Thank you for all the reviews. I would really appreciate it if I could get at least 450 reviews by the end of this chapter, so please take a second to let me know what you like/dislike. It would also help with writing the future chapters.

Only three chapters left now. . .

Please note that at 10:08, the tense changes to present. From now on, Rena will be telling her story as it happens, not as it happened.

And please. Please. Please. Review.

X,

Mistro

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

My eyes were searching for something, but they did not know what. As the carriage continued to wheel up the steep edges of the Alps, my fixation with the forest floor beneath us grew. Sherlock knew I was keeping my eyes at a distance in order to avoid him. Hurt and confusion were the only things to linger inside of my pupils, and each time he glanced at me, I felt more exposed than the last.

"At least the weather is promising," John snickered as the horses struggled to make their way over an ice patch. "Being on the side of a cliff with nothing but ice on our sides should make any man feel like a hero."

Simza smirked, her spirits suddenly up. Her brother would be waiting for her… although most likely not looking the same as in her memories. "The heat of bodies dancing together at the ball should be enough to melt the ice away." Her voice was soothing, almost romantic. "Women in hundreds of layers and men secretly dabbing their brows beside the bar." I tried to mimic her smile, but my face could not move. I was as silent and chilled as a gargoyle.

Something drew my attention from the opposite side of the carriage. Sherlock's fingers were pressed against the side of the wall in order to hide from our companions' line of vision. They snapped quietly to get my attention. When I rolled my emerald eyes towards his face, I was surprised to see that he was gazing directly outside. What is he trying to express? His fingers pointed slowly towards his coat. His eyes then met mine in a flash.

There was something in my pocket. I had not felt any intrusion since our last meeting, but with Sherlock Holmes, you had to presume sneakery in all aspects of life. With poised confidence, I slid my ringed fingers into the furry pockets of my black coat. They pricked against the edge folded paper, warm and wrinkled to the touch. With as much stealth as I had acquired over our past adventures, I slid the note out and glanced at the writing atop.

Read when you return to Mycroft's.

"What's that you're holding, Rena?" John's natural curiosity slinked off his lips and put a jump into my bodice. I quickly tucked the sheet back in its original position, fearful of what the contents might say.

"Just a note of purchase left over from when Mycroft bought the coat, I suppose." My voice shook as much as the carriage wheels, but we were heading over rocky paths and the hesitancy was well hid. "I wonder… are we almost-"

"Here, Mister Holmes." The voice of the driver conveniently answered my question before the thought passed my mouth. With a click, the door opened smoothly, leading us out into our heaven of candle-lit paths and snowy trees spreading across miles.

My eyes darted over the mountaintops, amazed by their splendor and glory. They were the Gods of nature, their armor being their rocks and their smiles extending across the base of the earth. The snow continued to gently fall atop of them like a blanket draping over their shoulders in the night. My breath caught inside of me. It was the most beautiful sight I had seen in many years. The nighttime comforted me as the deep, green trees echoed of a snowed-in Christmas Eve many years ago. I could almost taste the peppermint on my tongue and the sweet smell of cinnamon erupting from our countryside kitchen.

"Renadale."

Sherlock waited for me on the ground, his hand outstretched and firm. I had not realized that I was the only one left in the carriage. Though the night was chilled, I could feel the heat rushing onto my cheeks. "Thank you," I mumbled and politely took his hand. Once on the ground, Sherlock kept me firmly in place.

"Please read the letter when you return to Mycroft's." Something dark passed his eyes as he spoke.

"What is so important that you cannot tell me yourself when we all return?"

Sherlock did not answer right away. His hands dug into his pockets, feeling around for something. My eyes could not make out what it was before his voice distracted me. "There are instructions in there that must be followed. I need your word that you will see them through."

I could feel my entire body tense. Another errand for Mister Holmes. It was like we were returning to the days of my housecleaning work. My tongue felt as sharp as a guillotine. I wanted to lash out and accuse him of crushing my heart, but his chocolate eyes looked frightened. Perhaps more than I was. I did not know the cause. "I promise." It was all I could manage to say.

Sherlock nodded his head gently as a token of his appreciation. His hands were not as firm when he shut the carriage door; I saw them shake beneath the tips of his sleeves. His back turned on me as it had many times that evening and he headed for the final confrontation.

"Why did you leave?" Oh, Renadale. You foolish girl. "Why… Why did you leave me?" I heard my voice crack under the heavy weight of my heart. Sherlock turned the moment I began to speak, his face twisted with sorrow and regret. No touch he offered me was comforting, no look he gave me was enough to mend my confusion. "I know what we did was wrong," my voice became softer as couples making their way inside began to catch our eye. "We are not sinners, you and I. And yet you left as if disgusted, as if horrified of what you had seen."

"Surely you do not think that was the case." His voice was bewildered, almost angry if I detected it correctly. "How could anything about you disgust me?" I knew he was speaking genuinely, but it did not answer my questions.

"Then why did you leave me?"

Sherlock's mouth opened, prepared with an excuse. Perhaps it was going to be elaborate. Perhaps he would make up a lie. Instead he could not find the words. His attitude had completely shifted into a man that I hardly recognized. "I cannot explain to you at this moment, but Renadale you will know why I left in time." His words softened, but pain still lingered in the corner of his eyes, the frown of his mouth and the wrinkles on his forehead. Each feature was perfectly preserved in my mind to bring me warmth, but I was fearful the image was starting to crack under a chill. "My reasoning would not make sense to you at this moment, but I need you to understand…" His head cocked to the side as he let out a heavy sigh. "Saying 'no' to you is the most difficult experience I believe I have ever come across."

The accusations and hurt continued to fall out of me, like every insecurity was setting free from the cage of my mind. "What of Irene Adler? Does it relate to her?" I should have been frightened by how quickly his face dropped when I said The Woman's name. Her red presence danced around us. That sweet, American giggle kept ringing through my ears.

"No," he stuttered. "Irene is not…" His hesitancy once again should have startled me, but I thought nothing of it. "Irene is no longer in the picture."

Not knowing precisely what he meant, I disregarded the comment and took his word to be truthful. I could hear how stupid I sounded, but my heart was shattering along with each drop of snow that fell to the ground. "You do not know the pain I felt when you exited my room. The embarrassment, the hurt…"

"On the contrary," he whispered. "I think I know quite well. Perhaps more than you realize." His voice shook as his hands gripped the sides of my face. His skin was warm against mine, and not a single space lingered between his palms and my skin; we were a puzzle piece that fit together no matter how dented or bruised. "Renadale, there will come a time when you will not see me. There will be a day when you wake up and I am no longer beside you." Tears, those rare creatures that visited Sherlock Holmes's eyes perhaps once every ten years, began to fall like steady raindrops. "Do not think for a second that I have not dreamt of you, fought for you, or loved you with all that my twisted soul could muster up. You have given me a life, Rena. You have loved me and for that, I am…" He stopped speaking and let his head fall. I stared, dumbfounded, at the top of his head. Why was he speaking of old age? When he said I would wake up without him, we would surely be elderly and tired. Of course I did not fear that day. Why is he acting so strange? "I am grateful."

"Sherlock-" I reached out for him, but he stopped my words with a gentle press of his lips to my hand. My train of thought left the station and I was left with an empty platform.

"Do not show your affections for me this evening or you will be targeted. All of our lives are in danger now. We only have this one chance." His lips swiftly pressed themselves to my cheek. Then he wiped his tears, straightened his tie, and entered the room as if nothing had occurred.

Little did I know that it was the last time Sherlock Holmes would kiss me.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"Mother… father… Will I ever attend a real ball?"

As my skirt brushed against the checkered marbled floor, I knew I was entirely out of my comfort zone. A grand staircase, like ones drawn inside of my fairytale books, stood before my eyes and it frightened me to know that I was going to walk up it. People would be watching me.

"Well, Renadale. There are always dances, if not balls."

I stood closely behind Watson as an elderly gentleman etched our faces in his mind. He began to flip through a well-pressed book, his finger landing gracefully upon a black and white photograph. His hands were gloved in white fabric. I wanted to soak it all in, because somehow I knew that I would never attend such an elegant ball again. "Aha, Doctor Watson. Welcome."

"But father, I would like to attend a gala ball… wear a nice dress and a headpiece."

If I was going to look the part, I had to play the part. My chin jutted out and I playfully gave the gentleman a wink. He looked startled, but playing the part of a primadonna was more fun that originally imagined. "Miss Renadale Adkins," I said smoothly. "I'm sure you'll find me somewhere in that book."

"That all depends on your relations, dear. Marry well and you will have as many dresses as you'd like. And diamonds to wear atop of them."

The old man scoffed in surprised, his fingers flipping rapidly through the book. My nerves were boiling up towards my throat. What if he didn't have a photo of me? How would Mycroft even attain such a thing? And then I remembered: Sherlock had planned most of this out. Perhaps he had slipped him a photograph on the eve of John's stag party. My fears were not relevant. Two moments later, the man extended his arm towards the top of the staircase. "Of course, Miss Adkins. Welcome to Switzerland."

"Judith, darling… Perhaps we shouldn't be putting such grand notions into the girl's head."

Each step that I took up the staircase allowed for the orchestral tune to grow louder in my ears. Johann Strauss. "Wiener Blut". The song was familiar from my childhood, as Strauss was a favorite of my father's. The song was a perfect opportunity for a waltz, but as I listened to the tune of the violas, deeper and less entrancing than the main melody, my mood shifted into one of hesitation. Even Strauss could not sooth me. Tonight was going to be dangerous. And nobody dancing in his or her pastel silks could see it coming.

"She's a child, my husband. Who knows where her path will lead?"

My feet were taking me on a path towards the edge of the ballrooms. I received a few raised brows from young, handsome men in army ensembles. Knowing full well that I had to keep my character, I flicked my fan open to spread its lace design, batting it to toy with their emotions. This only seemed to intrigue them more, and it was not my intention to have one of them suddenly make their way over to me.

"Perhaps she will be an author or an inventor… A grand lady doesn't seem to fit our darling Renadale, does it?"

"Care to dance, my lady?" The man, or 'boy' rather, extended his hand as if I did not have the option to refuse him. Something about his manner reminded me briefly of Thomas. His eyes were as blue as the woman's sapphire dress beside me and his hair as blonde as a newborn child. With a firm nod and a keen desire to keep my character going, I reached for his hand and pulled him out onto the dance floor.

"No, papa, I would love to be an inventor, but mother is right. A lady would not be so horrible."

Why had I done that? The boy's eyes were digging into my soul and I found that I did not have the strength to look back at him. "You are a shy English girl, is that it? Something about you told me that you were not entirely easy to win over." He questioned as we waltzed our way easily into the circle. I couldn't help but remember Sherlock teaching me on the deck of the ship. The feel of his arms. The heat of his body. The smooth turns of his feet.

The thought was only a memory.

"I am English." I tried to make my voice as posh as possible, hoping to fool the boy. I could not pick up on his accent… It seemed German or perhaps Austrian. "But your notion of me being shy is entirely wrong."

"Renadale, you will always be a lady. You are as beautiful and intelligent as they come. I know that whatever path you choose, you will catch everyone's eye."

The boy caught my eye once more, a smirk lingering on his smooth lips. He was incredibly handsome, but something about him was too fair. The dark and mysterious were missing. He was not… Holmes. "Perhaps I will have to linger beside you this evening and find out for myself which traits you possess."

"Or perhaps she will stay with her Uncle." Someone's firm hand grabbed my arm and tugged my away from my partner. The boy looked appalled and slightly embarrassed. Mycroft's face was not so forgiving. "Sorry dear chap, but I'm afraid she's rather important in the lines of our business and will need to focus on the relations she came here to build. Unfortunately, you are not one of them."

The boy bowed quickly, realizing that Mycroft had a higher position at that party than himself. With another hesitant glance towards me, he slinked back off to the sidelines, planting himself perfectly beside an even younger girl in a pink dress. He was quick to forget about me, and with my birthday only a day or two before, I suddenly began to feel old.

"Making new friends, Rena?" Watson's tone was mocking. I didn't bother to respond with words or gestures. Instead, I glanced to Sherlock in order to gather his opinion on the matter. He was not paying attention. His eyes were fixated across the room on a handsome young man in a white suit and an older one with military regalia upon his chest.

"Now that we're all present…" Mycroft's eyes darted to my flushed face. "I can tell you that the targets are the German chancellor and his ambassador." He gestured towards the two men Sherlock had been eyeing only moments before. "The German-French Prime minister and his man… And the other nations are really working out which side to take should hostilities erupt." I knew this was going to be long and I waved a server over to us. Taking two glasses of win, I bid him farewell and drank them both by the end of Mycroft's speech. No one tried to stop me. "There is Prince Michael, a cousin of the Czar and the Russian ambassador… The Archduke Karl Ludwig and the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador… The Romanian prime minister and his ambassador… And of course, our Prime Minister and the British Ambassador!"

"He'll choose a moment when all the dignitaries are assembled, preferably standing still. Is there to be an official photograph?" Sherlock's words were quick as his eyes darted swiftly around the room. I watched him linger for a moment longer on the French pair, but why exactly, I could not say.

"Indeed! Yes!" Mycroft pulled out his perfectly polished pocket watch. "In thirty eight minutes."

Sherlock's trimmed brow rose swiftly with the curl of his lip. "In which case, we might as well dance." His hand fell open towards Simza, who looked startled by the gesture. A knife twisted somewhere in my stomach, but I mentally pulled it out and forced myself to stand a bit straighter. She eyed me with nerves, but I gave her a gentle smile, telling her it was all right. To be fair, I had just been waltzing about with a boy five years younger than me with the eyes of Apollo. Sherlock had every right to be a tad bit antagonistic with me.

Or perhaps he was hiding his affections, similarly as to how he instructed me. He was doing a much better job at it than I.

I couldn't hear much of what they were speaking of as they began to waltz, but apparent disappointment must have been etched on my face as Watson's hand entered my line of vision. "I'm no Holmes when it comes to dance or charm, but if you're willing…"

Watson! The poor man. I'd been so selfish, I hadn't even thought of him. "Of course, my dear friend!" I grasped his hand quickly in mine, pulling him out onto the dance floor. The alcohol was making my head spin, but Watson kept me firmly in place. The couples were a bit startled as we suddenly pushed our way in, but in seconds we knew the waltz like the back of our hands. "Who taught you to dance?" I snickered, slinking myself closer to him.

Watson smirked. "I loathe myself to admit it, but it was Holmes."

"Sincerely?" I laughed. "He taught me as well! On the deck of a ship."

"He taught me in the closet of a Russian millionaire's mansion!" I scrunched my brows together in curiosity. "Don't question it…" Both of us turned to smile at the man who had given us our abilities, but his eyes were on the heated hunt for … someone.

"Is he looking for Moriarty?" I whispered, making sure no one heard the Professor's name.

"On the contrary. I believe he's looking for Rene."

Watson pulled me aside to take a quick second to breathe. It was safe to say that we were both exhausted after the military base attack, the train ride, and the meeting at Mycroft's. We hadn't gotten the chance to rest much and the food that I had eaten before coming to the peace summit was only tumbling my mind back into sleep. However, the sudden appearance of Sherlock at my side snapped my attention back into place. His hand once more flipped out for a dance, but not towards me. John did not look entirely happy, but on business accounts he replied, "I thought you'd never ask."

"Wait here," Sherlock whispered to me. "And don't rush off with any blondes."

Before I had the chance to respond, the men were onto the floor and gathering stares from the entire ballroom. I couldn't help but chuckle behind my fan, the laughs suddenly becoming hysterical as a woman behind me whispered, "Oh my… I hear it is the trend these days… Men being… intimate with other men…"

For anyone that did not know them, the closeness of their whispers may have looked like a heated love affair. But I knew better. I watched their eyesight. I kept the line of their visions in tune with mine. First, they eyed a young German with a cut on his cheek. It was the work of Hofmannsthal, if I remembered correctly. He repaired skin by cutting at it, pulling it and twisting it to look like another man's. An insane idea, but the boy looked incredibly well aside from the red mark on his cheek.

What did this mean? Rene would be in disguise. If Moriarty had connections with Hofmannsthal, then it was likely Rene would not look the same as he did. So, which man was he? He could have been standing behind me for all I knew. I kept myself ready, my fingers prepared to turn into a fist should any incidents break loose. The wine was making me a bit too confident.

"One of the ambassadors." Watson's voice suddenly rang into my ear as the men stopped dancing in front of me. I knew what John mean; Rene had been transformed to become an ambassador. The dangers of his actions were going to be high. The risks of stopping him would be even higher.

"That narrows down the possibility of one to six," Holmes continued. I silently trailed behind them as he continued to explain. He turned his body at an angle, allowing for me to hear without looking like I was included in the conversation. "You and Sim shall find her brother."

"Holmes-" Watson interjected. I knew what John was getting at. Sherlock was going to leave us. He was going to find Moriarty and put an end to his nonsense. I knew he told me to hide my affections, but I was sure the love and fear for him sparkled in my eyes.

Sherlock merely responded, "You know my methods."

John paused. "And I know where you'll be."

"No possible solution could be congenial to me than this."

Solution? I couldn't help but think. What sort of solution?

Sherlock continued on with a mocking tone. "By the way, who taught you how to dance?"

John flashed him an affectionate smile before looking out onto the dance floor. "You did."

"Well. I've done a fine job." Sherlock's tone darkened. I could feel myself staring at them, obviously allowing for the other members of the ball to see a connection between us, but somehow my attention was fixed. Sherlock's eyes were suddenly on mine. "I've done a fine job for both of you."

He began to head towards the back balcony. "Be careful," John instructed.

My arm reached out as he began to pass me, and I could feel my grip tighten around his skin. Let Moriarty see. Let him know my affections. If Holmes is in danger, then I will follow. "Please be careful," I whispered. I did not turn to face him, but I saw his head turn from the corner of my eye.

He watched me for a moment.

My hand fell from its grip.

Sherlock Holmes walked away from me.

My heart began to swell with the music.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

10:00

"Ladies and gentleman! Please gather for the portrait!"

It was time. Hell was going to break lose and I didn't have an escape from it. John, Simza and I were alone. Moriarty had followed Sherlock's path onto the balcony shortly after he had abandoned us. Who knew what discussions were going on behind those yellow, wooden doors? Something about the way he and John looked at each other made me feel as if they held a secret. A secret I would not like.

10:02

"Keep yourself calm, Rena," John ordered. He was a military man and his tone was harsh and convincing enough for me to follow his orders. "Shall we go to work?"

The three of us were going to look carefully for Rene. He would look different, but scars behind his ear were going to be a giveaway. John had also mentioned that he might seem nervous. These all seemed plausible. They all seemed like things Sherlock would pick up on. I was not going to let him down, despite all the troubles we had been through.

"Right. The surgery will have left scars. Only four of them have the hairline to hide them." John spoke softly, elegantly and we tried our best not to stare at the ambassadors.

I swallowed another glass of white wine.

10:05

Simza's voice seemed nervous. She had been so strong when I first met her, but when it came to family, she would do anything to protect her brother. "They're all my brother's height, right build… but their eyes. Their eyes are wrong. Rene has blue eyes."

"He could be wearing-"

"Glass lenses," John finished my sentence.

"To change the color," I implied.

"In which case, his eyes would be hurting." A few of them began to rub their eyes. Or was it my mind playing horrible tricks on me?

Simza perked up as once of the ambassadors held a cigar in his right hand. "Rene is left handed."

10:06

Simza could not keep her eyes off one of the young men. He had all the features she described. He seemed a bit quiet, perhaps nervous. We all dropped our voices until nearly inaudible. The bones in my knees felt like they were disintegrating. "I think it might be him," Simza mumbled.

"You think?" John did not sound thrilled about those two words. "You have to be sure."

"Rene's life and the lives of so many others depend on it," I said. John and Simza both shot me a glare. "I'm sorry. That probably doesn't help."

10:07

John's voice began to shake as the clock's thin, black arm snapped further clockwise. "If I tackle the wrong man to the ground, I could start a war."

"I don't know…" Simza said with ache.

Having wonderful ideas is a rare thing for me, and I seize the opportunity to make them known when they appear. "Frighten him." The other two looked shocked by my sudden interjection, but I knew my plan was a good one. "Make a loud noise. He will be so focused on playing his part that a natural reaction such as a jump will not be possible. He will struggle. We will have our man. Simza will be reunited and as Sherlock put so elegantly… we will stop the collapse of Western civilization."

"Renadale…" John muttered with a smile. "That's genius."

I shrugged. "I've learned from the best."

10:08

John walks behind a server. His hand flicks out and smashes the silver tray to the ground. The glass breaks. The silver clatters. The server jumps away. Gasps are set free like fish cut loose from a net. Everyone turns his or her heads to the accident. Simza and I face the ambassadors.

Almost all turn in the same direction.

One of them does not move.

Simza's eyes narrow. She recognizes something.

The man begins to walk away without facing the scene.

John nods towards us.

I face the ambassador, who suddenly has a gun. But Simza stops him before I manage to. In Romani, she says something. I assume it means 'brother'. She then continues. The man says nothing. A moment of hope crosses his eyes but it crumbles like the recently crushed glass.

He shouts something at the top of his lungs and shoves his sister away.

"Simza!" A gunshot covers my shout.

Watson sprints across the room to tackle him.

I hold Simza in my arms and she shakes, and shakes and shakes.

All hell breaks loose. Mycroft is shouting something about protecting prime ministers, which frightens me to no end. People begin to flood out of the doors, squishing one another and screaming at the top of their lungs.

Guards come and take the gun from Rene's fingers, dragging him back towards the entrance. "What will the do with him?" Simza shrieks. Before she has an answer, her brother begins to speak in my own tongue.

"Germany will pay!" The thick, French accent calls out to the room. "Mark my words! Germany will pay!"

I can only imagine Holmes smiling from the balcony.

10:09

After more threats and shrieks, Rene is gone from the room. Simza is curled into John's arms. He keeps her head in his chest to hide the sight. At least she has the comfort of knowing that he is alive, despite wearing a different face and following the orders of James Moriarty.

For an unknown reason, I begin to head in the direction Rene is. He is not the man Simza knows. Surely he can be forgiven? I do not like the way the guards are carrying him off. If he was not so loyal to his cause, he may be redeemed. He may have the chance to become a good man again.

And then I think. If he is so loyal, will he continue to live on after losing such an important fight? It does not seem like Moriarty to let him live.

"Simza," I say fearfully, turning to face her. She catches my eye in a second. She understands. John quickly mimics her expression and says those three dreaded words.

"No loose ends."

10:10

John leaves the room and I can see the tears boiling in Simza's eyes. "I cannot go out!" She cries. Everyone is watching us, but we do not give him or her our attention.

"Simza, I know you are frightened, but you must tend to your brother!"

"I cannot see him! He has destroyed me! He has hurt me-"

"He has hurt others, but not you. He would never hurt you, Simza. Go to him."

It takes a while to convince her, but she soon runs out the door, screaming his name and crying through her pain and confusion. It doesn't take long, but I can hear Simza yelling at Watson. She is begging him to do something. I can imagine her brother struggling to catch his breath, dying in her arms. I do not need to be beside them to feel their pain.

Everyone gathers around the dying man. Simza begins to cry up towards the heavens. Her brother is dead. I can hear it in her foreign words. Pain is understandable in any language.

No loose ends? If Moriarty is out on the balcony, then surely he had his own player in this never-ending game of chess. My eyes search the nearly deserted ballroom. Proud banners from each country flap against the walls as open windows let the snowy breeze roll in.

And then I see him. That strawberry head. That smirk. Those eyes fixated on my own.

Sebastian Moran.

10:11

Sebastian sends me a wink and leaves. It seems as if he has won. I do not move for sixty seconds.

10:12

John rushes into the room. I am alone. He grips my arms and stares into my eyes. "Where is Holmes?" I shake my head, frozen. "Rena! Holmes is…"

The frustration is building up inside of him. Part of me recognizes the pain, but I do not understand it. John is hardly ever in tears. Why all of a sudden? "Doctor?" I mutter.

"Rena," John chokes. I did not think it was possible for my heart to break any further, but he proves me wrong with his pool of tears. And then he says something that breaks my entire soul.

"Sherlock is going to die."

I look at the clock. It is 10:13. I am running. I am sprinting. I am weeping because I cannot believe what he is saying. John rushes in front of me, hoping to change the game. The whole world is turning more slowly than I can manage. I trip a few times in my heels, but I continue on.

You bastard.

I know I should not be cursing Sherlock Holmes, but he has worn my soul on his sleeve from the first day I met him. He has used it for his love, his adventures, his confusions, his desires, and now he is using it for his death. I could kill him.

But, apparently I will not need to.

John opens the yellow doors. I shove past him and onto the balcony. My eyes deceive me.

Sherlock Holmes has Moriarty wrapped in his arms, almost in a chokehold. Moriarty's back is towards us. I will never look on his face again. Sherlock's eyes stares long enough for me to read them.

I love you.

His eyes shut. With a firm kick, he takes both his and James's body backwards over the edge. I can feel myself screaming at the top of my lungs. I do not know what I am saying or how yelling will help me. I cannot hear my voice but I can feel the tears drowning my words. I am choking. I cannot breathe.

Sherlock is gone.

My body lunges forward. I will go down with him. He is my ship and I will go down with him. He keeps me afloat. He is my ship and I will go down with him. He is my soul and I will drown in my own tears without him. He is my ship. John holds me back. I am broken. I am broken.

I am broken.