It's New Year's Eve, and the last thing John wants to do is go to a party, but telling Mary that he'd prefer to skip the festivities that her friend Cath has apparently been planning for a month would be a fine way to thank her for giving up their planned holiday so he could work with Sherlock. So, he's going, and he's doing it with a smile on his face because it's the least he can do.

The fact that he hasn't heard from Sherlock since they left Angelo's in separate cabs three nights ago isn't helping his mood. If there had been any developments with the case, someone would have let him know. Probably Greg. John is still convinced that Sherlock would not have invited him on the case at all if he hadn't been in the flat when Molly called about it. Sherlock has made the transition to working alone so easily that John can't help wondering if his help was ever really needed. Except that this time, Sherlock would have died without him, and that's the thought that keeps haunting him. Not what nearly happened, but what will happen the next time, because there will be a next time. It's inevitable.

"John, are you all right?" The little crease between her brows tells him that Mary has been standing there in the bathroom doorway watching him for a few minutes.

He looks down at his hand and realizes he's holding his razor, and a glance in the mirror tells him that the shaving foam has dried on his face. "I'm fine. Woolgathering, I guess." He takes a flannel from the rack and wets it under the tap to wipe his face and start over.

"You've been staring at yourself in the mirror for ten minutes now. What's wrong?"

He turns to give her a reassuring smile that widens into an appreciative grin. "You look very fetching." She's wearing black knee high boots, a slim black skirt, and a sapphire blue sparkly jumper that matches her eyes. He leans in to give her a peck on the cheek and gets an enticing whiff of her perfume.

She's studying him closely when he steps back. "You don't want to go to this party." She says it without rancor, but she's not smiling.

"It's been a rough week. I'm just not back up to speed." He has the decency to look instantly contrite. "You've had it worse than I have, and you look great. I'll be fine."

"But you don't want to go."

He exhales and opts for honesty. "Not really, no. But you know how I feel about parties."

She purses her lips. "I'll call Cath and tell her something has come up." She turns to leave, and he gently takes her elbow.

"No, don't do that." He smiles. "I want to show you off." She really does look lovely.

That earns him a smile. "If you're sure?"

"Of course. I-"

His mobile starts vibrating on the bedside table, and Mary picks it up. She frowns, and turns the screen so he can read it, then hands it to him.

John brings the phone to his ear. "Greg, what's up?"

"Have you heard from Sherlock?"

There's something in Greg's voice that makes John's mouth go dry. "No. What's happened?"

Mary was on her way out of the bedroom, and the alarm in John's voice turns her around.

"I just got a call from the surveillance team. Ellis is dead. And Sherlock is there."

It takes John a moment to find his voice. "Is he all right?"

"Yeah, he's fine. I think. I'm on my way there now. I was hoping he'd called you."

"I'll meet you there."

"No, you don't have to come. I'll let you know what's going on when I find out myself."

"I will meet you there," John repeats, looking at Mary. "Don't let Sherlock leave." He ends the call. "Mary, I'm sorry. I really am."

"What happened, John?"

"One of the suspects in the case we were working was just found dead in his flat, and Sherlock is there. I have to go. I'll join you at the party as soon as I can." He finishes wiping off the shaving foam and starts hunting for a shirt.

Mary watches him for a moment, then walks to the dresser, opens a drawer and pulls out his favorite jumper. As she presses it into his hands, she manages to turn the simple gesture into a calming moment. She smiles softly. "Call me when you can."

It takes nearly an hour to reach Ellis' flat, and John spends every moment trying to think of a scenario that puts Sherlock there with Ellis' dead body that doesn't turn John's blood to ice. Did Ellis call him? Did he just show up at the man's door? Was there a confrontation? There are too many people who would love to believe that Sherlock had something to do with this, and some of them are with the Met. Too many, actually. How much help can even Greg be after what happened two years ago? His credibility on anything related to Sherlock is pretty much shot. Whatever happened, John can only hope that the evidence is irrefutable.

There are two police cars and an ambulance in the street in front of the building, lights flashing. John gets out of the cab and identifies himself to the constable at the building entrance just as Greg appears. John heads straight for the stairs, but Greg stops him.

"It looks like Ellis shot himself in the head."

John frowns at the phrasing. "What do you mean 'it looks like'?" He glances up the stairs. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's giving his statement to the investigating officer. I wanted to fill you in before you go up there."

The chill that goes through John has nothing to do with the icy draft coming through the open door. "What are you saying?"

"Ellis apparently emailed his suicide note to Sherlock's website. Sherlock said he came here as soon as he got it, and he found Ellis already dead."

Again, the phrasing is disturbing. "I don't understand."

Greg takes a breath and puffs his cheeks blowing it out. "That makes two of us."

"I'm going up." He and Greg have a brief stare down, then head up the stairs with John in the lead.

The flat door is open, and there is a constable on guard. At the opposite end of the hall, proof that life goes on in the sounds of a holiday party in noisy progress is stark contrast to what John finds when he follows Greg into the flat.

Callum Ellis' body is slumped on the sofa, and the wall behind him is sprayed with blood in a wide swath that includes globs of brain matter. The smell of gore and gunpowder is nauseatingly fresh. The body's eyes are wide open, and there is an automatic pistol on the floor near the left foot. The forensics team in blue coveralls are busy taking photos and measurements.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, talking to a man in a suit and overcoat who John assumes to be the DI in charge of the scene. Sherlock glances toward Greg and John briefly, then returns his attention to the man in front of him.

"You said he emailed a note to Sherlock. Have you seen it?"

Greg walks over to one of the crime scene techs and comes back with a plastic evidence bag. He hands it to John. "Sherlock brought that with him. Printed it out at home."

The note is time stamped two hours earlier, and it's addressed to Sherlock at the Science of Deduction site. Halfway down the page, it changes from a suicide note to a confession. John can see that there are multiple pages, but only the text of the first page is visible without opening the bag. "Did you read it?"

"I skimmed it. The murders he confesses to are on the last page. Some of them weren't on your list, but the match is close enough to prove that Ellis is your vigilante."

"That's good, then." Obviously, Sherlock can't be accused of writing the note himself if it includes victims they didn't know about.

The rattle of a gurney makes them both turn toward the door, then step out of the way to let the ambulance team through. As they pass Sherlock, he comes over to join John and Greg. He seems surprised to see John. "Did Lestrade call you?"

"Of course, he did. Why didn't you?" The question comes out more sharply than he intended.

"Why would I drag you away from your holiday party for this?"

"For-" He takes a breath. "For this? Sherlock, what happened?"

"Obviously, Ellis killed himself. He sent me what amounted to an invitation to discover his body, and I accepted. He even left the door unlocked."

Sherlock's tone is a bit too matter-of-fact, even for him. "How did you get into the building?" John can't imagine that the surveillance team would ignore someone picking the lock on the front door.

Sherlock's expression goes carefully neutral. "There are parties going on. I came in with a group of revelers."

Greg clears his throat, and they both look at him. "Did they test your hands for gunpowder residue?"

John shoves down his gut reaction because Greg's question is entirely appropriate as well as a good idea. Sherlock doesn't hesitate. "Of course. I insisted."

Greg nods his approval. "Did you finish up with DI Willis, then?"

Sherlock glances at the man in question who has pocketed his notebook and is watching the ambulance team collect the body. He turns back to Greg. "He wants me to come in for an interview in the morning." He looks at John. "Want to start your New Year at Scotland Yard?" He adds a half smile that feels a little forced to John.

"Of course, if you want me there. You're not going to make me wait until then to find out what happened, I hope."

"Or me," Greg adds.

Sherlock gives them a puzzled look. "There's nothing more to tell. He was dead when I got here. Apparently, he sent the email on at least a half hour delay to make sure I couldn't get here in time to stop him. They'll be able to verify that by checking the original on his account. The note is a confession. The case is closed." He looks at John. "Don't you have a party to get back to?"

John and Greg exchange a look. Greg scrubs a hand over his face. "I don't, but I guess this can wait until tomorrow." He looks from Sherlock to John. "I'll leave you to it, then. This isn't my crime scene, and I've seen all I need to see. Good night." He turns and walks out of the flat.

John and Sherlock wait while the gurney bearing the body in a black plastic zipper bag is rolled out of the flat. John hands the evidence bag to one of the crime scene techs, then follows Sherlock down the stairs behind the ambulance team.

It's not going to be easy to find a cab on New Year's Eve, so they set out walking for the main road where the chances will improve. The temperature has dropped, and John wishes he'd donned a heavier coat. By the time they locate a cab, he's shivering. The contrast of the warm air in the cab makes him sneeze.

John is lost in thought the entire way to Baker Street. Pieces begin to click into place, and the pattern that starts to take shape won't wait until tomorrow for an explanation. When the cab pulls up in front of 221B, Sherlock pulls out his wallet to pay the fare and gives the cabbie John's address.

"I'm coming up," John says, and opens his door before Sherlock can protest. He's halfway up the stairs before Sherlock catches up. He takes a turn into the kitchen and starts making tea without removing his coat.

Sherlock goes through the living room door and comes into the kitchen a moment later, having paused to start the fireplace and remove his coat and gloves. He watches John silently for a moment. "Make yourself at home," he comments drily.

John turns and crosses his arms. "You knew he was going to kill himself."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "He announced it in an email."

"You know what I mean."

"Perhaps you'd care to spell it out for me."

John switches off the kettle and opens the cabinet where they always kept the scotch. The bottle is still there, and he pulls it out along with a tumbler. "Let's drink to the New Year." He looks at Sherlock who nods, and he pulls out another glass. He pours a drink for each of them and hands one to Sherlock. John takes a long pull from his glass, then sets it down and recrosses his arms. Sherlock takes a small sip and waits.

"What did the note say?"

Sherlock puts down his glass and walks out to the living room. John watches him boot up his laptop and tap a few keys. He comes back to the kitchen and hands John three sheets of text.

"Read it."

John sits down at the kitchen table with his drink and Callum Ellis' suicide note, and begins to read.

Sherlock,

I feel that I can address you by your first name, considering you'll be the last human contact of my life. Moreover, you're the trigger that ended it, so I believe the familiar form is appropriate.

This is why you came to see me. You wanted me to 'do the right thing', and by that you did not mean I should confess to the police and face my punishment. You believed there would be little chance of any punishment being meted out by the courts, and you're right. There's not a shred of evidence to link me to any of the executions I carried out. I would be in the same category as all the others who confess to crimes for which there is no evidence. The 'frequent flyers'. The difference is that they have no plausible motives. My motive is clear, however unacceptable it might be to most people. I think you understand, if not condone, what I did. What I'm about to tell you is not intended as an excuse because I don't require your pardon or anyone else's. It's simply a statement of fact.

I worked with Harry Wallace for six years. I was best man at his wedding. The night his wife was attacked in their home, we were on a stake-out. She was so brutally raped that she never spoke another word for the rest of her life. Not to her husband. Not to anyone. A few months later, she managed to hang herself in her room at the psychiatric hospital where she had been since shortly after the attack. The man who raped her had been out on parole for less than a week after spending five years in prison for doing the same thing to his girlfriend. If the justice system had any element of justice in it, Timothy Lawson would never have been let out of prison to do what he did to Jessica. Her death was senseless and preventable, but I refused to let it be in vain. She inspired my mission. One innocent life lost, but countless others saved in her name.

The men I executed were anything but innocent. They were beyond any hope of redemption, and I don't mean that in a spiritual sense. Had they been allowed to live, they would have killed again, figuratively if not literally. They would have damaged every life they touched. I stopped them.

The difference between what you do and what I do is only a matter of degree. I know this because you came to me with the intention of persuading me to end my life as payment for what I've done. You appointed yourself my conscience and my virtual executioner. If I had refused to comply, I wonder what your next move would have been. I can't imagine that you would have allowed me to go unpunished. I wonder how far you would have gone to make sure that didn't happen. You might want to ask yourself that question the way you told me to question myself. How different from me are you in the end?

Daniel Manning is more than collateral damage. You might be surprised to learn that I am happy to take credit for whatever role I may have inadvertently played in getting him off the streets. I didn't make him what he is. That part of him was always there. That he chose to reveal himself by killing a man like Michael Hartman is a blessing. A psychopath who managed to remain hidden for as long as Manning did was bound to show his true colors eventually. He chose a man who would have gone on to destroy more lives. I call it poetic justice in its purest form.

I'm not a psychopath. I'm very much like the men I worked with for years, and many of them share my frustration with a system that's designed to protect the guilty at the expense of anything resembling justice. I'm not ending my life because I feel remorse, but I can't continue my work now, and I refuse to be castigated for doing what others lack the courage to do. My final tribute to justice will be to execute myself. I'm paying for the deaths of the unworthy with my own life. And I'm performing an act of charity in the bargain. I'm saving you, Sherlock.

I saw what you are. I saw what you are capable of, all in one brief conversation. That's my gift. I read people, and I read you very clearly. I said earlier that I wondered what you might have done next, if I refused to 'do the right thing', but I know. You would have found a way to stop me with your own brand of justice, and that would have put you in my shoes as surely as I have put myself in the place of the men I executed. You may have already done this to someone else. You may do it again. But I won't be the cause.

I know you will feel no remorse for what you've persuaded me to do. You'll feel vindicated. I know that feeling well. Take care you don't enjoy it too much. Fiat justitia ruat caelum. Let justice be done, though the heavens fall. It's a noble sentiment, and one to which I've sacrificed my life. If you truly are on the same path, make very sure that you're prepared to accept the consequences.

Callum William Ellis

The final page lists the names of his victims and a detailed description of what, how, and why.

John lays the note on the table and picks up his tumbler. He takes a long sip, watching Sherlock over the rim of the glass. It makes perfect sense now. Of course, that's what Sherlock was doing when they met with Ellis that last time, and he was so confident that he had accomplished his mission that he considered the case all but closed. He was just waiting for Ellis to react. For all Sherlock knew, Ellis could have been in the process of slashing his wrists while they were eating lasagna. In light of this information, the memory of Sherlock's ebullient mood and hearty appetite generates a gut reaction in John that he's having a hard time classifying. He wishes surprise was part of it. He wishes it more than he can say.

"You have questions."

John takes a deep breath. "I don't know what to think."

"About Ellis? Or about me?" Sherlock says quietly.

"Was he right? Did you know he was going to kill himself?"

Sherlock studies him for a long moment, but without the deduction-mode intensity, as if he's looking for something he's not sure how to find. "It's the sort of action that would fit with his pattern of behavior, but it wasn't the only option open to him."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Are you asking if I deliberately talked him into taking his own life?"

"Greg thinks you've changed. I disagreed, but now..." There's no good way to continue that thought, so he stops.

"We've all changed, John. But I didn't become someone who would murder a suspect to stop him getting away with murder. You used to know that. What changed your mind?" His tone is conversational, as if they're discussing the weather.

John is suddenly angry, and he doesn't want to be. "I haven't changed, Sherlock, though God knows I've had enough treachery thrown at me in the past few years to..." He looks away and takes a deep breath. "The man I trusted with my life damn near ended it along with his own. No, wait. He just let me think he'd ended his life. He forgot to let me in on the joke."

Sherlock flinches visibly, as if the slap was physical. "You're never going to forgive me."

"I forgave you for what you did, Sherlock, but I can't ignore what it did to me. You can't understand how it feels, I know that. I can't fault you for what you don't have the capacity to grasp, but dammit you have to accept that you caused real, life-threatening pain, and not just to me. You may not be able to feel it yourself, but you sure as hell know how to read it in others. What you did to Ellis is just the latest proof that you know how to read emotions and use them to your advantage. I asked you once if it mattered to you that there are actual human lives involved in what we do. Ellis was a murderer, but his life mattered. At least, it should have. What kills me is that I can still be reading you wrong after all this time. You still shock me with this shit, and that's as much my fault as yours." He has to stop and get himself under control before this escalates past the point of no return. He doesn't want that to happen. Not now. Not ever.

Sherlock presses his lips tightly for a moment. "I won't allow emotion to distract me from what needs to be done, but I'm surprised that you could interpret that as my not having the ability to feel. Is that what you really believe, or is this a demonstration of you allowing your emotions to color your judgment? Because if it is, you're proving my point."

"I'm angry, Sherlock, but I'm more disappointed than anything, and mostly with myself. You will always be able to trick me. Somehow, I always believe you until you prove me wrong. And I will probably believe you the next time, too. It's just the way I am." He gets up and pushes his chair back with enough force to nearly knock it over. "I could tell you that it hurts every time, but you know that. You just can't understand what that means." John drains his glass and puts it in the sink, then heads for the door.

"John."

Sherlock's voice is so soft that it brings John to a halt. He turns around and finds Sherlock's expression is filled with whatever made his voice sound like that. John feels some of his anger slip away. "What, Sherlock?"

"You asked me if I remembered anything from when Manning drugged me. I do."

He has seen Sherlock mimic human emotions with consummate skill, and he can't be sure that the pain he's seeing now, and hearing in Sherlock's voice, is real. "What do you remember?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I remember being certain that I was going to die. I remember knowing that you would be the one to find my body, and hating what it would do to you. I knew you would blame yourself for not getting there in time to save me even though you did everything you could to stop me. And then you were there, but I knew Manning was still there, too. I couldn't tell you that you were in danger. All I could do was wait for him to come back and do the same thing to you." His voice is thinning out, tightening, and the words start to come out in a rush. "I heard Manning coming, but you didn't. You were trying to keep me alive, and then he hit you from behind, and my last thought before I lost consciousness was that I had gotten you killed." He takes another breath, this one shaky. "Then I woke up in the hospital and asked where you were, and no one would tell me." His voice has dropped nearly to a whisper. "I was sure you were dead."

John walks back to where Sherlock is standing and looks up into haunted eyes. "Sherlock, I was there every moment. You were never alone, and you never woke up until the morning when Greg and I were both there. You must have been dreaming. I never left you." He can hear the emotion in his own voice, and resents a bit that it's there. If this is another manipulation, he's going to put his hands around that elegant throat and squeeze until his eyes pop.

"It wasn't a dream."

"Yes, it had to be. We-"

"It was the worst nightmare I've ever experienced." he interrupts, then smiles a little weakly. "And that's saying something."

John feels a rush of affection for his friend that comes with a tiny niggling voice in the back of his mind warning him that this is Sherlock, and Sherlock can trick him like no one else on earth. He will always be able to do it. The man has also saved his life in every possible way, starting from the day they met. Saved it, and destroyed it, and resurrected it. And he will always have the ability to do it again. Not because John is a fool, but because in spite of everything, he loves this mad bastard more than life itself. Warts and all. "I'll be having more than a few nightmares of my own. You scared the hell out of me, Sherlock. Finding you like that was the second worst moment of my life."

"I know that, John. I'm sorry."

John takes a step back, and Sherlock's eyes darken at what he must sense is coming. "I believe you mean that, Sherlock. Now I need you to tell me the truth about Ellis. Did you intend for him to kill himself? Could you have stopped him?"

Sherlock's eyes fill with an emotion that John has only seen in him a few times before, and never in this context. Sherlock is afraid to tell him the truth. "John, I..." Sherlock closes his eyes, clenches them as if he's in pain.

"Sherlock..." He's not sure if he's asking Sherlock to continue, or to stop before he deals the blow that John can feel coming as surely as if he'd raised a fist.

Sherlock's eyes open, and his gaze is intense. "No, you need to hear this. I won't have you thinking what you obviously are. What I set out to do is not what I finally tried to do, and that changed because of you. You underestimate your influence, John. You always have." He takes a breath. "Everything I said to Ellis was meant to persuade him to kill himself because it was the only justice he was going to face. You know we didn't have any evidence to convict him, and so did he. I had no regrets when we left his flat that last time, and I know how that must sound to you." He points his chin at the pages on the table. "And then I got his note. You read what he said about me, and he was right about some of it, but he didn't know that my own conscience isn't the only one that influences my decisions. When I read all of that, I realized that I wasn't ready to accept the consequences after all. Those consequences have everything to do with you, and what you would think of what I was doing. You would want me to value Ellis myself enough to save his life, whatever it was worth. I couldn't do that, but I tried to stop what I set in motion because I realized that you would find it reprehensible. I do feel things, no matter what you think. And I didn't want to feel what I'm feeling right now, seeing what I do in your face. I went there to save him. It may have been for the wrong reasons, but I did try. I was too late. He meant for me to be too late. He won." His voice is nearly inaudible on those last two words, but his gaze hasn't wavered. He's waiting for John's reaction.

Not for the first time, John wishes he could borrow Sherlock's deductive powers for just a moment. Just long enough to see past the wall that Sherlock always manages to keep between them, even when he seems to want to bring it down. John believes that he's just heard the truth he asked for. He even understands Sherlock's motives for doing what he did. Maybe agrees with them in some ways that he can't even explain to himself. There is one thing that he doesn't doubt. Sherlock wants to keep their friendship intact, and no matter how vast the differences between them might sometimes seem, that will always be John's deepest wish as well.

"He didn't win, Sherlock. It wasn't a game he was ever equipped to play. Not with you. You are still the best man I have ever known, and you're as human as the rest of us whether you believe that or not. All I've ever asked is that you tell me the truth. I will never hold it against you. Just remember that, okay? We'll be fine as long as you do that."

Sherlock's eyes warm instantly and one corner of his mouth quirks up in a brief smile before he presses it away. "You may not always like what you hear."

"I'll take my chances. Was that a promise?"

"Yes." Sherlock exhales and his whole posture relaxes with it. "And now, I believe it's time for you to go join your fiancé. Please tender my apologies for ruining her holiday."

John looks at his watch. "I'll have some groveling to do, but you have nothing to apologize for. Mary thinks you walk on water."

Sherlock snorts. "She doesn't know me very well."

"Better than you think." He heads for the door. "I'll see you in the morning."

"You don't have to come. I'll be fine."

"I'm coming. Someone has to keep you from alienating Scotland Yard one day into the new year." He turns to leave.

Sherlock's voice stops him at the door. "Happy New Year, John."

There's a soft waver in Sherlock's voice. John turns and sees the softness is back in his eyes as well. "Happy New Year, Sherlock."

Just as he walks out onto the pavement, as the door is closing behind him, John hears the first strains of the violin drift down the stairs.

A/N - This is the end. I hope you enjoyed the story, and I hope you'll let me know what you thought. This story takes place just after Something Broken, and just before Mary and John start planning their wedding with the help of a certain consulting detective. I'm considering another story, not as long as this one, about the wedding planning and the wedding itself. Well, the reception and its aftermath. Maybe not the actual wedding. If there's any interest, let me know. I can be persuaded, if you would like to see more.

Thanks to Jolie Black, sevenpercent, ThessalyMc, and my anonymous medical beta for superhuman patience, encouragement, and invaluable creative suggestions. - Ghyllwyne

04 November 2015