A/N: Soooo close to being finished with this saga! One or two chapters left. Thanks for sticking with it, and thanks to everyone for reviewing and favoriting! You guys make it all worth it!

Moriarty came back to consciousness, roaring with fury, ready to kill using Sherlock's bare hands, ready to dive into Mary fucking Morstan's body and wreak havoc on the others in the room, ready for vengeance, his mind crackling with furious energy…

…and found to his horror that he couldn't move. No, he wasn't restrained as he had been when in Sherlock's body…wait, where was he then? A wave of disorientation fell over him as he struggled to orient himself, his fury abating into confusion and the tiniest hint of…was that terror? No, it couldn't be, he wasn't afraid of anything, not when he was alive, certainly not now that he was…

"Is he in there? In…her?" Molly the mouse, her voice trembling. So he wasn't in Sherlock's body, but why couldn't he see, why couldn't he fucking move?

More importantly, why couldn't he leave?

Panic set in, his terror mounting as he heard the Morstan bitch reply, "I think so. Clara?"

"Yes, he's in there, and my goodness is he unhappy about it!" Clara had the audacity to chuckle, to laugh at him, and Moriarty howled angrily, hurled threats at her…none of them passing through the lips of the body he now dimly sensed he was trapped in. An old, tired, worn-out body, crawling with cancer and no mind left for him to control – and thus no way for him to control the body; decrepit as it was, it was at least physical form, if he could just figure out how to work himself into the central nervous system without access to the brain…what the fuck was wrong with this stupid body, why couldn't he find the fucking MIND?

"Stop fighting, Mr. Moriarty," he dimly heard over the screaming of his furious, panicky thoughts. It was Clara again, Jesus Christ, would the bitch never shut up? "There's no mind for you to control, Mrs. Dunsworth is too far gone for you to reach even if you had a year. She's safe from your control, everyone is, because she's dying. She'll be gone before another hour has passed, taking you safely with her, out of reach of the mortal world."

Her voice had a crooning, hypnotic quality to it, as if she were trying to lull him into abandoning the fight for survival, which he would never do. He'd died once and passed into another form of existence; what the fuck made her think he would just allow himself to quietly fade away this time?

"Can he hear us?"

Moriarty's fierce struggles ceased for a moment as he heard Sherlock's voice, hoarse and dry and sounding oddly distant now that the two men no longer shared a single body.

"Yes." That was Clara, sounding far too confident. Damn her to hell, where had they fucking found someone who knew what she was doing? Who understood, he thought bitterly, how to deal with spirits and possession and all the occult crap he'd once laughed about?

There were more sounds, the restraints being removed from Sherlock's body, someone – most likely John Watson, useless as he was most of the time – helping him to his feet. Being torn from his body had apparently done some damage; good, Moriarty thought viciously. He hoped it was permanent, that Sherlock might have a limp or lost the use of a hand or even – glorious thought! – some of his treasured mental faculties.

There was the sensation of a hand on his chest, as if Sherlock was feeling the fading heartbeat that Moriarty fought so grimly to keep going, and then, very close, as if he'd leaned down and was whispering in this body's ear, Moriarty heard: "Good riddance, dear Jim. I sincerely hope you rot in hell for an eternity; not for what you did to me, but for what you did to John and Mary and especially to Molly."

"Sherlock, what – no!" Moriarty heard Watson's protesting voice, then the sound of someone murmuring to him, a bit of a scuffle as if he were being held back. Held back from doing what?

A sudden feeling of suffocating answered that question; Sherlock Holmes, on-the-side-of-the-angels-but-not-one-of-them, had apparently laid his hand over the mouth and nose of the body Moriarty had been forced into. A bubble of hysterical laughter burst from his non-existent mouth; he laughed and laughed as his hearing dimmed and even the feel of Sherlock's palm on his host body's face faded into nothingness.

The last thought James Moriarty carried into darkness was that at least he had the consolation of knowing that one day, Sherlock Holmes would be in hell right next to him.

oOo

Sherlock gazed down at the body of the elderly woman – Mrs. Dunsworth, Martha Hudson's dear friend who'd been dying long before they entered her room – that Moriarty's spirit had been forced into. Even with Clara's assurances that the elderly cancer patient had no consciousness left for Moriarty to attach himself to hadn't been enough; he'd had to ensure that bastard's death, not wait and allow the natural course of things. He looked up at his landlady, willing her to understand; all he saw on her face was acceptance as she nodded and reached out to grasp his hand, squeezing gently before turning her attention to her friend's corpse.

Sherlock rose on unsteady feet, pushing back the chair on which John had settled him after his disorienting release from the gurney. He wasn't interested in Mrs. Hudson's final good-bye's to her friend; even if he was, it was one of those private moments people seemed to need when someone they cared for had passed away.

He wasn't interested in much of anything at the moment, truth be told, except getting the hell out of this room, finding someplace safe and quiet where he could just…think. Process everything that had happened. His flat would do…no, not his flat, he thought with a surge of revulsion as he caught sight of Molly Hooper, standing quietly next to Clara – John's former sister-in-law – and Mary. All three women were extraordinary in their own ways, but it was Molly whose opinion counted…and it was Molly he'd surely disappointed with his actions tonight.

He took one step, no more, then felt a wave of dizziness crashing over him. He fell forward, warm hands catching him, holding him up – John?

No, not John. He looked up and met concerned brown eyes. He croaked out, "I'm sorry, Molly Hooper," before passing out.

oOo

When Sherlock regained consciousness, the first thing he noticed was that he was no longer in the nursing home, although definitely still in a medical facility; the décor was completely different, far more utilitarian than the attempt at hominess the hospice projected. In fact, the room looked vaguely familiar; a private patient room, the usual plain white walls, slatted blinds on the window, no-nonsense white-and-grey speckled linoleum floors…

"St. Barts," he said aloud, feeling stupid for taking so long to recognize his surroundings.

"Got it in one." He swiveled his head to see Molly Hooper just stepping into the room, a bright smile on her lips and two cups of coffee in her hands. "Black, two sugars," she announced, handing him the first cup.

"And extra light, extra sweet," Sherlock automatically responded with her own preference. He stared at her, honestly bewildered by her presence, her ease with him. He'd just murdered someone right in front of her, and although it was true that there was no longer a Macy Dunsworth left to kill, he'd cold-bloodedly smothered the shell of her body while James Moriarty was trapped within. "Why are you here?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Molly blinked in surprise. "Where else would I be? Mrs. Hudson took care of the arrangements for her friend – may she rest in peace, poor woman, Mrs. Dunsworth, I mean, not Mrs. Hudson…although Mrs. Hudson went through quite a lot, too, of course. And John took Clara and Mary back to hers – Mary's, that is – and he's coming with some clean clothes and things for you…"

Molly would undoubtedly have continued to ramble on nervously if Sherlock didn't cut her off. "No, I don't mean…I mean, why are you here? With me? Being yourself, being Molly Hooper and not being…why aren't you angry or afraid, why don't you hate me?" he finally burst out.

"Hate you?" Molly repeated, as if unsure she'd heard him right. "Why would I? You didn't do anything wrong, it's not your fault Moriarty took control of your body and…" Her eyes widened as she finally realized what he was talking about, and he wondered at her ability to forget, even for an instant, what James Moriarty had done to her via the medium of Sherlock's own body. How he'd violated her. Assaulted her.

Raped her.

"I raped you, Molly," Sherlock said, his voice thick with self-loathing. "You have no idea how sorry I am…"

"Sherlock!" Molly cut him off sharply, her eyes enormous in her pale face. She put the coffee cups down on the table and seated herself on the edge of the bed. Sherlock flinched away, but she reached out and took his hands firmly in hers, holding them tightly when he made as if to pull away. "Sherlock Holmes, you listen to me," Molly said fiercely. "I know that you would never, never hurt me like that. It wasn't you, it was Jim. He was the one who did all those terrible things, not you.

"Molly, it doesn't matter...it was still me, I was the one who did those things to you!" Sherlock protested angrily, finally twisting his hands free of her grasp. He was undeserving of either her love or her forgiveness, although he craved both. He gazed at her intently, willing her to understand his own guilt in all this. "Moriarty's spirit may have possessed me, but it was my thoughts and memories he looted to find the worst possible way to hurt you, just as he did for John. Only for John the damage was purely emotional; what he did to you – what he made me do to you..." He shook his head, raking his fingers through his tangled locks, tugging at them in his agitation.

When Molly tried to calm him, he turned away from her, hunching into himself, curling up to make himself as small as possible. "Just leave, Molly," he said, his voice muffled from where he'd pressed his face into his pillow. "Please, for God's sake, find yourself a real hero to love and not a…a broken freak like me!"

The door opened as Sherlock half-shouted those last, despairing words, revealing the figure of John Watson standing, frozen in shock, a Tesco's bag in one hand, the other on the doorknob. Sherlock groaned at the sight of his friend, to whom Moriarty had been so bloody awful, and burrowed further into the bedding. He couldn't take it anymore; he desperately needed to be alone, to enter his Mind Palace and get his frayed nerves and clearly overwrought emotions under control. "Please, Molly," he said, refusing to look at her. "Will you please, just…go?"

Quietly, without another word, he heard her cross the room, heard John say something low and undoubtedly soothing, heard the sound of the door closing, and then John's feet crossing the room and dropping the bag on the floor. "A change of clothes, some toiletries, and the pleasure of my company for a few minutes," he said, his voice calm. "Then I'm leaving, going back to Mary's to spend the night. You've already been discharged, Mycroft took care of all the paperwork."

That brought Sherlock out of his fetal position; with a scowl, he looked up at John, standing with folded arms by the bedside. "Mycroft? Why did you have to bring Mycroft into this, John?"

"I didn't 'bring him into' anything," John replied, still infuriatingly calm. Why wasn't he ranting at Sherlock, calling him names, punching him for allowing Moriarty to spew such vile filth at him – and especially at Mary? Before Sherlock could demand an answer to those questions, John continued, "Don't ask me how – I'll leave that up to you, thank you very much! – but he already knew. Seems the British Government knows a bit more about the existence of the occult than we might have suspected."

An intriguing revelation – and one Sherlock firmly intended to follow up on at some point – but not one that particularly interested him at the moment. "John, why are you and Molly being so…so…nice to me?" he demanded, recognizing the absurdity of the question even as he asked it. But he desperately needed to know the answer, and the ones Molly had tried to give him just hadn't made sense. There was no way he could be freed of accountability, it just wasn't possible.

Or was it? As he listened to John telling him essentially the same thing that Molly had – that it wasn't his fault, that Moriarty was the one they blamed – he found himself just as unwilling to believe it from his friend's lips as he had been when hearing it from the woman he lo…held in very high regard.

Whom he absolutely beyond the shadow of a doubt did not deserve to have in his life in any capacity. Especially not now. What had he ever brought Molly Hooper except pain and heartache?

"Sherlock!" John was shaking him a bit, and Sherlock glared at him, but it had no strength to it.

"What, John?" he snapped, loathing the weakness in his voice. Moriarty's abuses had included a general lack of care for Sherlock's physical wellbeing that went above and beyond any amount of disregard for transport the detective had exhibited when on a case.

"I said, you idiot, that Clara wanted me to tell you that even if you don't believe me or Molly, that you should believe her, because she's the expert," John said. "She said just like any other trauma it'll take time, but that you need to let yourself recover fully, get used to being back in control of your body, and that eventually you'll be able to forgive yourself. She said no one's strong enough to stop from being possessed, even a genius like you, and that Moriarty was one of the most powerful spirits she's ever encountered." He grinned, an unexpected smile that crinkled the lines around his eyes and mouth. "She also wants to know if you'd be willing to tell her, in detail, exactly how you managed that trick with the eyes, because she's never heard of anyone who's been possessed being able to do anything like that."

The grin faded as he reached out and gripped Sherlock's forearm in one hand. "And however you did do it, Sherlock? I'm just glad you did. Because that was the first thing that tipped Molly off that there was something very wrong with you. And that was the thing that convinced me that maybe it wasn't just you back on drugs or having a really, really shitty day."

"Well, I've had worse," Sherlock mumbled.

"The hell you have!" John exclaimed, a shocked expression on his face that gradually turned into a grin. Then suddenly the two of them were chuckling, laughing, leaning weakly on one another as Sherlock reached up and held onto his friend's shoulder out of a sudden need to feel that John was really here, that he wasn't hallucinating this encounter.

"Right, then," John said once their mirth abated. He lifted up the Tesco's bag and dropped it on the bed. I'll just wait outside while you get changed, and then either I or Molly will take you home."

Sherlock paused in the act of reaching into the bag for his clothes. "Molly? Molly left, John."

John shook his head. "Nah. She's just in the visitor's lounge, waiting for me. Well, waiting for you, actually," he corrected himself. "She wants to take you home, if you'll let her."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded, although he'd already deduced her reasoning – and wasn't sure if he approved or was appalled.

"So you can both confront the scene of the crime," John replied bluntly. As expected. "Because she wants you to really understand that she doesn't blame you, that if you need her to forgive you, she will – even though we both agree you haven't done anything that needs forgiving."

"Not even murdering Mrs. Hudson's friend?"

John shrugged. "Sorry, mate, you're not going to get any of us worked up about how you took care of Moriarty," he replied. "Mrs. Dunsworth was already gone; Clara says if there was any part of her left, any consciousness lingering, Moriarty could have used it to launch himself from her body. And since both Mrs. Dunsworth and Moriarty were already dead, technically you didn't murder anyone." He gave Sherlock a steady look. "So. No matter what your answer is to my next question, I'll be spending the night at Mary's. Shall I tell Molly to go home, or will you let her take you back to the flat?"