To magentacr: The message Sherlock typed and did not send is for Mycroft to read after figuring out the password – it's not meant to be sent. It contains the information that the bomb is in the Shard. I'm sorry for the lack of clarity! The original text had a lengthy explanation which I found boring, so I deleted it … I guess being concise would have been better! :-)

To all readers: thank you again.

Cloudscape

Completely overrated: not much of a view. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

Anyway, he objected strongly to being herded like sheep – which was precisely what the cloudscape was for. Stepping onto the observation deck of the Shard, he had walked straight into an artificial view – an illusion of clouds covering the windows, blocking out the real world. Its purpose was simple: to stop visitors from stumbling out of the high-speed elevator and flocking straight to the panes, clogging the platform and obstructing the view. Instead, you were hustled along, shorn of a steep entrance fee, to climb stairs of steel and glass and fancy red wood, expensive, exotic, and designed to disguise the fact that it was just a sheep fence, after all.

He followed it nonetheless.

Finally, he reached the top of the skyscraper: steel rods and shards of glass reaching into the open sky, the rain and noise of London omnipresent, even a thousand feet above the ground.

Sherlock looked around and was unimpressed. Primrose Hill was much more intriguing at any time of the day. Who would be so stupid as to pay thirty pounds just to stare into a grey sky, above a grey Thames, meandering through a grey city?

A busload of Chinese tourists, it seemed, all gaping and chattering and posing and holding up their smart phones and cameras, filming each other and everything around them, completely ignoring the view.

It was a mystery to him. Why take in the world via a tiny screen instead of using your senses? Why did people travel to the far side of the world only to be obsessed with holding up their phones? Why not enjoy and memorize? He would never understand.

He had said as much to John once, and the doctor had smiled patiently, explaining, 'People don't have your ability to memorize things, Sherlock. I guess they want to hold on to the moment and relive it afterwards, sharing it with their friends. That's why they film it. You know, in retrospect, everything's more glorious than it really was. You forget the long wait, the bad food, the cold weather, the tall guy blocking your view – later, it was all perfect and you love to remember it.' A cutting remark on his lips, Sherlock had suddenly become aware of John's fond expression, clearly lost in a happy memory of his own. So Sherlock had shut his mouth, huffing quietly.

He did not understand; he never would. But it obviously worked for John, so it was good.

Now, however, there was no John and nothing was good: high above London, his feet rooted to the wooden floor and his body surrounded by glass and steel, his mind had trapped itself between fear and hope. The clouds were travelling low above the Thames, shrouding even St. Paul's Cathedral so that the impressive dome was barely visible. Baker Street was too far away and too fog-smothered to be more than a grey streak, and home seemed horribly distant. The faint drizzle was forming drops on the window panes, making them slippery. That bode ill.

He sighed. He had always hated waiting, even if it was waiting for disaster. The Chinese tourists milling about were grating on his nerves with their drivel in Mandarin dialects, and the ever-smiling hostesses in their sharp suits slinking around set him on edge – the first were too loud, the second too silent, and together they were too many to keep track of them, and his instincts told him to cover his back and retreat, but there was nowhere to retreat.

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Moriarty would make his appearance at some point. Maybe he just took delight in seeing him being ground down by the stupidity around him; and maybe his minions were no more intelligent than Mycroft's, meaning it had taken them a while to discover his message, and the Consulting Criminal was simply late. Or maybe Moriarty just enjoyed watching his prey.

Sherlock would not grant him the joy of seeing him shaken. He stood tall, his face set in stone, eyes cold.

Waiting.

Nightfall was approaching, the building was illuminated from within now, and the tourists had left. He felt the suspicious looks of the hostesses on his back, unsettled by the stoic man in the black coat, staring out of the windows, unseeing, unmoving.

The darkness brought doubts.

In his mind, he heard Mycroft's voice, Moriarty is dead, Sherlock. I was thorough.

No. He was alive, and he was here. Moriarty could be disguised as anyone, even as one of the hostesses – he glanced around furtively. No, he was not among them, he might fool an ordinary man, but not him.

His heart suddenly beat faster, almost a throbbing pain in his throat. What if Mycroft was right? What if … what would he do if it turned out that he was indeed delusional, hunting shadows, seeing threats were there were none? Mad?

He swallowed. What would he do? Would John forgive him, help him?

Yes. The answer was immediate and rock-solid. But Lord, the shame, the disgrace, the ridiculousness of it all … and worse, no way to regain his memories, reconstruct what had happened, the phone gone, his suffering wasted …

Doubt. He felt the blackness creeping in on him again, sticking to his mind like pitch, clogging it, dragging him down into desperation.

Suddenly, the hostesses all left. Ah.

Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly and all his senses reached out as far as they could, searching for clues. He forced himself to keep breathing steadily, hiding his anticipation, denying anxiety.

He was alone, no more voices, just sirens and the hum of traffic and wind.

And then … oh, yes.

Footsteps. Slow, amused.

Leather soles on slippery wooden floor, probably Gucci, worth roughly four hundred pounds; the whispering of finest Italian wool … Westwood, again?

No – Sherlock stiffened, a chill running down his spine: there was no amusement in the steps now, suddenly they were hesitant, almost faltering. His eyes widened at the barely perceptible reflection in the window; he felt his blood run cold, rushing to the floor, leaving him feeling weak and sick.

"Sherlock …"

An outstretched hand, apprehensive, reaching but not touching, afraid to spook him like a panicked horse.

Sherlock inhaled sharply. "How did you find me?"

A moment of silence, then the hesitant answer. "I read your message on the wall."

"You weren't meant to see it." Sherlock clenched his hands into fists. "Don't tell me you guessed I would return to Baker Street. I do not believe it."

"And I did not. The clues, leading away from 221B, were subtle enough to be convincing."

"Then how did you find me?"

"I followed Dr. Watson."

"John?" Sherlock whirled around. "You followed John? So he's on the run and not safe? Mycroft!" Sherlock darted forward like an angry tiger. "You swore to keep him safe!" His hands flew up, as if to grab him by the throat, but stopped mid-air.

Mycroft flinched, visibly struggling not to step back from his enraged brother. "John is safe, Sherlock, there is no danger to him."

"Where is he?!"

"It's not important, Sherlock, he's fine. Moriarty is dead. This is about you, brother. You are in danger. Please. Listen." Mycroft held up his hands, hovering an inch over Sherlock's own, still poised to attack. Slowly, he reached for Sherlock's hands, in an attempt to calm him, but Sherlock recoiled, hissing at him, "Don't touch me!"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, please accept help." There was no condescension in his voice, just genuine concern and heavy weariness. His face was the perfect image of calm and sensible, but his eyes betrayed his anxiety.

Sherlock sneered, "You want to lock me up, Mycroft. Is that your idea of help?"

"Brother, please …"

Sherlock was so close, he could see every wrinkle around Mycroft's eyes, the tiny spider veins along his nose, the faint lines of worry around his mouth. He had aged in those three years, and not just physically, Sherlock realized. Suddenly, his will to fight was gone and he felt a huge weight fall onto his shoulders, dragging him down. So he just blinked wearily as the elevator doors slid open and two tall men clad in dark suits emerged, purposefully striding towards him.

"I thought you would have the grace to accompany me yourself, Mycroft," he drawled, "instead of having me dragged off by your minions."

He saw the momentary flash of confusion on his brother's face; then realization struck him. He wasn't even listening when Mycroft turned around, frowning. "These are not my men."

Footsteps, again.

"No. They are mine."

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on Mycroft. He knew what was coming and did not want to miss his brother's expression. If only he could have enjoyed it. Never before, and never again would he see his brother thunderstruck, utterly horrified, and shocked into silence.

Oh brother, if I could spare you this …

"Did you miss me?"

Sherlock sighed and slowly turned towards the newcomer. "No. Not at all."

"Pity." James Moriarty stepped out of the elevator, taking everything in with one glance. He was indeed wearing a navy blue Westwood suit, Sherlock noted wryly, with a matching Alexander McQueen skull tie and Gucci shoes. Hands in his pockets, he ambled towards them, glee written all over his face.

"Maybe you missed me, big brother?" He stopped in front of Mycroft.

Sherlock noticed how pale his brother suddenly was – his lips were almost blue and he seemed frozen in time, staring at the apparition in front of him. Moriarty frowned, bending forward, pretending to poke him but stopping short. "Oh," he whispered, "I think he needs to reboot." He sniggered. "You don't, though, Sherlock. Clever boy. You're not surprised to see me. At all." He smiled at him, almost fondly. "Did you like the little trick with the perfume?"

"No."

Moriarty's face fell. "You're a hard man to please, Sherlock. I thought it was really clever, handing you over to the Americans, having you tortured and conditioned on that expensive smell. It worked nicely, though – you almost killed poor Dr. Watson's wife just because she smelled a bit offensive. Wouldn't you have been happier if Miss Morstan – oh, sorry, Mrs Watson were dead?"

"Certainly not," Sherlock drawled, a hint of disgust in his voice.

"But she snatched your precious live-in from you - I would not have reckoned magnanimity among your virtues." Moriarty smiled slyly. "But then again, you probably blame it on me."

"I do."

Moriarty gave him a hard stare, then suddenly rolled his eyes. "Oh for God's sake, stop being so stuck up. You could at least pretend to be a tiny bit pleased with me. You owe me, Sherlock! I gave you the best case of your life! You've fooled the entire world with your faked suicide, you all but destroyed my network, you've just pulled off a resurrection and you've captured my best sniper! But most of all, Sherlock: you were right and your brother was wrong." He pulled down the corners of his mouth. And suddenly, he yelled, "I HAVE GIVEN YOU YOUR GREATEST TRIUMPH, DOOFUS!"

"I didn't ask for it," Sherlock replied coldly.

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't appreciate it," Moriarty hissed.

Sherlock remained silent.

"Well," Moriarty shrugged, strolling over to the window. "You should enjoy it while you can. It won't be long."

"I expect so."

"You're boring."

"Too bad."

"Indeed."

They remained silent for a few moments, Moriarty's men standing in the background like wax figures. Moriarty slowly turned his head, looking Mycroft up and down. "I think he's defrosted now. He's getting red in the face."

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

Moriarty turned to Mycroft. "So, Mr Holmes, did you at least miss me?" He tilted his head to the side, leaning forward. "I certainly missed you. I remember our encounters very well, in that dark cell, when you had me handcuffed to a chair, watching through that mirror while your minions interrogated me with their fists. Getting nowhere, of course." He sneered. "I was always so looking forward to our little chats, when I wormed the truth out of you, about your little brother." He straightened up abruptly. "I paid in blood, though." Nodding to himself, he looked at Sherlock from under his eyelashes. "Every bit of your life-story was paid for with a good bashing up."

Sherlock sighed in mock sympathy. "If I had known I was so interesting … you could have just asked me, you know. No need to bleed for me." He raised an eyebrow.

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. "Don't overestimate your attractiveness, darling."

Sherlock scoffed. "Modesty most definitely is not among my virtues. Why else would you have gone to all the trouble?"

"I was bored."

Sherlock managed to smile serenely.

"What?" Moriarty snapped at him. His reptilian eyes darted back and forth, hunting for an answer.

"Bored, yes," Sherlock smirked. "Looking for appreciation, too – the frailty of genius. But there's more." He turned to face him.

"And what would that be?" Moriarty kept his voice neutral.

"Envy," Sherlock whispered, and stepping closer, he dropped his voice. "Loneliness."

They stared at each other, hatred and admiration crackling between them like burning green wood.

Finally, Moriarty huffed. "Your pet Watson is overrated. He's loyal, but his mindless drivel would drive me mad."

"Get yourself a dog, then."

"I'd rather have you," Moriarty hissed.

"You've had your chance," Sherlock snapped, "but you preferred to torture me."

"No. No, no, no." Moriarty shook his head vehemently. "You wouldn't break, Sherlock. You never know when to stop – that's your problem, you always have to have the last word, even if it costs you everything. I wanted to see you beg, make you crawl to me, but you wouldn't. You left me no choice. All I could do was destroy you. But then big brother spoiled the fun." Moriarty frowned at Sherlock. "You don't remember, though, do you? All those memories burned away …"

"What do you want?" Mycroft finally interjected, carefully enunciating each syllable. "What is it all for?"

"Oh, listen, he's found his voice again!" Moriarty cackled. "You do know that you were always the real target, Mr Holmes? I only ever got to Sherlock because I wanted to damage the British government."

"Why are you saying this?" Mycroft whispered.

"Don't tell me you didn't know." Moriarty rolled his eyes. "I only played with Sherlock because I wanted to get your attention, to show you what I can do. But then everything changed …" he chuckled to himself, and Mycroft flinched in disgust.

"It was easy. You said so yourself: give him a puzzle and watch him dance. I enjoyed it. I really did. But it was you I was interested in – you, the scheming spy master at the heart of the British government. The Ice Man, always in control. Never shaken. You shook pretty badly when your brother hit the ground in front of St. Bart's, didn't you? How long did it take him to tell you he was alive? An hour? Or longer? I bet those minutes you believed in his suicide were agony."

Mycroft curled his lips in revulsion.

"But when I realized that Sherlock had faked his death-" Moriarty stood and blinked, shaking his head. "I was impressed. Truly, I was." He turned to Sherlock. "What a swan dive. Elegant. Powerful. Risky. That was the moment I decided you, dear Sherlock, were far more interesting than your boring brother. You know no limit. That is so sexy." He smiled languidly. "So I watched from the shadows as you set out to unravel my web."

"How could you just stand by and watch?" Mycroft wondered, not trying to conceal his confusion.

"You don't understand, do you?" Moriarty drawled. "Reason and logic is all you know. Boring!" He raised a brow at Sherlock. "You understand, though." He walked around them, his eyes never leaving the two brothers. "Watching you evolve," he stared at Sherlock, a look of pure relish on his face, "was worth it. Seeing you become something entirely different, so much more like me … I bet you were surprised yourself, Sherlock. Becoming a schemer, a killer, a seducer …" He scrutinized Sherlock's impassive face. "Oh my God," he whispered in sudden realization, mouth falling open. "You don't remember? You don't remember sweet Irina – oh!" Moriarty stepped back, eyes wide in surprise. "That's what you get when you fool around with a self-declared sociopath." He swallowed, scrunching up his face in deep concern. "She's in real trouble because of you Sherlock. Poor Irina." Abruptly, his features morphed back into a cold mask. "You might want to think twice about getting that phone back, Sherlock. Your memories are not pleasant. You're better off without."

"Hardly." Sherlock pressed his lips together, his eyes fixed on Moriarty's hand slipping into his suit pocket.

"There it is!" the Consulting Criminal sang out and produced the shiny black gadget from his pocket. "The phone. Your phone. With your diary." His gaze slid to Mycroft. "I know you'd love to have the data on it. Bad luck."

Mycroft stiffened. "Well, you cannot unlock it either."

"True," Moriarty smiled, "but that's what I've got Sherlock for."

Sherlock raised his brows. "You are aware that I came here to make a deal with you. You can have the data as long as I get the diary."

"Oh, how generous. I don't think your brother approves, though."

"Neither do I care nor is he in a position to object." Sherlock shot Mycroft a cold look.

Moriarty chuckled. "Brotherly love, oh dear. And I thought you had grown closer – after all those phone calls from all over the world. Seriously, do you not remember the nights you called your brother, whining about how miserable you are?"

Sherlock just shrugged, keeping his face blank; not even Mycroft could detect the storm building behind those sea-green eyes. Of course he remembered. The name Irina meant nothing to him, but neither John Watson nor his brother would ever be deleted from his memory. They were etched into his soul.

"Let's get down to business," Sherlock snapped, "you've done enough gloating."

Moriarty huffed. "Always so impatient! You miss the best parts in life if you rush things, idiot!"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm bored."

"Good point." Moriarty shrugged. "OK. Business, then." He snapped his fingers and the two men advanced immediately. "Your brother, Sherlock, is now my pawn. You do understand that he owes me, don't you? I mean," he bent over to Mycroft, "he did torture me. I have to repay that."

"You returned the favour by torturing me," Sherlock spat. "That should suffice."

"Uh … no. No, it doesn't. I'm curious how your brother holds up. I have a bet running, you know? You broke a record with your resilience, Sherlock. I want to know how long it takes to make the Ice Man melt." Moriarty sniggered. He nodded at the two men. "Take him." They stepped forward and grabbed Mycroft by the arms, virtually lifting him off the ground. "Somehow, I don't think your brother is quite as tough as you," Moriarty drawled, frowning. "You put up the hell of a fight on that roof in Russia."

"Got me nowhere."

"True."

Sherlock could only stand and watch as the two men marched his brother off. Mycroft looked pale and drawn, but did not protest – he knew it was in vain; all that remained was to preserve his dignity.

The doors of the elevator closed, and Sherlock caught one last glimpse of his brother, his eyes pleading with him to be sensible and save himself.

Sherlock sighed, feigning calmness. "Where are you taking him?"

"Just a few floors down, to the Shangri-La. Magnificent view, from the hotel rooms. Though I doubt he'll enjoy it."

Sherlock looked down upon Moriarty. "What do you want from my brother?"

"His secrets, of course." Moriarty shrugged. "After all, he is the British government." He started strolling around again. "Aaaand then there's the little matter of the bomb and the conference." He smirked.

"What conference?" Sherlock frowned.

"Oh, come on Sherlock," Moriarty spat, "don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you. You know exactly what's happening here today, that's why you chose this place: the secret meeting of the security heads. It's taking place right here, right now, a few floors below our feet, with your brother on the way to join the fun. The eyes of the Anglo-Saxon world meeting in an Eastern paradise, the Shangri-La!" He scoffed. "Well, in the end it's just a hotel. I bet after all the security talk they're planning to have a bit of a party. I might crash that, though. Imagine what havoc I can wreak." He ambled over to the windows again, staring down at busy London. "Ant heap," he muttered.

"Which you intend to blow up," Sherlock rasped.

"Sure. Mighty fun. Ever done that? Most kids just kick it with their feet, getting ants up their pants." Moriarty sniggered.

Sherlock just wrinkled his nose. "Boring."

"Your are."

"Suit yourself."

"Come on." Moriarty faced him squarely. "Let's play."

Sherlock raised his brows. "What if I just strangle you?"

"You could do that? Oh. Yes." Moriarty smiled. "You could. But then again, there's the gunman. Oh, don't bother looking for red dots in the window reflection."

A man stepped out from behind one of the metal bars rising into the sky, pointing a gun at Sherlock. "I'm still annoyed you took Moran from me. He was so dedicated to his task. A bit like your Dr. Watson. A dark Dr. Watson. Nice idea." He grinned.

Sherlock knew, without looking, that another man had appeared behind him, aiming at his back. "OK," he sighed. "This is getting tedious. I want the diary. You want the code. We can swap."

Moriarty baulked in mock surprise. "You don't care about the information you have gathered? About the criminals of the world, the threat to British citizens?"

"I'm not the Salvation Army. Caring is my brother's job."

"Speaking of your brother."

"Yes. I want him back."

"He might be damaged goods."

"I waive the compensation."

"Fine. What are your terms?"

"Give me the phone, I unlock it, I download the diary, I give the phone back to you. It will self-unlock, provided I call it within thirty minutes. If I don't, it will be destroyed. Obviously I can't just give it to you unlocked. You'd shoot me."

"True. How can I be sure you call it in thirty minutes?"

"I want my brother back, remember?"

"Ah, yes. And why should I not just shoot you while you download the diary from the unlocked phone?"

"It would self-destruct."

"Of course." Moriarty held out the phone. "Go ahead. No rush."

Sherlock slowly took it, his eyes on Moriarty. The cold smile he encountered sent a chill down his spine. He turned away, unlocking the phone. Then he took out his own phone and connected the two. "You can watch," Sherlock said in a low voice, "I imagine you want to be sure I do not download more than the diary."

"Yes, certainly," Moriarty answered, unperturbed. Craning his neck, he watched as Sherlock brought the device back to life, navigating through the folders. The background displayed the London skyline, without the Shard. "Not up to date," Moriarty remarked drily. "But no need to change the picture. It's gonna update itself in a while. By the way, what are you going to do about me blowing up the Shard?"

Sherlock snorted. "I'll be a good citizen and call the police."

Moriarty laughed out loud. "Oh dear, you really have a wicked sense of humour! They'll be too late."

Sherlock shrugged. "Duty done."

"Good point." Moriarty raised his brows as he watched the download process. "My, you've been a veritable Shakespeare, that many files. Ah – finished."

Sherlock showed him his own phone – only the diary was on it. Then he handed him the lost phone back. Moriarty took it slowly, looking at it affectionately. "Sherlock, there's a flaw in your plan."

"And what would that be?"

"I don't intend to stick to our agreement. Much like your brother." He smirked. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'll take both your phones, I'll make the call to unlock you precious spy phone myself, I'll tie you up and leave you here until the bomb goes off." Moriarty smiled dreamily.

"Why not just shoot me?"

"Boring. You can stay here and think on your sins. Anyway, it's a favour - it must be interesting to experience the explosion of a nuclear warhead firsthand."

"There's a flaw in your plan as well," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Oh?"

"Before I came here, I left a message with the police as well as with MI6. An encrypted e-mail. If I do not send a recall code, it will alert them to the danger of the bomb."

"They will be too late," Moriarty grated. "And, frankly, I don't believe you, Sherlock. Your plans were hinged on your brother not knowing about you going rogue. You relied entirely on him, just as you did those last three years. But your original plan failed and Mycroft came here instead of waiting for your signal. So I got him and you have nothing. You don't have a contingency plan. Neither does he."

"Take that risk."

"I will." Fast as lightening, Moriarty snatched the phone from Sherlock's fingers. Then he called over the two gunmen. "Tie him up. And search him for other electronic devices." He turned back to Sherlock, sizing him up. "Don't want to risk anything with you."

The two men advanced immediately. One aimed his gun directly at Sherlock's head, the other manhandled the detective, quickly searching his pockets.

"Anyway," Moriarty remarked, watching intently, "even if you had another communication device, it wouldn't do you any good." He held out Sherlock's phone: it read no signal. "I've jammed all signals. State-of-the-art military technology. No one gets a word in or out. We're back to stone age."

Sherlock was roughly dragged over to the metal railing running along the sides of the observation deck. He did not resist – it was pointless. With the first man aiming the gun at him, the other slapped handcuffs on his wrists and secured his arms to the metal railing, forcing him to his knees.

Moriarty strolled over to him. "Any last words?" he asked, bending down to stare him in the eyes.

Sherlock just looked back blankly.

Moriarty grinned, his eyes glittering. "So, the rest is silence."

Sherlock tilted his head up, his eyes cool and grey. The Consulting Criminal shrugged. "Admittedly anticlimactic, this ending. I would have expected more of a fight from you. More brilliance. But we all burn out, don't we? And without John, you're just not the same." He shrugged. "I'll miss you anyway, Sherlock," he drawled and walked over to the elevator, stepping into it. The two gunmen were quick to follow, keeping their weapons trained at him every single moment.

They must be really nervous, Sherlock thought idly, his eyes following Moriarty's every movement.

Before the doors closed, Moriarty saluted him – and there was no mocking in it. "Ciao, Sherlock. See you in hell."