A/N:And so it comes to the end… After this, I fear only one chapter remains.
I used a lot of musical impressions to find the right mood to write the different parts. If you haven't youtubed Sherlock, Irene and Sentiment, you should go do that. There is this beautiful video of the couple to the song of the Dead Island Trailer Music which hits home every time. Read this first and then yt it.
The song I've included in this chapter hopefully helps give a sense of the pace of the piece.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.
Chapter 20: The end crowns the work
Sherlock's dark gaze wandered from John's form to The woman in her glass cell.
It was unusual and unsettling to see her as the captured prey instead of the victorious predator. The remorse still shone in her wide, pale eyes, asking him for forgiveness. Speaking without words, the man tried to make her see that there was nothing to forgive. Gratefulness flashed through her eyes and she managed a slight smile as she moved to stand up.
The detective could see the daze clear more and more in her features, and with it came a dark realization. As she stood on her feet, her piercing gaze told him everything he needed to know. The four walls of the glass tank were bullet-proof, and if Sherlock attempted to save her life first, it could mean less time to stop the bomb attached to John's chest from exploding. If it went off, they'd all be dead. Also, she was plainly aware there was nothing that would prevent the brilliant man from turning to his best friend first. Irene smiled in encouragement and he managed a battle-worn grimace in return.
Sherlock then turned his attention to his friend's unfortunate trap. The blond doctor had seen the unspoken conversation between his friends and distractedly shook his head in the detective's direction. Sherlock ignored the look in those frightened eyes, inhaled deeply and stepped towards the first hurdle.
He hadn't even taken three steps towards the small platform when a cheerful tune began somewhere in the background and filled the basement. The detective rolled his eyes at Moriarty's adolescent humor as he recognized the song that echoed loudly between the cellar walls. Tragedy by Bee Gees. Not exactly music to die to, perhaps, but certainly a sick joke on the others' behalf.
He filtered out the song as he rushed up onto the platform and stood before John. He swiped the duct tape away from the man's mouth and met his friend's gaze to make sure everything was still alright. John's expression was tense but he managed a sharp nod in unspoken reply. Now that he had come this close, Sherlock noticed how his friend's fingers and knees trembled in fright. The detective wished he could tell his friend all would be well, but the time frame had him focused on his task instead. It was, after all, better to speak through action instead of mere words.
"Remember, Sherlock: Five minutes!" Moriarty called as he lurked in the shadows between the two traps.
Here I lie, in a lost and lonely part of town.
John chuckled humorlessly. "Bee Gees. Of course. I'm going to die to the Bee Gees. You know, you'd think I'd be used to the unusual… but I never thought I'd die to the Bee Gees, Sherlock."
The detective placed his hands on either of his friend's cheeks and shook him slightly to make him refocus. "You're not going to die, John, do you hear me?"
"You always figure you'll grow old and die of age. Wife by my side, kids… maybe even grandchildren. Oh, God, Sherlock! What about Mary... and the baby?"
Held in time, in a world of tears I slowly drown.
"You'll see them again. I promise you, do you hear?" Sherlock leaned down and gazed at the bomb attached to the doctor's chest. It was attached by thin, metal chains and intricate knots, and he grimaced in annoyance. This wasn't a bomb he would be able to remove like the bomb jacket, this time he'd have to stop it manually. At the center of the doctor's chest sat a metal shield with a digital display and a small keyboard below. "Help me think, John!"
The blond man drew a shuddering breath, "W-what do you need? Have you found the wires?"
Going home, I just can't take it all alone.
Sherlock inspected the difficulty before him. Of course Moriarty would plant a mental obstacle before a physical one. "They're covered behind a digital lock."
"Oh, son of a-" John began furiously and closed his eyes tight. He clenched his hands into tight fists and tried to calm himself down, though it proved harder than he wanted to admit.
"I know, I'm not playing fair!" Moriarty cooed.
I really should be holding you, holding you, lo-oving you, lo-oving yoooooooou!
Sherlock pretended to ignore the criminal as he gazed up at his friend once more. "I need a four letter word to unlock it… How much time do I have?"
John listened and shrugged, "He's just reaching the first chorus, I'd say a minute and a half before the song is halfway done. But I don't know!"
Tragedy, when the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy.
The detective's mind raced a mile a minute as he attempted different possibilities for the correct password. With Moriarty's mind as the inventor of this code, it could be any sick, twisted thing they had encountered in the past. It was still, however, constructed for him to figure out, obviously.
When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear.
"Trouble, dear?" the sneaky criminal asked from somewhere behind the detective's shoulders. "It's a tricky one but I can give you a hint. The code is the reason we've come to this point today, though I doubt you see it that way…"
John sneered like a cornered animal and glared at Moriarty before he confidently turned his eyes back to his best friend. "I trust you, Sherlock. You can figure it out. You always do."
"Irene, suggestions!" the detective ordered without raising his gaze.
"I... I don't know!" her hesitant voice barely rose above the chorus. "Tragedy. Eh, s-song, pain, gain. Game. Whatever it is, it's clearly personal. Think with your heart."
With no one to love you, you're going nowhere.
Though the pressure of the situation snuck into his lungs and chest, Sherlock kept his head cool. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine how the odd quirks of Moriarty's mind worked. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he attempted to solve the mystery.
Game... Mind... John... Fini... Jim M…
Tragedy, when you lose control and you got no soul, it's tragedy.
As he typed in one wrong answer after another, Sherlock felt his frustration grow strong within his chest. The impulse to wring Moriarty's neck tenfolded with each wrong attempt. A second after having typed in his fifth wrong answer, an unexpected noise interrupted the high pitched singing. It sounded like an engine slowly humming to life and the sound came from somewhere behind him.
When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear.
Both Sherlock and John looked over at Irene's cage as she yelped and looked down at something at the bottom.
"What's going on?" the blond man hollered and gazed at the smirking Moriarty before turning back to the woman. Whatever was coming, it would be bad, and the clock was steadily ticking down to their demise.
With no one beside you, you're going nowhere.
Sherlock squinted his eyes and glanced down at the space around the woman's feet. Water. The tank was swiftly filling up with water and suddenly it all made sense to the detective's mind. Moriarty had trapped her in a mysterious, body-sized aquarium designed to be her final resting place. The mad man meant to literally quench the fires which burned so strong within her.
"It's freezing!" the woman gasped and moved towards the glass, as if searching for someplace to hide from the flowing liquid.
Moriarty rolled his eyes as he walked over to her cage. "Duh... That was rather the point of the poem, my dear. Fire and ice."
"Hey! That's cheating!" John hollered furiously. "We can't have heard half of the song yet!"
"That would depend on the appendix to my rules, wouldn't it?" the criminal questioned as he circled the game field. "Ms Adler's watery grave takes about a minute to fill, while you will blow up in considerably less time, Mr Watson. Though… did I forget to mention that five wrong guesses sets her trap off earlier?"
"You said I'd have more time!" Sherlock's anxious gaze was on Irene who was already trapped hip-high in water. He noticed her lower lip was quivering from the cold, but other than that she seemed the epitome of calm. Her palm pressed against the glass as she met his gaze with courage and bravado.
"Well, you won't. So you'd better make the most of the time you've been given. By my calculation, you have about a minute left to save your precious John. But perhaps, you'd like to vent some more frustration first?"
Night and day, there's a burning down inside of me.
The detective threw a seething glare in the mad man's direction before hurriedly turning back to the task at hand. If he could solve the code, perhaps he could stop this before Irene was completely beneath the surface. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to remember everything about his relationship with Moriarty that could be considered personal. What could possibly be the cause for them being there today? The end which the man wanted to achieve was obvious. That still gave him very few ideas to figure out this mental puzzle.
Clue… Fire... Dead… Bomb… Fall... Kill… King...
His attempts kept being erroneous and he grimaced in anger as the Error-sign flashed on the screen over and over. The song in the background was rising towards the second chorus and did little to help Sherlock's furious mind. If Moriarty had chosen the song to drive him insane, he had chosen wisely.
Burning love, with a yearning that won't let me be.
"Sherlock," Irene's strained voice reached his ears and he glanced back at her. The slim woman floated in the water close to the top of the water-filled tank. She was struggling to get oxygen in the small air pocket that remained and her eyes met his with a dark sparkle to them. "Impress a girl…"
As she finished her sentence, the tank filled to the very brim and submerged The woman entirely beneath the water. John released a despaired cry as Sherlock felt his own heart come to a screeching halt. As her oxygen seized, so it seemed his own supply vanished and left his struggling to focus. He watched as Irene floated attempted to kick the walls to break free.
"Stop!" the man shouted, hoping she would hear him through the walls and the water. Her angry movements seized as she met his eyes once more. Though he saw defeat in her eyes, he begged her with his gaze not to give in just yet. He needed her to preserve her energy now. "Please, Irene."
Down I go, and I just can't take it all alone.
The dark-haired woman put one of her slender palms against the glass. There was evident panic in her gaze, but she had calmed for him.
Sherlock turned back to the bomb and the code. One thing at a time, he reminded himself. He had to find a way to stop the bomb before the time was up and all of them would be blown to dust. Then he'd worry about his woman.
John's quaking voice spoke in a low but frantic voice, "Sherlock!"
"WHAT?" the detective was losing his patience.
"What if the Bee Gees is the answer? Think about it."
"You're going into shock- No, you're right. A brilliant conductor as always! When the feeling's gone and you can't go on. Burn my heart out. Full circle. The reason! Moriarty's attempts to destroy me have been focused on using my biggest disadvantage; my heart, so…"
I really should be holding you, holding you, lo-oving you, lo-oving yooooou!
Sherlock swiftly typed in what he hoped would be his final attempt. Love.
A green light flashed on the display and there was a low click as the lock opened. The detective hastily threw the piece of metal aside as he exposed the plentiful amounts of wires below. A small, red clock showed him he was swiftly running out of time. He finally found the blue wire he was looking for and tugged on it. The red clock before his eyes stopped ticking down.
Tragedy, when the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy.
As John exhaled in relief, the detective withdrew the gun from his pocket. Even as his friend attempted to jump back, he fired a single shot at the point on the platform where the chain was attached. Sherlock saw the bullet hit its mark as the chain loosened and John fell backwards. The detective didn't stop as he swirled around to face his next hurdle.
When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear.
From the corner of his eyes he noticed Moriarty slip into the shadows of the room as a cowardly lion prepared for the worst. Sherlock rushed over towards the water tank and gazed at the woman within it's watery hold. Her eyes were closed and her body simply floated aimlessly in the tank. There was no response as he called out her name and he feared the worst.
With no one to love you, you're going nowhere.
Without hesitation, Sherlock did the calculations in his head as to the weaker points of the glass, backed up and aimed at those areas.
Tragedy, when you lose control and you got no soul, it's tragedy.
He fired one bullet and it lodged itself in the glass, making a small, but noticeable crack in the material.
When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear.
The detective continued like this as he rushed from side to side until he had emptied his gun on all four glass walls, creating visible cracks all around the tank.
With no one beside you, you're going nowhere.
He threw his gun aside, shrugged out of his coat and ran a couple of steps back. He hoped it would be enough. If it wasn't, he'd have little to no time to think of another plan.
He ran straight towards the cage and in the last second, threw himself at the weakest point of the glass. Sherlock bounced back. He cursed loudly and heard Moriarty's menacing laughter echo in the dark.
The detective squinted at the tank, though he hadn't managed to break the glass, the crack in the side that faced him had grown considerably after his leap towards it. Sherlock ran back and took aim once more. This time he ran faster and threw himself harder at the glass, with his elbows up for protection.
This time, the glass did break due to the cracks it had received as well as Sherlock's weight.
Tragedy, when the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy.
The man felt the glass break and ice cold water slammed against his shocked body. Though his eyes were closed tight he still felt the woman's body against his own as they fell to the cold, concrete floor with shards of glass all around them. Despite the wind having been knocked out of him, the adrenaline kept Sherlock running as he sat and gazed down at the drowned woman on the ground.
When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear.
Irene's skin and lips were pale to the point of translucent and her eyes still remained shut. To Sherlock, the woman seemed simply to be resting, as if lying safe in his bed at Baker Street, instead of on the concrete floor before him.
With no one to love you, you're going nowhere.
The man's gaze wandered down to her chest, expecting to see it rise and fall with her every breath.
Tragedy, when you lose control and you got no soul, it's tragedy.
When it didn't, Sherlock jumped into action once more. He shuffled closer, crossed his hands and put them over her heart as he started to give her chest compressions.
John suddenly appeared in his peripheral line of vision and pushed the detective out of the way with a strength Sherlock wasn't aware his friend possessed. The blond man had managed to break free from the bomb and now sat safe and well between Sherlock and Irene's body.
When the morning cries and your heart just dies, it's hard to bear.
"I'm the doctor!" he shouted and it was plain he had moved out of his shocked state of mind, and he wasn't about to move from his new position. "I'll help her, Moriarty's yours!"
With no one beside you, you're going nowhere.
Without further ado, John restarted the compressions on Irene's chest and there was no room for debate. Sherlock hesitated a beat before he jumped from the ground in search of his coat and the criminal master mind. His friend had been right. It was time this ended, once and for all. The detective's eyes traveled across the enclosed space in search of his enemy and found Moriarty in the far end corner by a hidden back door to the basement.
Sherlock picked up his coat where he had tossed it aside and shrugged it on as he walked closer. For the first time that night, it seemed the consultant criminal was the trapped one.
(Aaah!) Tragedy, when the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy.
"Problem, Jim?" the curly-haired man asked and circled his enemy to make sure his focus remained on the detective and not on his friends.
When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear.
Moriarty's hand was on the door knob and his back to the detective as he replied, "I had hoped to take this finale to another venue…"
With no one to love you, you're going nowhere.
"Yes…" Sherlock nodded and stopped a few meters behind Moriarty. "Did I forget to tell you I had prevented Plan B? I made sure you wouldn't be able to escape this time, Jim. And don't bother trying to contact your henchmen. Inspector Lestrade seemed quite eager to help with those. See, I know how your mind works... We're the same, remember?"
Tragedy, when you lose control and you got no soul, it's tragedy.
Jim inhaled deeply and then swirled around to face his nemesis seemingly without a care in the world on his impassive face. He brushed off his jacket from imaginary dust and shrugged his eyebrows. "Escape? No one's trying to escape, Sherlock. You know what kills me though? I nearly had you this time. No, I did have you right where I wanted you... I made you show your heart, I made you weak."
When the morning cries and your heart just dies, it's hard to bear.
"No, Jim," Sherlock argued. "I was never weak. I have plenty of strengths, if you're referring to those."
With no one beside you, you're going nowhere.
Moriarty chuckled heartlessly. "Either way… This is the final game. And your strengths won't save your heart this time. From the looks of it, I won after all." In a fluid motion, the suit clad man withdrew a small gun from his pocket and aimed it straight at the other man's heart. The detective's face faltered as he took a step back. "A bit more blunt than I had planned it, I admit… When you see Ms Adler in hell will you give my love to her?"
Tragedy, when the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy.
Without further ado, Moriarty pulled the trigger.
"Sherlock!" John's pained shout echoed in the room as the coat-clad man fell heavily to the ground.
When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear.
The consultant criminal chuckled to himself. "For all the wonders of his mind… for everything he was prepared to do for you and Ms Adler… he forgot to protect his own life. It's sad… seeing the end of such an amazing mind. I think I'll miss him. But don't worry, John. I'll be alright."
With no one to love you, you're going nowhere...
The music slowly died out in the background, seemingly to mourn the fallen detective as well. Moriarty walked up to the still body of the genius detective and glanced down at it, before stepping forward, his eyes now on the blond doctor. "It's funny. I had rather thought this might happen. You surviving, while the others died… But I'd prefer to be the only survivor as it is. So, if you don't mind…"
John swallowed as he saw the gun in Moriarty's hand slowly rise to be aimed at him.
"… Didn't anyone ever tell you not to get ahead of yourself?"
The words seemed to echo in the concrete room and the criminal froze. Slowly, as if not doing so would keep him in a dream state, he turned around. Behind him, Sherlock had stood up from the ground without a single drop of blood anywhere on his body.
"Sorry to disappoint…" the detective cooed lightly and raised his right arm. In his hand rested a small gun that had previously been hidden in his left coat pocket. "Goodbye, Moriarty. I will see you in hell… But not today."
The detective's eyes stared into his nemesis' wide ones for a second before he pulled the trigger.
The criminal fell to the ground, a bullet between his eyes. This time, however, Sherlock was certain it was real. Jim Moriarty was dead, no tricks or hidden mirrors. The tall man slowly stepped towards the fallen one and saw the lifeless eyes gaze into the nothingness of the afterlife. Sherlock exhaled as he felt a strange sensation hit him. He had managed what had seemed to be an impossible feat for several years now. His nightmare had finally ended, and Moriarty's reign of terror was over. The criminal wouldn't return from beyond the grave a second time. It was over.
Sherlock glanced down at the hole in his own shirt where the bullet had hit him. He was glad his ingenious plan had worked. Yesterday, when he had been stuck waiting the inevitable shift in time, he had deduced 13 possibilities for the final game. The basics had been easy. He first had to ensure the mad man had no chance to escape, for surely such a venture would have ended quite differently than this one. The henchmen's location hadn't been difficult to figure out when he'd learned of the location and Lestrade had more than willingly offered his help. The bullet-proof vest had been an easy guess, since Moriarty had taken such a liking to his heart as it was.
The detective raised his gaze from the dead consultant criminal and mentally let go of him. He directed his entire focus instead on Irene and John further away under the pale lights.
"Sherlock…. You have to call an ambulance!" the blond man breathed and his gaze lowered to the woman lying motionless on the floor beside him. The doctor jumped into action once more and breathed air into her lungs. Sherlock wasted no time as he ran over and threw himself down beside them.
"Is she breathing?" the tall man reached out for her cold arm and John watched him on baited breath.
"Please call! Hurry!"
The detective followed the doctor's orders without questioning and called for assistance. The woman on the phone promised the ambulance would be there shortly and Sherlock hung up before she could say any more. His heart felt as if it was held together by a simple thread as he anxiously watched John attempt to revive the woman on the ground. The logical part of Sherlock told him too much time had passed, but he silenced that part without thinking on it.
It didn't take long until John's attempts grew weaker and suddenly the sound of his sobs was the only noise that echoed in the basement. The blond man raised his head slowly and a tear rolled down his cheek as his desolate eyes gazed up at his friend. For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt the cold hand of shock take a cruel grip around his throat and he froze. He opened his mouth to ask, but found he had lost his voice, too.
With a slow, fumbling hand, he reached out for Irene's wrist once more. Her skin had all but dried but was still icy cold under his touch. John watched the hope die out in his friend's eyes as he dropped the woman's wrist back onto the floor.
The blond man swiped at his tears and hurried around the body to sit beside his friend. He tugged on Sherlock's shoulders, hoping to turn the man's unblinking eyes from the woman on the ground. He tugged harder until he managed to turn the tall man's head into his shoulder and held him close. John wasn't sure if he was to expect tears or a tantrum or nothing at all. For the moment, shock seemed to control the man, as the impassive mask remained firm on Sherlock's long face.
The detective wasn't sure how long the two sat like that before the medics came rushing into the basement. As soon as they touched Irene, Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat. He pulled himself from John's grasp and reached out for Irene's arm, unsure as to why he felt a strong aversion to the medics taking her from him.
"Sherlock… they have to move her," John whispered, but the man shrugged away his hands. He tried to focus on the world around him, but the harder he tried to make sense of it, things seemed to become more hazy. He shook his head in refusal. If they took her, it meant…. He didn't much like to think about what it meant.
"She's dead, brother," a firm and familiar voice suddenly spoke, breaking through the traumatizing haze which surrounded the man. Slowly, Sherlock raised his eyes and saw his elder brother crouched on the other side of the woman's body.
"Mycroft…?" he managed.
"Let her go," Mycroft continued and this time his voice was softer and almost caring. With a firm hand, he eased Sherlock's grip around the woman's pale hand. "It's time to let her go, brother. Pull yourself together."
The curly-haired man nodded slowly as the words hit home. The haze which surrounded his mind cleared somewhat as he let John and his brother pull him away from the medics who hastily wheeled the body of Irene out of the room and out of his life.
The sounds of the recent occurrences seemed to echo and linger like bittersweet memories in the vast void of Sherlock's heart. Then there was but darkness in his mind.
As John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street, the blond man didn't know what to say or do to handle the enigma which was Sherlock Holmes in mourning. The man's reaction had thus far been quiet and impassive. There was sure to be plenty of thoughts swirling around inside his brain, but none which he could read in the man's expression. What storm raged inside Sherlock was a mystery to all but the man himself.
John slowly followed his friend as he walked up the stairs and into the living room, where the taller man stopped. He simply stood in the darkened room and made no move to remove his coat. The blond man walked over to turn on the lamp by the armchairs. As he did, Sherlock blinked and slowly took in his surroundings before he stepped over towards the window.
Through all their friendship, John was sure he'd never seen his best friend this out of tune with everything around him. Even though his shoulders were squared and his posture straight, the blond man had a feeling he was gazing at a broken man. Though there were no tears streaming down Sherlock's face, the flame which used to burn in him seemed to be permanently extinguished. There was perhaps no grief, but there was no life either. Irene had died and the man's heart had stopped beating along with her. John felt his own heart break for the man and dried his tears in silence.
The doctor pondered whether or not there was something he could say or do, but there seemed to exist no words that could reach the abyss of Sherlock's grief and even if there did, John wasn't sure he knew them. Maybe this time it was better to let the tall, private man come to him for help instead.
John was pulled frown his thoughts as his best friend suddenly leaned forward on heavy arms against the window sill and let out a shaky, heartfelt breath.
The detective spun around then and sought out his friend's gaze for guidance. Tears streamed from Sherlock's eyes and the man seemed unsure what to do with his physical reaction. The haunted look on the pale man's face told no lies; he had lost something he could not replace. He had lost The woman and there was none like her.
"Oh, Sherlock…" his friend breathed and crossed the room in two wide steps. He pulled his friend close in a comforting hug and felt the other man's arms wrap around him in rough sadness. The friends swayed together in this embrace a couple of long seconds while tears streamed down both their faces.
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry, John," the detective managed eventually between shuddering breaths and moved to pull away. "I don't know what… how to… How do I…? I've never-"
"It's okay… sch…" the other man assured in a gentle voice and let his friend get the space he needed. John led the man over to the leather armchair and gentle pushed him to sit down.
"I-is this normal?"
John shut his eyes tight and nodded. "Yeah… Yes, Sherlock. To be sad when you've lost someone you care about… It's perfectly normal."
"What…" The man's voice broke and he cleared his throat before he continued, "…What do I do?"
"One day at a time," John promised and squeezed his friend's shoulder. "We'll take this one day at a time."
Sherlock sniffled and dried the last of his tears.
To be continued.