Molly stared in disbelief as Sherlock became dressed in a matter of seconds-she still lying on the bed completely unclothed. It took him bounding off for the living room before her brain finally kicked into gear and she began getting ready herself.
She was just pulling on her sturdy boots when he reentered the room for the belt still lying upon the floor.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, a warning in his eyes.
"We've been through this, Sherlock; you're not meeting him alone."
Sherlock looked at her with a slightly amused expression, surprised that she had worked out where he was going by his demeanor alone. He took her by the shoulders and led her to the edge of the bed, sitting down.
"Molly, I know you want to help-and, trust me, I don't want to go into this alone. But if Moriarty thinks I've done something suspicious, like get the police involved or told someone what's going on-he'll kill Mycroft. I'm sure of it."
Molly allowed herself a nervous smile. "You have to understand it's a little strange to see you worrying about your brother. It's almost…human."
He too allowed a brief smile before placing his hands on either side of her face and kissing her in earnest.
"Ok, what do you want me to do, then?" she asked, slightly dazed by the kiss.
"Go to Mycroft's flat-the code to enter the door is 1895-barge in like you own the place and don't stop until you find Anthea. You'll know her when you see her. Tell her I sent you and that I'm having a danger night. Then stand back."
Molly was more than a little confused. "But, wh-"
"Just trust me. Gotta go. Laters." With a wink, he flew out the door, leaving Molly still sitting on the edge of the bed, terrified.
XXX
The factory was old, out of the way, and more than a little decrepit.
The perfect place for the final problem.
As Sherlock entered through the main doors he saw what was unmistakably bread crumbs lining the floor, creating a path through the rusted machinery. The path led him to an open-area room. Off to the side was something concealed under a series of velvet curtains, surrounded on one side by complete darkness. Sitting directly in the center of the room, on a wooden chair, was Mycroft. A single construction lamp provided the only light. Sherlock cautiously strode into the open area, carefully keeping a good distance between himself and his brother.
"Ok, Brother Dear?" asked Sherlock, raising his eyebrows.
Mycroft's mouth made a hard line as his eyes bored into Sherlock's, desperate to tell him what he hoped he already knew.
Sherlock turned and yelled into the air. "Olly-olly oxen free! Come out, come out-wherever you are!"
From behind an enormous steam press walked Jim Moriarty, Westwood suit finely pressed and looking alive as ever.
"Aww, Sherlock, you ruined my big surprise. I was supposed to have a big dramatic reveal-there was going to be confetti. Do you like what I've done with the place? I wanted something more grandiose, but…I suppose this will have to do. What do you think, Big Bro?" With that, he shoved Mycroft hard, sending him and the chair crashing to the floor. When he made no attempt to catch himself, Sherlock saw that his hands were bound behind him to the chair.
"I knew I should never have let him be in charge of getting you here. He always ruins everything, doesn't he?" Moriarty went from cool and collected to kicking Mycroft violently in the chest.
"BIG-BROTHERS-RUIN-EVERYTHING!" he screamed, accentuating every word with a well-placed kick.
"MORIARTY!" yelled Sherlock, desperate to stop the onslaught befalling his unable-to-defend-himself brother. While he no doubt liked seeing Mycroft in distress, this was much too far.
"I believe your beef is with me, so why don't you leave the government's lapdog out of it?" he said, keeping his voice calm despite his irritation and fear. "What do you want?"
Moriarty stopped at once, straightening his tie and walking away from the panting Mycroft on the floor. "I told you a long time ago what I wanted, Sherlock. I want to burn you. Burn the heart right out of you."
"And I informed you that I had been informed by a credible source-though that credible source is currently probably nursing some broken ribs-that I don't have one."
"Oh, but you do Sherlock. You wear your heart on your sleeve. But unlike most men, your sleeve is only worth what people think."
"Do stop speaking in metaphors and get to the point," Sherlock attempted to disarm his monologue.
"The only thing you care about is your mind. And what people think of it. Hence my original need to discredit you. And it worked! I had you killed and it worked. Everyone's favorite boffin detective-a fraud. But then, your STUPID buddy had to go and ruin it."
Sherlock was genuinely confused at this point, which did not happen often. "What ARE you on about?"
Moriarty quickly produced a newspaper from his inside pocket and threw it to the floor near Sherlock's feet. The front page featured a candid photo of John Watson outside 221B Baker Street, with a headline reading, "DOCTOR CLEARS DETECTIVE'S NAME. MORIARTY REAL."
Sherlock suppressed a smile right before a jolt of guilt at seeing John for the first time since his "death."
"So, what? You brought me here to finish the job? Kill me yourself? You knew where I was staying, you hardly needed to bring me here to do it."
"Oh, no, Sherlock" Moriarty oozed, "I'm not going to kill you. You're right, that would have been easy. I told you-I'm going to burn the heart right out of you."
With these words, Moriarty had sidled up to the sheets and yanked them off what appeared to be a television camera with a chair situated directly in front of it.
"We're going to put on a little show. You're going to tell the world how you faked everything. Your cases, your death, your 'redemption.' And you're going to do it all on live television."
"Why? Why are you doing this? You have what you need to continue your work. What's your motive?"
Moriarty hunched his shoulders and smiled flirtatiously at Sherlock. "Haven't you seen 'Psycho?' Motives aren't necessary when you're as mad as I am."
"And what if I refuse?"
"I would have thought that would have been obvious," he said, looking at Mycroft lying upon the floor, blood trickling from his nose.
"Don't do anything, Sherlock, he's bluffing-look at his eyebrows," Mycroft choked.
"He's right, you know," said Sherlock, beginning to pace around the camera, "you would never kill him-you know it wouldn't upset me that much-we haven't got on in years. Also, not to mention the only weapon you're carrying right now is a copy of my Browning in your back waistband, probably for sentimental purposes, but you could have used that ages ago meaning you either have no intention of killing him or myself or you have someone trained upon us from above. Knowing you and your art for theatrics I doubt you'd play the same cards twice, after all, you played the sniper game in the pool, you definitely wouldn't do it again. No bombs this time because you won't risk getting yourself blown up. Which begs the question, 'where is the muscle?' which isn't hard to answer considering the footprints in the dust behind the machine from whence you emerged. So as long as we're being straight with each other, why don't you have the big gun come on out to play?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying and failing at hiding a slight smirk.
Moriarty stuck out his bottom lip and nodded. "You're right, Sherlock. You're just so clever. How could I ever expect to beat you?" His mock upset, turned into a grin. "Go ahead and bring out the 'big gun!'"
From behind the machine walked a terrified and shaking Molly, followed closely by a revolver pointed at the back of her head, held by a man in black.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock-they were at Mycroft's-"
Sherlock's expression had changed the moment he saw Molly walk from behind the machine. His eyes widened as he looked to the floor, running through the options in his head.
"Told you I was soooooo changeable," said Moriarty with a flourish toward the camera. "Better get going, Sherlock-your adoring public awaits!"
"But...you-" Sherlock's mind was racing.
"Do it, Seb," Moriarty's face became rage incarnate, nodding toward the man in black.
The man took the butt of the revolver and slammed it into Molly's jaw, knocking her to the floor, dazed, but still conscious.
"NO!" yelled Sherlock. He started toward her, fire in his eyes, but he was stopped by Moriarty.
"Ah, ah, ah," he said, wagging a finger in Sherlock's face, "you know what to do. Have a seat, and I'll provide you a script."
Sherlock walked slowly to the wooden chair and sat down, never taking his eyes off Molly, who was beginning to stand again, clutching her rapidly swelling mandible. The man in black walked her over so they were nearer to Sherlock, Mycroft still lying on the floor directly behind them.
"Don't you dare hurt her again," Sherlock growled at Moriarty.
"Then do as I say, Peach."
Moriarty reached beneath the camera and extracted a series of cue cards. "Now, Sherlock, feel free to add any artistic flair you'd like-but don't deviate from the story at hand. Ready? Lights, camera, ACTION!"
A red light illuminated the top of the camera, and Sherlock saw his own face shine from a small monitor directly below. There was no doubt that at this very moment his face and words would be broadcast across the United Kingdom, or even farther depending on how angry Moriarty was at the time of his planning. He sat in silence until Moriarty shook the cue card and Sherlock heard a slight whimper from behind him meaning the gun had probably resumed its place behind Molly's head.
"My name is…Sherlock Holmes…and I'm," Sherlock swallowed, "not dead."
Moriarty smiled and dropped the first cue card, revealing another.
"I faked my own death to gain sympathy," another card dropped, "from my lunatic followers and to gain support," another card, "for the cases that I made up in the first place."
Moriarty was smiling maliciously at this point, suppressing laughter at every card he turned over.
"John Watson is a liar. He's just another fanatic trying to," Sherlock stumbled but continued, fearing for Molly, "get into my pants. Don't believe what he's said. He's not my friend. I invented Moriarty and hired the actor Rich Brook to play him. I am a fraud."
At this point Moriarty gave him the thumbs up signaling his completion, but Sherlock continued.
"I was tired of living in my brother's shadow. He's always been more successful than me," Moriarty sat down the cue cards and continued listening, clearly amused by Sherlock's choice to continue.
"It all started when my I was six and my brother was a Boy Scout. At the time I thought it was mundane and trivial, but I am suddenly very glad for those merit badges in knot tying and self-defense."
There was a crash from behind as Mycroft, completely untied, slammed the chair over the head of the man in black, rendering him unconscious. He grabbed the dropped revolver from the floor and tended to Molly, who was on the verge of unconsciousness herself.
"Although he also had one in basket weaving, so he shouldn't get too much credit."
"Sherlock, watch what you say," Moriarty mouthed, being sure to not be heard in the camera's microphone.
"By now you've realized that I'm being comical. Because there's one thing the real Moriarty didn't think of when he was planning this little 'production,'"
Moriarty had retrieved the pistol out of his waistband and was attaching the clip when he hesitated, curious as to Sherlock's words. He looked at him questioningly.
"John Watson? Must really want to get into my pants."
Moriarty's look of confusion lasted only a second before a sickening crack saw him crumbling to the floor. Where he was standing now stood John Watson, a bloodied wrench held in his fist.
"That's all, folks," said John as he hit the button on the camera, ending the transmission.
"John, you really do have impeccable timing. I thought-" Sherlock's words were stopped by John's fist meeting his face. While it was hard enough to give him an awful shiner, he came back up smiling.
"I suppose I deserved that."
"You really did."
"How did you know?"
"Molly told me at the funeral."
Everyone in the room turned to look at Molly, who was a slightly alarming shade of green. Her eyes darted between John, Sherlock, and Mycroft respectively, as she shook her head violently.
"No! No, I didn't say anything!" she squeaked, her head beginning to pound.
"Well, she didn't say anything per se, but you taught me those lie detector things, and I figured it out. I happened to notice her running for Mycroft's on my way home and decided to follow her. Saw that guy grab her, figured there was trouble, meaning you HAD to still be around, and I followed."
"Brilliant," said Sherlock, smiling at John.
"Well, there's a change," John said back, before giving Sherlock an awkward hug, ending with both men sniffing heavily and looking at the floor.
The four moved to the center of the room, Sherlock cupping Molly's face, much to the surprise of Mycroft and John.
"Are you all right?" he asked, his fingers gently brushing the bruise forming on her jaw.
She smiled as much as she could, considering it hurt to turn up her lips. "Yes, I'll be fine. I'm just glad it's over." Sherlock smiled and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, trying not to hurt her. John looked at Mycroft, clearly confused.
"I suppose someone watching that will have called the police by now," added Mycroft, attempting to straighten his suit and assessing the damage of the blood stains upon his shirt. "Nice work, little brother. I see you understood my message."
"Of course, I just-"
They were interrupted by the sound of shuffling as Moriarty struggled to his feet, holding the pistol out in front of him.
"You-won't-win."
The gun fired, followed immediately by Mycroft's which caught him directly between the eyes. He fell to the floor, no longer moving.
Silence filled the room as nobody moved, until a soft thump sounded. John, Molly, and Mycroft quickly turned around as Sherlock fell to his knees, a bright red blossom appearing on the front of his shirt.