A/N: This chapter has warnings for Moriarty being a prick and saying mean things that have nothing to do with my actual feelings about Mary and nurses. I promise. The end is nigh, folks, only a few chapters left in this particular saga! Thanks for all the reviews etc., I so appreciate them!

Finding Sherlock and the invading Moriarty spirit controlling his body turned out to be exactly as simple and straightforward as Clara had predicted it would be. The expression of shock on the consulting detective's face might have been comical under other circumstances, but his snarl of rage as he was tackled by John and Mary and then injected with the sedative was chilling. Clara could feel the power radiating from the possessed man's form, and prayed that he would remain unconscious until they reached the hospice where Mrs. Hudson's friend was waiting out her final hours.

The older woman and Molly were already there; both had insisted on meeting them, although for different reasons. Mrs. Hudson had wanted to say one last good-bye to her friend, who wouldn't survive very long even if Moriarty's spirit wasn't passed into her body, and Molly absolutely refused not to be a part of the process, even if there wasn't anything useful she could contribute. Her words, not Clara's, nor anyone else's for that matter. Why the pathologist thought so little of herself might be because of the trauma she was no doubt suffering after having been raped, but to Clara's eyes it was an ongoing self-esteem issue.

She dismissed her concerns for the other woman with difficulty, but she wasn't here in her capacity as a therapist; she was here to help exorcise an evil spirit and restore Sherlock Holmes' control to his body. Once that was accomplished…well, it would be up to Molly but Clara would give her her business card and the names of several others in the supernatural community who could help guide the younger woman through her recovery.

They arrived at the hospice and pulled around back to the ambulance entrance, which was fortunately unattended at the moment. Getting Sherlock onto a gurney and wheeling him inside was made easier when Molly appeared to let them in, dressed in a pair of comfortable blue scrubs and holding a purloined clipboard in one hand. They hadn't discussed this part, but it made sense, and Clara could tell Molly felt better knowing she'd been able to help after all.

She sucked in a breath at the sight of Sherlock's unconscious form on the gurney; he was strapped in, in case Moriarty woke up, although it wouldn't stop him from fleeing the body, only from harming any of them. Clara offered her a sympathetic look and John gave her a sideways hug before meeting her gaze and nodding in a determined fashion; the soldier was once again going to war, and this seemed to steady Molly, who nodded back before leading them to their destination.

The hospice had the hushed atmosphere of all such places, where people had been brought to live out what was left of their lives, and Clara felt a twinge of guilt at the ruckus they could potentially cause. These people deserved dignity and peace at this time and in this place, but Moriarty had essentially forced this upon them. He had to be stopped, plain and simple, and sent out of this world so he could do no further harm.

They arrived at the proper room without running into a single other person, as if Fate itself was doing its best to help them along. Of course, a smooth run up the moment of wrestling Moriarty's spirit out of Sherlock's body would mean nothing if they didn't succeed, but Clara refused to think about failure. It simply wasn't an option, not with so much at stake.

She approved of Mary Morstan; even though she'd run from the life they both had grown up in, she'd faced it unflinchinglyonce she'd had it forced upon her again. As to whether she'd be up for the task of Excommunicating Moriarty, well, that remained to be seen. The ability to Excommunicate a spirit was as much instinct as anything, and those sorts of instincts could go very rusty through disuse. However, they had no time to seek out anyone else, not now; if something did go wrong and Moriarty escaped, then they would have to explore other options.

No. No other options would need exploring, because they wouldn't fail.

oOo

Dizziness. Headache, immobility…what? Ah, restraints; arms and legs, across the torso. Imprisonment, torture? No, a gurney, hospital room, quiet beeps from monitors, but no sensation of anything attached to his body. Conclusion: Not his body being monitored. A ward-mate? Why hospital, what happened? Accident? Attack? Why the restraints…spinal column injury? No, head and neck unrestrained, limited movement possible, no lack of sensation from head to toe…

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes at the sound of that soft, pleading – and very familiar – voice. Molly Hooper. Was he at St. Bart's, then? No, the patient room was of a different design, almost homey with the wooden furnishings and patterned curtains on the window. "A hospice," he croaked out as he returned his gaze to Molly's face, easily seen in spite of the dim lighting in the room. "Have I been injured?"

"It's the sedative, it hasn't entirely worn off yet." Another voice, also female, but entirely unfamiliar to him. "That's why he doesn't seem to…remember."

"Or else it's Moriarty trying to fuck with us." Ah, that was Mary, John's fiancée. No, wait, wrong; he'd never met her, why did he recognize her voice? And why was she talking about Moriarty? Moriarty was dead, dead and gone…

No. Dead, yes, but not gone.

Ah, there you are! I wondered where you'd got to, you naughty boy! Tried to hide but the sedative knocked you right out of your hiding place and back where I could find you again.

Moriarty. Inside his head. Inside him. Memory, painful, horrifying, came flooding back, and Sherlock bit back a moan of self-loathing as he caught sight of Molly Hooper again. She was smiling at him, reaching out to stroke his hair from his forehead, but the circle of bruises around her delicate throat reminded him why he couldn't currently be trusted with her…and why she shouldn't trust him. Shouldn't be looking at him with such tender concern in her warm, brown eyes. He flinched away from her, opened his mouth to croak out an apology, only to lose control of his ability to speak as Moriarty exerted his control once again.

Oh, get over yourself, the other man's voice snarled in his head. Little Miss Perfect already knows it wasn't you, that it was me, remember? That little trick with the eyes was enough to raise her suspicions and now everyone knows about me.

"And since everybody knows, then there's no point in pretending, is there?" he finished aloud, smirking up at Molly. "How about a kiss for old time's sake?" he asked, and she flinched back, pulling her hand away from his head as if she'd been stung. "Aww, no?" He gave an exaggerated pout, then shifted his gaze and smirked up at Mary instead. "What about you, Miss Morstan? Interested in a threesome with Johnny boy?"

"Ignore him, Mary, you know what he's trying to do." That was the stranger, the woman whose voice Sherlock hadn't recognized. Nor did Moriarty; he studied her, a pretty-ish, auburn-haired woman in her late forties, slender but tall with an air of quiet authority to her that instantly put him on his guard.

"I know," Mary replied, but her blue eyes flashed with anger and her lips were pulled tightly together as she paced back and forth in front of the gurney.

Ah, yes, the gurney. How quaint. "You can't possibly believe you have me trapped here just because you've got Sherlock's body strapped down," Moriarty sneered. "I admit, I don't really want to give him up until I have to, but if it's a choice between seeking greener pastures and enduring you lot attempting to talk me out of hurting him…"

"Just shut it, Moriarty," John Watson snapped as he moved into sight and placed a comforting arm around Mary's shoulder. "Clara, what do we need to do?" He glanced over toward something Moriarty couldn't see, something behind him. The place where the quiets beeps and whirs of medical monitors were coming from.

"Nothing," the stranger – Clara – said firmly. She stepped back, tugging at John's hand and gesturing for Molly to join them. "It's all up to Mary now."

Alarm grew and spread; this woman, Clara, sounded not only authoritative, but as if she actually had some sort of…plan. A plan for what? To get rid of him? Impossible, he tried to tell himself, while deep within his own mind Sherlock was chuckling and pointing out that everything Moriarty knew about being a spirit was entirely self-taught…and how ignorant that could make him.

No. He wouldn't be stopped by some random stranger that John and Molly had found to help them; there was no way in hell he was going anywhere he didn't want to go. And if that meant giving up Sherlock's body right now and fleeing into the night, then he'd do just that. Before they could stop him.

As he began the process of disengaging himself, releasing the various mental tendrils he'd sunk deep into Sherlock's psyche in order to anchor himself to the other man's body and control his mind, he was shocked to feel his prisoner taking immediate advantage of a process he couldn't possibly have recognized for what it was. Sherlock's mind, so dangerous, powerful and attractive when it wasn't wasting itself on the mundane and the trivial, was almost free, surging up to try and ensnare him, keep him locked into their shared body.

"NO!" Moriarty howled, mentally and verbally, body straining against the straps holding him to the gurney, shaking it with the strength of his fury. Dimly, in the back of his mind, the part that wasn't simultaneously occupied with both escape and defense, he heard Mary Morstan chanting like a Druid priestess in a bad horror movie; he made the connection and desperation gave strength to his attempts to shake Sherlock loose.

"No!" he shouted again, fixing his gaze on the blonde, whose hands were weaving in some intricate, unrecognizable pattern. Sherlock once again took advantage of his distraction, attempting to wrestle him into mental submission, to paralyze him, to keep him in place while the fucking bitch did whatever voodoo it was she was attempting. No. He was James Moriarty, damn it, he wasn't going to have his soul captured or destroyed by a fucking half-educated whore of a nurse!

"No!" he shouted a third time.

And then everything, very suddenly, went black.