IMPORTANT-if you already know about the Final Problem (books not TV show) then skip this section.

Here are the facts:

While in Europe, Sherlock Holmes and Watson are visiting the Reichenbach Falls. However, soon after their arrival, Watson is called away by a young Swiss messenger, because at a nearby hotel, an Englishwoman needs medical attention. This proves to be a clever ruse by Moriarty to get Watson away from Holmes. By the time he realizes his mistake and rushes back to the falls, it is too late- both consulting detective and criminal have gone over in a final struggle, and drowned (or so Watson thinks). He finds a note, addressed to him, in Holmes' handwriting. Believing his friend to be dead, he mourns his 'death' and returns to England.

But the great detective is not really dead. So, a few years later, Sherlock and Watson are reunited. This is all fact from the books so far. BEYOND THIS POINT, everything is fanfiction and highly theoretical.

Sorry for the long introduction, this was for my friends who might not know anything about the stories but have a) hacked my laptop or b) wanted to know what I write about or c) have been forced to read this by me because I wanted to know if it was any good.

Let the story begin!

Moriarty looked up and sighed. The face of the handsome young Swiss messenger was still staring eagerly at him, having just proudly recounted how he had completed his mission. Too easy, he thought. It was too easy…maybe it didn't matter if he died today. It wasn't like there would be anything worth living for if he was the one who survived. Tracking Sherlock through Europe had been fun. The detective never for one moment let his guard down, staying one step ahead of Moriarty the entire time. Yet here, he had him cornered. Alone, on the edge of a treacherous precipice, left even by his faithful companion Dr Watson…Moriarty curled his lip. So easy to prey on. He didn't think much of Sherlock's taste.

The voice of the messenger broke his thoughts. 'Payment?'

'Yes, yes.' He handed over a roll of banknotes to seal the young man's lips. 'Remember…a word that you ever knew me, ever heard my name, and I imagine you will last less than twenty-four hours.' The messenger nodded. Moriarty flicked his hand dismissively. 'You may go.'

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

In a quiet, luxurious office, two men sat facing each other. 'You know why I'm here, of course.' The older man spoke first.

'Of course…although it does seem a highly unnecessary visit.'

'Not particularly,' the older drawled. 'You of all people must understand the need to gloat.'

He rose from his chair. 'Look at you, the most powerful man in the country and yet completely unable to stop your own brother from dying.' He tauntingly held a sheaf of yellowed papers in front of the other man's face. 'The letters from your mother to my father. There's nothing you can do Mycroft…if this gets out, your status, gone. Job, gone. Money, gone. Everything, gone.' He laughed but it was not a nice laugh. It was the sound a snake would make before it eats its victim, watching the poison slowly paralyze them- if snakes could laugh.

The other man spoke, his voice smooth and emotionless. 'You can do me the base justice of addressing me respectfully.'

'Why should I? You're on first name terms with your other brother, aren't you,' it was a statement, not a question.

'I find my relation to such a baseless, slimy creature as you repulsive.'

'Fancy words aren't going to get you anywhere now, Mycroft. Think about it…really think about it…Sherlock Holmes, the one person you've fought to protect, dead by the time the year is out. A failure, that's what you are. A. Failure.' With these words he turned and strode confidently out of the room.

Mycroft Holmes was not given to outbursts of emotion, yet his cheeks were wet with the first tears since boyhood.

PRESENT DAY

James Moriarty walked towards the one he had sworn to destroy with a sense of finality. The falls crashing to their left did not frighten him. Nor did the prospect of falling.

Sherlock Holmes stood perfectly still, his steely grey eyes locked with the blue ones of his opponent. A formidable rival in one of the greatest games of chess in history. And it had been fun. But now all the supporting pieces were gone and the game had yet to be won.

Make it quick, then.

With lightning speed his hand rushed to his pocket and pulled out a loaded pistol, yet no sooner had he done so his adversary was pointing one at him.

'Come now,' Moriarty purred, his voice almost crooning. 'We don't need toys to kill each other, Sherlock. We've played too hard for it to end so easily.'

'Since when have you called me 'Sherlock?' the other said calmly, raising one hooked eyebrow.

'Since we're half-brothers.'

'You're completely insane!' Suddenly the detective shot forwards and grabbed the criminal's shoulders, dangling him over the edge. 'In what world…IN WHAT WORLD would we be brothers?!'

'Half-brothers, Sherlock.'

Abruptly Sherlock pulled Moriarty back. As much as he wanted to kill the other man right now, he needed answers first. 'Proof.' That's good, the detective thought. Controlled. You cannot afford to lose control now, do you understand, he told himself fiercely.

In answer, Moriarty handed over a ream of paper, crackly with age. 'See for yourself. It's our mother's handwriting.'

It was. Sherlock could hardly believe it, but he was well practiced at hiding his emotions and kept his face blank. 'What are the consequences of this?'

'Nothing in particular,' Moriarty said in his characteristic drawl. 'I just wanted to see what you were like caught off guard.'

'Is that so? Well, in that case I hope you enjoyed your results.' The detective allowed sarcasm to drip from his voice. 'Because they are the last you will ever attain.' Snakebite fast, he pushed his half-brother over the edge, but somehow Moriarty's fingers made a grip on the edge like grotesque spiders. The sight of them repelled him, indeed the knowledge of this individual's existence filled him with indescribable horror. How could he ever have admired him? If you ever were a true sociopath, Sherlock Holmes, his mind told him, call on that now.

And he did. He brought his shoes down as hard as he could on Moriarty's clutching fingers and let him fall into the abyss. As if in a final act of defiance, he made no sound.

He knew he should feel guilty, righteous, victorious, something… but instead, he felt nothing. Only a cold, hard, sense of revenge.

The characters do not belong to me :)