaints. Does that sound like the Dimmock you know? Because the one I know is conscientious and polite, gets the job done and wants to impress. But it's only been in the last few days, hasn't it, ever since the murders started."

"How…" Greg turned white. "Oh Christ. Do you think?"

"Yes. It has to be someone we know. It makes sense that he works at the Yard. He has access to the crime scene and he's probably hiding evidence. And he's not the same person you knew. He has changed. And now he is conveniently dating Molly Hooper. Molly Hooper who went out with Jim Moriarty. The one person he didn't try to kill. How nice of him to show up to finish the job.

I know who Moriarty is and the fourth friend."