J. The End

Good and Evil were never concepts that had much meaning to me. I did what I did for the British government and I did not think of any good other than its continued existence and success. But Good and Evil had meaning to John Watson. To him, Moriarty would be considered evil. But would I be considered good? Somehow, I don't believe that I would.

That night, I got a call. Sherlock was to be arrested, but he had threatened a police commissioner with a gun before running off taking John as his hostage. The final move had been played. I went to the office, and put out a call for any information on the location of Sherlock, John, and the foreign killers known to be in the area.

I was told that two of the killers had been assassinated on the streets of London by an expert using a high-powered rifle. The data suggested a very particular assassin, Sebastian Moran, the best marksman in Great Britain. He was last known to be working for James Moriarty.

I bit my fingernails. The streets were crawling with police, CID, and foreign agents, all searching for Sherlock. I knew that they wouldn't find him in time. I checked my phone often waiting for his call.

I tried to work, but after reading the same line for the fifth time I realized that I would get no further work done, so I left and went to the Diogenes club. I walked into the lounge to find John waiting there for me. He sat legs crossed in a large leather chair waving some papers in his hand.

"She has really done her homework, Mrs. Reilly, with things that only someone close to Sherlock could know." He said looking over his shoulder at me.

"Ah" I said hesitating in the doorway. Of course John would find out. I should have expected this. I closed the door.

"Have you seen your brother's address book lately," John said. The forced calmness of his voice contrasting with his wrinkled brow. "two names, yours and mine and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me."

"John..." I tried to explain, but I could not find the words.

John's voice had an edge of panic. His mock friendly tone not quite masking the anger and fear which bled out of his shadowed eyes and tense mouth. "So, how does it work then your … relationship? You go out for a coffee now and then eh? You and Jim. Your own brother and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

I sat still in my chair. A deer caught in headlights. " I never inten...I never dreamt..."

"This, you see this, " He stuttered, "is what you were trying to tell me isn't it? Watch his back because I've made a mistake." I had often wished, in the days since Moriarty's release, to spend some time face to face with John, but now I found it difficult to meet his gaze.

He slammed the papers down on the table, then sitting back in the leather chair, he blew out a breath. John looked up at me then as if this were an entirely sensible conversation, not the crucifixion that I knew it to be." How'd you meet him?" he asked.

"People like him, we know about them, we watch them. James Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket the ultimate weapon, the key code, a few lines of computer code that could unlock any door."

John glanced up in thought. "And you, abducted him to try and find the key code?"

"Interrogated him for weeks," I replied.

"and..."

"He wouldn't play along. He just sat there. Staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up." I gestured to my chest. " I could get him to talk just a little, but …"

"In return you had to offer him Sherlock's life story. So it's one big lie, 'Sherlock's a fraud', but people will swallow it because the rest of it's true." John put his finger to his lips, then he leaned toward me. He lowered his voice, but each word that he said rings clear in my memory. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, and you have given him the perfect ammunition." John said giving me a little grin that was anything but happy. I swallowed.

At that moment, I knew that something between us had broken that could never be repaired. I had failed him. Protecting Sherlock was the one thing that kept the two of us together. I had shown that I couldn't be trusted to perform that simple task. He rose from his chair and turned to go.

I called out his name, "John." He looked back at me, and I shuddered to see the disappointment in his eyes." I'm sorry," I said. But he shook his head laughing that hollow laughter.

"Tell him would you?" I begged, but he had already walked away. His footsteps echoing as he stormed out of the room and out of my life forever.

The next day I received a call from Scotland yard. Sherlock was dead. I asked if I needed to identify the body, but they said that someone else, Molly Hooper, had already done so. I told them that I would make arrangements to take custody of the body and plan a burial.

I went home and tried to sleep. I stared at the bouncing head of the dog toy beside my bed until I felt tired, but whenever I closed my eyes, I saw the same image replaying itself in my head.

I remembered a curly-haired boy tears pouring down his face as he stood beside our mother's casket. I was not crying. Because I was older, I tried to look dignified. My father came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. A gesture that was very uncharacteristic of him. He said to me, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft."

The next morning Sherlock's face was all over the papers. They called him a fake detective. Said that Moriarty was really an actor. It made no sense, but then... people believe what they want to believe. People believe what they are told.

Moriarty had also committed suicide. Wiping all of my pieces off of the board with his death. His one final blow against me. I had lost everything.

But it isn't losing that has broken me. My problem is that I have fallen for the one weakness that I warned Sherlock so strongly about. The weakness of caring.

You think that I am shattered because of my brother's death. You think the guilt of my role in his death has disturbed me so that I can no longer work. The truth is that I don't regret the choices I made. My only regret on that score is that I was tricked into giving something for nothing, that I lost the game.

Sherlock knew the way the world worked. He could have been a player, but he chose not to, and therefore he was a pawn. Moriarty maneuvered him into a corner and he died. I greatly regret his death, but that is all part of the game. Sherlock understood it as well as I.

No, it isn't Sherlock's death that has broken me. That has made it almost impossible for me to do my work. The reason that I find myself depressed and unable to go on. The reason that I sit in my office immobile staring at the door, is because I know that no matter what I do, no matter how long I wait, John won't be coming through that door again. He'll never again drop by for a 'cuppa', or phone me up to tell me about his day. He won't smile when I come into the room, or look at me with eyes full of compassion and acceptance. John will never trust me again, perhaps never even talk to me again, because I killed Sherlock.

I don't know what is right or wrong anymore, and for the most part, I just don't care. I feel... No. I can't say what I feel. It is not the custom of Holmes men to confess their feelings to anyone. Not even to the one they love.