"Only free people have an incentive to be virtuous. Only people who bear the consequences of their own acts will care about those consequences and try to learn from their mistakes."

Harry Browne

Sherlock

When Moriarty's "Did you miss me?" message had spread all over the Londonian TV network, Sherlock hadn't been exactly surprised. His curiosity had been piqued, of course, but somehow it hadn't managed to throw him off his game. For one thing, it didn't mean that the consulting criminal was still alive. It was very likely that the thing had been pre-recorded and Moriarty had given orders to broadcast it at that precise moment. It didn't solve the "why", but the "how" was fairly obvious to the detective.

But now, standing in his living room, one hand clutching his violin a little too tight while the other one, holding the bow, was hanging limply by his side, Sherlock Holmes was truly and completely baffled. For there, on the threshold, clad in casual clothing that felt strangely wrong and grinning from ear to ear, stood none other than Jim Moriarty.

"Well, did you?" the Irishman asked lightly, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head in confusion, trying to regain some sort of composure. "What?"

"Miss me," Moriarty clarified slowly as if talking to a mental patient. "Did you?"

Sherlock huffed, feigning boredom as he carefully returned the violin and bow to their case.

"Don't flatter yourself," he said simply, closing the lid with slightly shaking hands.

He took his time straightening up, brushing the creases off his pristine white shirt, refusing to let the smaller man see his mental struggles. When he finally turned around to face Moriarty, Sherlock found that the man hadn't moved an inch and still bore his infernal smile.

"Go on, then," he prompted in a detached tone, "Tell us how you did it."

Moriarty chuckled and finally stepped into the room, plopping down into the red armchair. "Boring," he announced, plucking a white thread from his black jacket and letting it fall to the ground. "I'm way more interested in our new problem."

Sherlock gave a long-suffering smile as he sat down into his own chair. "I wasn't aware we had a new problem." He narrowed his eye at Moriarty, scrutinizing. "You're not a twin or something, are you? Because that would be terribly disappointing."

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Please. This isn't a soap opera."

Sherlock had to stop himself from mirroring the man's previous action. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Moriarty held out his hands. "You know what they say about magicians and their tricks. Besides, we're past that, now.

- Oh, yes," Sherlock drawled, "Our 'new problem'. Do tell us all about it."

He had spoken in a monotone, refusing to give the criminal the reaction he obviously seeked. But it didn't seem to bother Moriarty. In fact, he seemed rather amused by Sherlock's attitude.

"Oh, Sherlock," he cooed, "It really was about time I came back if you're that far off your game."

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled together. Suddenly his head darted up and he glanced around, a look of mock worry on his face.

"Isn't something missing around here?" He turned to look in the direction of the kitchen, muttering "I wonder…", then leaning to his right to look toward the stairs.

"He's at work," Sherlock said tensely, letting his hands fall to grip the arms of the chair tightly. Something in his chest clenched as well.

"Is he now?" Moriarty asked as he sat back, smiling anew. "That's your problem, Sherlock," he said with an almost compassionate shake of his head. "You see, but you do not observe."

And that's when Sherlock noticed. Even as an ice-cold feeling of sheer dread settled in his gut, his brain couldn't help but wonder how he hadn't noticed earlier. Maybe it was because his nemesis' arrival had caught him so completely off-guard, maybe it was because he had been too busy looking for signs of weapons or reinforcement, or maybe his anger had just impaired his judgement. But none of it was an acceptable excuse to the man who claimed to be able to read people at first glance.

For there was no mistaking that jacket with its absurd amount of pockets and those faux-leather, asymmetrical patches. In fact, Sherlock could still see the small tear that had been sewn back with military precision after an altercation with a knife-wielding maniac.

"Where is he?" he asked through clenched teeth, his knuckles whitening, some of them popping when Moriarty had the gall to laugh.

"There we go!" he praised, "I knew you'd get there someday."

He made a big show of getting something out the inside pocket, pulling the jacket open further than necessary. Even from his seat, Sherlock could make out a dark brownish-red stain on the black fabric.

"He put up a good fight, Johnny-boy did," Moriarty said calmly, "Of course he did. But then," his fingers wrapped around the butt of the gun he had tucked into the pocket and lay it onto the coffee table between them, "I guess I had taken precautions. Even I am not crazy enough to underestimate him."

It wasn't often that Sherlock Holmes found himself speechless, but all biting retort had long since died in his throat. He was staring at the gun, John's gun, trying to remember how to breathe. The meaning behind Moriarty's words was all too clear, as were the two evidences that were desperately staring him in the face.

"Shame, really," Moriarty went on, shaking his head regretfully. "He was so much fun to play with. And strong, too. Oh, my. If you only knew how hard he tried not to scream. Didn't want to give me the satisfaction, I guess." When Sherlock raised his eyes, he found Moriarty staring at him. The smaller man's lip stretched into a wolfish smile that never made it to his eyes. "But scream, he did, Sherlock," he assured him.

"I don't believe you," Sherlock ground out, vaguely aware of the ache in his fingertips. "If what you say is true, then there's no game, no puzzle, no riddle. What could you gain from this? What would the endgame be?"

Moriarty sobered up again and stood up, making his way over to Sherlock and leaning down, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of the chair. "Just keeping my promise," he whispered, ducking his head a little to look the detective in the eyes. "I'll burn the heart out of you, Sherlock. Remember that?" He gave Sherlock a fake apologetic smile. "I did tell you. But did you listen?"

All at once, Sherlock's mind filled with statics as his sight was painted red. Springing off his chair, he grabbed Moriarty by his – John's – jacket lapels and threw him to the ground, delivering a harsh kick to the criminal's ribs before he could get up. He reiterated the action once, twice, three times before he felt and heard a satisfying crack. As Moriarty lay there on his side, gasping for breath, Sherlock pulled him forcibly to his feet and delivered a series of vicious punches.

Moriarty, for his part, was desperately trying to block out the blows, blood and bruises blossoming on his face. He was talking, but Sherlock's mind couldn't make out the words. He didn't care. Nothing Moriarty could say would stop Sherlock from ripping him to shreds.

A mean right hook sent Moriarty flying backwards and falling halfway onto the sofa. Why isn't he fighting back? The tiny part of Sherlock's brain that was still clinging to sanity asked, but the detective shut it up. It didn't matter if the criminal fought back or not. He wasn't going to leave this place alive.

Remembering John's gun, Sherlock spun around and got his hand around the weapon, feeling his rage burn hotter still at the thought of his friend carrying it with him as a means of protection that simply wasn't enough. Ignoring all reminiscence of that night at the pool, he brought the gun up and aimed.

This time, Moriarty did fight back. Just as the detective pulled the trigger, the criminal had lunged at him, knocking him down in a rugby tackle. The gun clattered to the ground and slid out of Sherlock's reach, but Moriarty didn't try to grab it. Instead he was straddling Sherlock and pinning his arms to the side as the taller man furiously tried to shake him off.

Sherlock could see his lips, still stretched into that sickening grin, move again, but the words were lost on him. His mind had signed off to let his primal instincts to destroy take over. As he focused on his next course of action, he realised that Moriarty seemed to favour the upper left side of his body. The grip on that hand wasn't quite as strong as in the right side. Bracing himself, Sherlock kicked at the floor and brought his knee up, hard, into Moriarty's upper back, hitting him square in the left shoulder blade.

It worked beyond expectations. Moriarty gave a pained shout as his grip slackened and he had to sit back on his haunches, grunting in pain. Sherlock took advantage of this and punched him in his jaw, feeling it pop under the impact. Moriarty fell to his side and this time it was Sherlock who straddled him, grabbing his hair and pulling his head up, making it crash viciously against the floor.

When he let go, Moriarty was panting, blood all over his face, making his manic smile look that much scarier. His eyes were drooping shut as unconsciousness tried to take him, but Sherlock wouldn't have that. Moriarty needed to be awake for that last part. Sherlock's face had to be the last thing Moriarty ever saw. Curling his hands around the criminal's throat, thumbs right on his Adam's apple, Sherlock squeezed, increasing the pressure slowly. He was going to make sure Moriarty felt every second of it.

Of course, Moriarty wasn't quite done yet. As soon as Sherlock had seized his throat, his hands had shot up to wrap around the taller man's wrists in a vain attempt to pull them off him. When that failed and Sherlock's hold tightened, Moriarty's left hand fell to his side, blindly reaching for some sort of weapon, but Sherlock merely lifted himself off of the man to kick the gun into the kitchen, removing Moriarty's only chance at a proper defence.

Sherlock watched in sick satisfaction as Moriarty's smile finally faded, still tightening his grip ever so slightly, rejoicing at the weakening struggles underneath his weight. He couldn't help but stare, fascinated, at the pulse point in Moriarty's neck, just peeking out from underneath his hand. He could feel the man's heart's frantic beat as its oxygen supply was inexorably cut off.

When he looked back up into the man's blue eyes – dark, his mind corrected, dark eyes, not blue – he was surprised to see not only pain and fear, but also some sort of sadness. Moriarty's mouth was still moving, and though there was no sound left for him to make, Sherlock could read the words he was mouthing. Sherlock, please.

The feeling of wrongness from before resurfaced, but Sherlock shoved it down his subconscious, refusing to feel guilty about his actions. Yes, he was murdering a man in cold blood. That was one way of looking at it. But the way he saw it, he was merely squashing a spider. He didn't particularly care what would happen to him after that. John was dead, and Sherlock was getting rid of his killer. Nothing else mattered.

Finally, he felt the grip Moriarty had on his wrist slacken as the smaller man's eyes rolled in his skull and his head hit the floor with a dull thud. Feeling a smile, not unlike the criminal's, stretch his own lips, Sherlock loosened his grip and took a moment to catch his breath before looking up at the man's face.

Later, when he would recall this moment, he would remember it as the moment the world stopped spinning.

There was no consulting criminal on the ground. No trace of Moriarty anywhere. The sight of the syringe lying under the sofa where it had probably been kicked at some point was enough explanation for the events of the last few minutes. Even as he took in reality, Sherlock could feel the familiar pinch in the crook of his left elbow where a new track mark had been added to the collection. It had all been a drug-induced hallucination. Moriarty hadn't returned to 221b.

Instead, lying on the floor, one arm still outstretched from his last desperate attempt at survival, was John Watson.

Sherlock threw himself off from John, his mouth opening in a silent scream. He stared at John, anxiously waiting for any sign of life at all before rushing back to him, his fingers on John's pulse point. "No, no, no," he chanted under his breath, "Please, tell me I didn't, please…" He couldn't feel anything, but he didn't know if it was because his fingers were shaking so hard or if there simply was nothing to feel at all.