WOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Sorry this took so long!

It seems that, once and awhile, even I have a life!

Hope you all haven't forgotten about this fic (I know my attention span is that short-if people didn't review I would have lost interest along time ago) and I hope this chapter at least half makes up for the delay.

:)

There was an app on Jim's phone that allowed one to spy into 221b Baker Street via a camera hidden somewhere on ceiling corner.

Molly 'accidently' opened it.

Multiple times.

It wasn't all that interesting, really, Sherlock was hardly ever there and when he and/or Doctor Watson was/were still not much happened.

(The most interesting thing that did happen was when John Watson came upstairs to give Sherlock some file to look at and Sherlock refused to give it back. And then twenty minutes later they argued about something that he had just typed up on his laptop.)

But fearing that Sherlock had somehow deduced that she had been in contact with Jim Moriarty, Molly kept checking the video feed (as if it would actually give her a clue into Sherlock's mind).

She kept watching.

One day, while Sherlock and John Watson had left town for a few days on a case, Molly watched as four men in black suits (that looked very familiar) marched into their flat.

James's employees.

They proceeded to disperse among the different rooms; Molly could see one began to tear apart the couch (and then the bookcase and then so on) as if searching for something.

What were they looking for?

But then, much to her wide-eyed surprise, Molly saw two more people enter 221b (who also looked very familiar).

It was a woman, first, who looked up from her smartphone to check the room before she made way for the man behind her to climb the stairs and walk into the living room.

Molly recognized this woman as the skirt-suited woman (Molly was not going to call her a 'bitch') who had forced her to leave Sherlock's place awhile ago and the man as the professionally polite man who had accompanied Sherlock to the morgue early Christmas morning…

…Sherlock's brother, Mycroft!

Molly gasped, almost dropping Jim's phone.

So that woman and those black suited men were working with Sherlock's brother?

Sherlock had mentioned to Molly the other day (thinking that he was talking to John) that his brother worked, in some capacity or other, for the government.

Had it been Mycroft who had had Jim captured?

(That would explain how he had the power to commandeer an entire train station, having the full force of the British government behind him.)

But if Mycroft was the one who had caught Jim (Sherlock's enemy)…

…then why was he searching the flat of his own brother (Jim's enemy)?

Molly stared into the screen, confused.

(Well then again, Jim and his brother James didn't really get along…so it shouldn't seem too strange that neither did Sherlock and his brother Mycroft…should it?)

(But wait. Weren't Sherlock and the government (and so Mycroft) supposed to be the 'good guys'? Didn't that mean they should cooperate and do, you know…good things…?)

(…And what if James and Mycroft were working together?)

Before she could figure out what Mycroft's mysterious motives could be, one of his employees located Jim's hidden cameras, pulling it down from it's perch and handing it to his boss who examined it for a moment before stuffing it into his pocket.

(Jim would have made the thing 'untraceable' or something, Molly reasoned, or else she'd be the next one to get picked up by Mycroft's men for having Jim's phone.)

The video feed was black now.

But just before, in the few moments Mycroft had held the tiny camera up to his scrutiny, Molly saw that he had that same all-knowing look in his eye.

"Tell me another story, James."

Mother could recite entire books from memory, speaking in monotone, without intonation or facial expression, as if she had no idea what the words she said meant.

(Oh but she would read, when father was around, cuddling Jimmy close to her and in the jovial melody of her voice the stories would become real.)

"No."

"Read me one, then?"

"Jimmy, you know how to read."

And he had known for four years now, having learned he was just three.

For Jimmy's own protection James had built him a 'playpen', surrounding him with walls of stacked books on all four sides, to hold him when mother wouldn't (couldn't) and father wasn't there.

He had never expected to return home from school and see little Jimmy there, reading from some novel (picked up at a church sale) aloud to mother who parroted back the paragraphs, neither of them seeming to understand what they were saying.

"It's not the same when I read as when you read…or when mummy reads."

And it really wasn't.

"Ask her, then."

Oh, James, don't be cruel.

"She's with the Numbers. She can't."

Mother was gone.

Father was gone.

Father was gone and so mother was gone.

"Does that make you sad?"

"…I don't think so. I'm not sure."

"What do you feel?"

"Nothing…"

"Pretend, then."

"…the stories, James…?"

"Yes?"

"They're not real, right? None of them are true…"

"Right. They're not true."

"Then that makes them lies, doesn't it."

(Children would never understand that nothing is ever so absolute.)

"Not everything that isn't true is a lie, Jimmy."

"Then what is a lie?"

"Anything can be a lie and anything can be true… if you tell it right. Truth and lies are nothing. All that counts… is believability."

And when the lights came on in the dark interrogation room, a week later, Mycroft could see the white walls painted with the name.

Sherlock.

(Sherlock. sherlock. Sherlock. SHERLOCK. Sherlock. sHeRlOcK. Sherlock. ShErLoCk. Sherlock.)

Each repetition, (varying in angle and size, each drawn with care), occupied its own space on the canvas—none of the names overlapped.

How Jim Moriarty had accomplished this 'masterpiece' (in the darkness without any paint or paintbrush) Mycroft did not know.

(And there wasn't much that Mycroft Holmes did not know.)

But Moriarty had done it.

It was almost like black magic…

And the names:

Sherlock. sherlock. Sherlock. SHERLOCK. Sherlock. sHeRlOcK. Sherlock. ShErLoCk. Sherlock.

Sherlock.

They were like a warning.

Foreshadowing for the troubles to come, black clouds gathering in the blue sky—threatening (promising) rainfall.

Mycroft took a deep breath and then opened the door to the cell.

Moriarty smiled at him.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" he greeted, "I was expecting your visit any day now! Don't you just love what I've done with the place?"

Mycroft glanced around the room and then rumpled his nose in disgust.

"Graffiti." He sniffed.

"Or, modern art, one could say." Moriarty grinned, "What's the difference, really?"

"Indeed." Mycroft couldn't help but smile, however falsely (sadly), "Both are tasteless, classless…but only one defaces government property."

It had been a mistake, of course, agreeing with Moriarty.

He started into one of his snickering fits again, going so far as to bend over and slap a knee.

"You know, Mr. Holmes." He sighed when he was finally finished, "I'm really beginning enjoy these chats we have about the arts, about life…we don't always see eye to eye but we do still have that one important thing in common and that's all that counts…so, 'Mikey'…Friends?"

Moriarty extended a hand for Mycroft to shake.

Mycroft folded his arms (a little too defensively).

"People like us don't have 'friends'." He stated.

"Ah, I understand…so nothing personal, then?" Moriarty interpreted, retracting his hand and then using it to slick back his brown hair.

"Of course not." Mycroft feigned, moving his mouth into a position similar to a smile.

Moriarty mimicked it.

And then, again, he bared his teeth.

"So I suppose your setting me free now…" he began, casually, "…so that I'll eventually lead you back to the source of the code you so desperately want."

"Astute as always, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft nodded.

"Well," Jim shrugged, heading past Mycroft towards the open door, "A deals a deal."

Mycroft followed him out into the hall, watching him (eyes a bit wider than normal in mild surprise).

Anthea was there, smartphone in hand.

"Mr. Moriarty." She addressed.

"Yes, dear?" Moriarty asked.

"We will provide you with discreet transportation back to London." Anthea told him, looking down at her phone.

"Thanks… but no thanks." Moriarty decline, "I'll find my own way home."

How Jim Moriarty would accomplish this, finding his way home (when he did not even know where he was or how he had gotten there, being blindfolded), Mycroft did not know.

(And there was not much Mycroft Holmes didn't know.)

But Jim would do it.

Just like black magic.

He'd find his own way home, Jim had told them.

But 'home'…where was 'home'?

Did he even have one?

(He didn't even have a Holmes yet, but he was working on that…)

Homes were so boring…so normal…

So…

(what was that word Mycroft had used again?)

(…'Ordinary'…?)

…Ordinary…

(Yes, 'ordinary'. Ordinary because even saying 'normal' now was too normal…too ordinary. And 'ordinary' was a much more interesting word.)

Being trapped in that dark room all alone (oh, what a poor baby he was) had given Jim time to think.

A lot of time.

And during his deep ponderings, pacing around in the darkness, Jim had come up with a plan.

A devious, devious plan…a plan so devious that Jim couldn't help but snicker when thinking about.

It was perfect.

Mycroft had been 'dropping hints' throughout their entire conversation; references to numbers, math, computers, money…

('mathematical constant' 'twenty' 'fourteen' 'polymath' 'rich' 'machine' 'programmed')

…trying to see if Jim would have a reaction. If he would somehow 'give away' the code with his facial expression.

When Jim didn't react, that, of course, 'gave away' that Jim wasn't the one who had created the code.

Which, in turn, lead to Mycroft being forced to set Jim free, as he needed to find out the creator and the code.

But also, coloring his monologue were other little motifs that Mycroft (probably without even realizing it) had been telling his tale with…

('different' 'same' 'Game' 'played' 'power' 'gods' 'fall')

…the very metaphors that painted the portrait of Jim and Sherlock's life.

It was true art, griot Mycroft's story had been.

And because 'truth is stranger than fiction' and 'life imitates art' is what they always say…

(And whoever 'they' are, they're always right.)

…Jim resolved to make Mycroft's story real…or, perhaps, fictionalize reality (either one was true) so that everything would be perfect.

Beginning.

Middle.

And End.

All the characters (heroes, villains, supporting) were already in place and the rising action was already well developed.

All that was left was the climax (and Jim was not going to snicker at this word) and then, the falling action.

That was the way stories were told.

The rise and then the fall.

And there always did have to be a fall.

Because they (whoever 'they' are) say that 'all good things must come to an end' (—and they're always right)…

…and all good stories must come to and end, lest they become bad.

And boring.

'Time flies when you're having fun' they always say (and 'they' are always right).

Jim was certainly having fun.

But even he knew that it couldn't last forever, this 'Game' of his with Sherlock Holmes.

Sooner or later, it would get boring.

And so, Jim had to end it before it did. Give it the perfect, 'fairytale ending' he and Sherlock's story deserved.

All that began with Mycroft.

And the code.

And James Moriarty.

(After all, 'a deal is a deal' they say.)

"Stop." Sebastian Moran said as he got out of the taxi parked in the middle of the road, blocking Jim's path, "You can't be here."

('Here' was miles away from where his employer James Moriarty was but still a location that could possibly be used by Mycroft Holmes to deduce the direction Jim was headed in and so whom he was going to see.)

"It's a free country!" Jim countered, "…well at least I thought so, anyway, until Mr. Holmes arrested and detained me indefinitely, employing various illegal methods of torture…hey, why did that all happen to me, again? Oh yeah. Because J—"

"Don't use the name."

"Oh, don't be so paranoid, Sebby-boy. It's not like anyone can actually hear us. We're in the middle of nowhere!"

(And they were…

…Jim had walked along the train tracks through kilometers of countryside towards London (although London had not been his destination and so when he saw certain 'landmarks' he would veer off on course to his intended target)…

…But somehow Moran had found him and driven up the long country road to meet him.)

Jim, 'happy' to be 'free', spun circularly in the fields (seeds just being planted in March), his last sentencing shout that echoed in the early spring air.

He fell backwards into the grasses below him, closing his eyes and waving him limbs as if he was making a snow-angel.

"They can hear us." Moran stated, pulling Jim up sharply by the collar and glaring at glaring at him, trying hard not to shake him, "And they are watching. You know this…They followed you and you know it. They're not far behind. You're trying to set my employer up."

"He did the same thing to me." Jim reasoned, wrenching himself from Moran's grasp and then dusting off his shoulders.

"You did it to yourself." Moran corrected, "He tried to warn you. He tried to protect you."

(And he was right, of course.)

Jim raised an eyebrow and changed the subject.

"What are you even doing all the way out here?" Jim inquired, leaning an elbow against the taxi and stifling a yawn, "You follow my br—I mean 'our friend' everywhere?...Even out to his little place in the country that 'nobody' knows about, where he goes to think?...I mean I figured you two were 'close' and all, but, really, what could he possibly need you all the way out here for, anyway? Taking care of his plumbing?"

"For protection." Moran answered, face unaffected by Jim's comments, "And to keep you away."

"Sure," Jim grinned slyly, words long and drawn out, "Right."

"I'll give you a ride back to London." Moran said, gesturing to the cab, "Get in."

"No thanks." Jim yawned, "I'm not going to London…"

"Yes, you are." Moran declared, frustration beginning to seep into his words despite his attempts to keep it out of his voice.

"…Nope." Jim denied, elongating the 'oh' sound.

And that's when Moran realized it was because he was tired, not because he was just playing the disobedient child.

Sighing and almost rolling his eyes, Moran opened the door to the back of the taxi.

"Yes, you are." He repeated and- as lightly as possible—shoved Jim inside, quickly slamming the door behind him, then getting into the driver's seat and pressing the locks for the entire vehicle.

Jim didn't put up much of a fight.

And on the long ride back to London he slept.

"Where is he going, sir?"

"Into that building. To that woman's flat."

Mycroft (who normally never did the 'legwork' himself) and Anthea stood at the window, binoculars up to their eyes, watching Moriarty get out of a taxi and walk into an apartment building.

It was all positively archaic.

The lack of cameras and computers in favor of physically following their target and just watching.

Now that there was an all-access code to everything, cameras and computers were no longer safe.

Jim Moriarty's black magic.

"The woman from the station?"

"Yes."

"Do you think she's the one who created the code?

"No."

"Why not, sir?"

Anthea turned away from the window, lowering her binoculars, to face her employer.

Mycroft continued to watch through his binoculars even though Moriarty had long become invisible, somewhere inside Molly Hooper's flat, out of sight.

"Because if that woman had been the one to create the code then Moriarty would not have 'agreed' to just lead us right to her."

"So she's a diversion, then?"

Taking a breath and turning towards Anthea, Mycroft composed himself as if he was going to deliver a divine revelation, and his statement was going to be some brilliant (even more so than usual), secret insight into the unknowable human mind (no—heart).

"Yes…" he said, "for us, and for himself..."

It was a day and a half after Mycroft had confiscated the hidden camera that Molly returned from work to her flat to find Jim Moriarty sleeping on her couch.

She didn't even notice him at first, she made it all the way into the kitchen to see the empty vase on the counter and then she knew.

Molly thought Jim would sneak up on her, emerge from the shadows like a demon just so he could laugh at her when she screamed…but no, there he was, stretched out with Toby curled up on his chest.

Eyes closed, he almost looked peaceful…

It was the first time, Molly realized, that she had ever seen him without some extreme expression on his face.

She stared at him for along moment, from across the room, not speaking, not moving, not even breathing because she didn't want to wake him.

But it was already too late.

Jim (a heavy sleeper unless it was quiet) had heard her before she even opened the door.

He opened an eye.

"Molly." He greeted, the usual grin in his voice and returning to his lips.

"J-Jim!" She squeaked in surprise, even thought he hadn't actually surprised her and she was already looking right at him.

Perhaps it was just out of habit that her eyes widened and her mouth formed an 'o' and she startled a little whenever she saw him.

She wasn't scared of him, really, or shocked to see him (not anymore) but she knew she should be and so she pretended.

However, she did have an excuse, this time.

Jim had been dragged away by (James? Mycroft? James and Mycroft?) professional-looking men in black suits, shoved onto a train (along with a hundred people to prevent him from a escaping) that took him who-knows-where and then been missing for the past three weeks.

It wasn't like she had actually expected to see him again.

"I let myself in." Jim yawned, stretching, "Hope you don't mind."

"…I don't." Molly responded, walking around the counter and towards him, staring at him like she didn't believe he was really there.

Jim sat up, displacing the cat who hopped down to the floor and followed Jim as he started around the sofa towards Molly.

"God, I've been here all day just waiting for you to get back...it was so boring..." he groaned, "...I used your shower-hope you don't mind that either… and then think I might've fallen asleep."

Molly just stared at him.

Jim looked as if he hadn't shaved in days (no-weeks), changed clothes or even slept. He had dark clouds hanging under his eyes (no rain, though, no tears) and wasn't even wearing any shoes.

And yet he was just standing there, nonchalant and grinning as ever.

He raised an eyebrow after she had been staring too long.

"What... happened to you...?" she asked, concerned but cautious.

"Do we really have to talk about this now?" Jim inquired, rolling his eyes as he approached her, "There are so many better things we could be doing..."

"I just—you…" Molly stammered but trailed off.

Toby was rubbing against her legs and then Jim's arms were around her, pulling her close while Toby circled them both.

Jim obviously didn't want to talk (about what had happened to him (or about anything)) Molly 'deduced'.

Because he was kissing her.

It was different than at King's Cross…less dramatic.

Molly broke away, suddenly—but only as far as Jim's arms around her waist allowed her.

"I have your phone!" she declared, pulling it out of her labcoat pocket, "I kept it safe!...It's been getting calls and texts nonstop, I don't know if that's normal…"

Molly placed the mobile-phone, already vibrating again, into Jim's hands the same way he had given it to her.

He refused it; pushing it away and Molly back towards the kitchen counter that he then placed it, past her, on.

"Not. now." Jim said and brought his lips back to Molly's before she could protest.

And so they ignored the buzzing on the countertop.

"…It was Sherlock's brother who took you, wasn't it, Mycroft…?"

"Very good, Molly! You're becoming quite the little detective, aren't you? How did you go about 'deducing' that?"

Afterwards, they were lying in her bed.

'It' had been different this time, yes.

This time he hadn't left.

"I—"

"No wait. Don't tell me… You checked my phone…"

"…Yes…I'm sorry… I just-"

Molly was demurely beneath the blankets and Jim was deliberately not, 'making a show' of himself they way he 'made a show' of everything.

(…or…)

Molly, shy as always and ashamed without excuses, was hiding herself under the covers, while Jim was making no unnecessary effort to conceal what had already been seen anyway.

(Both were correct.)

"You're not one of those crazy, stalker, paranoid girlfriends, are you, Molly? Always jealous, always suspicious… Because I do not need another one of those. Girls like that get on my nerves. And you do—"

"No I'm not—I would never—I just—I was worried—I didn't know-!"

"Jesus, Molly, I was just kidding. Calm down…"

Jim was grinning at her panicked, stuttered exclamation.

He just loved to see Molly get all flustered, she knew.

(…is that why she kept doing it?)

"I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for."

He was talking to her like she was just a child.

Jim knew Molly, who nobody ever took seriously, hated it.

(But she should have known that he hated how she always, always apologized.)

"Where did they take you, those men? How did you get out?"

"I dunno…a kingdom far, far away, I guess. And they let me out… In that order."

"What? They just 'let' you out?"

"Yeah."

"…Why?"

Jim shook his head and shrugged.

"I thought we weren't going to talk about this…"

"What if they—"

"They're not going to come here and take me again. Or you. No one is."

"But James said—"

"James can kiss my ass!… I'll be talking to him tomorrow."

"...okay…"

"Any more questions? Concerns?"

"Well, I was just, um, wondering and all…why do you two have the same name?"

Jim snorted, jerking his head back.

"Mummy was a whore. It was the only way she could convince daddy we were his."

Molly tried not to drop her jaw, at this.

It was just another one of Jim's jokes again; his strange, cruel sense of humor was nothing she wasn't used to.

Of course, though, it wouldn't be polite to laugh…

And so she widened her mouth and eyes anyway.

"…or maybe…" Jim added, closing his eyes and leaning back comfortably with his arms folded behind him, "…she was just trying to stock up on something she was afraid she'd lose…have a bunch of extra James Moriarty's running around, just in case, one day, daddy didn't come back."

"How many are there, then? Just you and your brother…or have you got a lot of brothers all named James?"

It was supposed to be a joke.

"Just me and James…there used to be another one, though, a long time ago…"

Molly should have known better than to make jokes.

"…I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that. I hate it. 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sooo sorry'…They're just so damn annoying. It's like you're apologizing for being alive! For existing…I don't ever want to hear you say those two words again, do you hear me, Molly?"

Jim was sitting up now, waving one arm wildly in expression and jabbing a finger towards Molly's face.

Molly gasped, startling and scooting away from him (how she knew should have been) instinctively.

Another one of his outbursts; these were nothing Molly wasn't used to.

And yet, her eyes still widened in surprise and her mouth opened in shock.

(She was so close to saying it, too, saying 'those two words again' instinctively (because out of habit she apologized for everything she did just like she was apologizing for being alive, for existing.))

But as soon as she did Jim grabbed both sides of her face and pulled it to him so he could kiss her before she could.

"He's going into the library, sir. We should send someone inside to follow him and see what he's doing there."

"No. He would notice."

"Well we can't just pull security footage or anything, now that he's got that code, he'll just delete it. And whoever created that code will know we're looking for him…so what do we do? What can we do?"

"…nothing."

Jim was surprised when the taxi (who Sebastian Moran 'just happened' to be the driver of) pulled up in front of his favorite 'hang-out', King's Cross train station.

But when Jim got out of the car and started towards the station, Moran rolled down the window, stuck his head out and said, "No, the library," before driving away.

And so Jim went there.

He strolled up and down different floors and different isles of shelves, occasionally picking up some book and flipping through a couple pages before tossing it aside and walking on.

Jim finally found James in one of the private reading rooms, a stack of texts piled around him and a wall between them once Jim sat down at the table across from him.

And it was so quiet.

"You contacted me." Jim stated, the silence and the suspense killing him, "…Just what do you want this time?"

"Do you remember," James began, from behind the books, "when I used to read you stories—"

"And tell me lies?" Jim completed, "Yes."

"Good." James continued, "Then you should remember why I told you these stories."

"I'm sorry," Jim yawned, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the table, "but I seem to have forgotten."

"Let me remind you, then." James said, "Stories. have. morals."

"I don't." Jim snorted, "…we don't."

"These do." James declared, gesturing to the books which he picked up one by one, showing their covers and titles to Jim, "The story of Echo and Narcissus. Its moral; don't fall in love with someone who doesn't notice you, and, don't fall in love with your own reflection…"

Jim rolled his eyes.

"So I see you're on speaking terms with Miss Adler, again." He 'deduced'…

…incorrectly.

"As far as I knew...The Woman was dead…" James replied, stroking his beard, "…Interesting to know that she is still able to 'speak'."

"She's been dead before, you know," Jim shrugged, "And you'd be amazed at what she's still able to do…"

Jim raised his two eyebrows two times suggestively and then it was James's turn to roll his eyes.

He took a breath and continued:

"The story of Prometheus. It's moral; don't take what doesn't belong to you, don't play with fire, and don't cross the Gods…The story of Icarus. Its moral; don't fly too close to the sun. You'll burn, you'll fall…"

"The story of the Little Engine That Could." Jim added, with a chuckle, "That's my favorite. Its moral, well, 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again'…crazy, right?"

"Insane." James agreed, flatly.

"Kinda like shutting somebody up in a dark room, alone, over and over again…" Jim mused, "…and still expecting that somebody to be afraid of the dark. Afraid of being alone, afraid of the silence…"

James tried to look Jim in the eye but Jim looked over at the long window, watching the tables and shelves and people as if waiting for something.

"No men in black suits are going to come carry me away." James scoffed, "Jim, you should have known better than to try and set me up. You should have learned your lesson the first time."

Jim looked back across the table at James, who he could barely see over the books.

"You of all people, professor, should know that I'll never learn." Jim smiled, sitting back upright and sliding the offending objects of his way so that he had a clear view of who he was speaking to.

Some of the books turned diagonally, out of line, out of order (and into chaos).

James, stiffening, quickly returned them back to their straight, neat stack and then sat comfortably again (all is right with the world again).

"Besides, morals aren't real." Jim went on, "It's all just fear. Fear of punishment for doing something 'wrong'… No, please daddy, please mummy! Don't put me back in time out! I'm sorry! I swear I'm sorry... It's not real. People with 'morals', 'good' people are just scared. Just scared little babies, pissing their pants, too afraid to have any fun…Me, I'm not scared. I'm not scared of anything, big brother, not even you."

"You were…once." He James sighed, shaking his head, "And once I believed I could actually teach you. That you'd actually learn. But now, now I know better…And so, these stories, these morals, are the last pieces of advice I am leaving with you. So you'd best learn these lessons, little brother and learn them well."

"You're talking you're dying and these books are my only inheritance," Jim commented, "You planning on doing a 'mummy', James and leaving me all alone?"

"No." James stated, "And yes. In that order."

"…What?" Jim questioned, confused and taken aback.

"I'm not going to be the one to 'die', Jim." James explained, "You are. Jim Moriarty is going to die."

"I, for one, sir, beg to differ." Jim countered, overly haughty and self-righteous in a way James recognized was meant to mock his demeanor.

"Jim Moriarty is going to die." James repeated, "Jim Moriarty is going to cease to exist…after years of trying to scrub the old bloodstains out of our name and then, once I finally did, stop you from drowning it all over again …I finally learned my lesson."

"And that 'lesson' was?" Jim asked, an eyebrow raised.

"That you're right." James stated, "You'll never learn. And so there's really no point in my trying to teach you…Instead, from now on, you and I will have no contact—

"Like we ever did."

"—whatsoever. You can do what you please and I will not interfere…just so long as do not use the name Moriarty."

Jim rested his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm, considering James's words.

"We never really got along, did we, brother?" Jim inquired, "After all this time…why disown me now?"

"Because," James took a breath, "I am done playing games. You win."

"You can't just forfeit like that!" Jim whined, "There's no fun in winning if your opponent just gives up!"

"And now you can play all the games and have all the opponents you can possibly desire and manage." James informed, "I won't stop you. You can even go after Sherlock Holmes or the entire British government and I won't stop you…as long as you don't use my name…And it is my name, now, all mine…"

"Your name?" Jim snapped, "Not so fast. What if I don't agree to this?"

"I will be the only James Moriarty." James declared, "One way or another."

"But you wouldn't kill your only brother?" Jim, wide-eyed, whimpered, "Would you, James?"

"I wouldn't." James confirmed, "But you're not my brother anymore."

"Then what's my name?" Jim asked, "If not Jim Moriarty, if not your brother…who am I?"

"That is for you to decide, dear boy." James answered, "I'm done being your 'keeper'."

"Finally I'm free!" Jim exclaimed, applauding, "Thank you, thank you, James for setting me free…but there's just one problem. I can't just change my name—my entire identity- like that."

"Yes you can and you will." James countered, smiling, "You have the technology, my code—which is yours now, by the way, since I'm certainly not going to share it and I don't take back hand-me-downs—and you have your imagination. You've always been such a good liar."

"But you've always been the better storyteller..." Jim reminded.

"Well, I'm sure you'll find a way," James said, standing up from the table to be much taller than Jim, "Like the moral of your favorite story goes, 'if at first you don't succeed, try, try again."

With that, James Moriarty exited the reading room. Jim, too, stood and watched him walk away past the bookcases, through the long window.

Once he was gone, Jim looked back down at table, covered in books of various sizes, colors and (of course) titles, stacked squarely and neatly.

With one arm Jim swiped the wall of books, toppling their structure and sending them flying (and then falling) in all directions.

One of them, an old book of fairytales by the Grimm Brothers, landed at his feet and so he bent to pick it up.

This was one book (and so many stories) that James had actually never read to Jim.

Jim decided to check it out.

...ooOOOooh!

We're almost to 'The Reichenbach Fall' episode...

...uh oh...

lol

Oh, god, the suspense!

What will happen next?

Oh yeah.

Jim and Sherlock die.

Pity, really, I kinda liked them...

...oh well.

Can't wait...or can't wait for this story to be over?

And do ya'll want an AU/Speculation afterwards?