Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

The End of the End

In order to properly destroy Moriarty's network, Sherlock quickly discovered that he would need to take the place of Sebastian Moran – not as Sherlock Holmes, but as Moran himself. It would not be difficult to replicate the man physically, or indeed to replicate him electronically, which was how he was keeping in contact with Moriarty, so Sherlock spent the first three months away from his Heart studying his opponent intently.

It did not take him long to discover that Moriarty thought of Moran as 'his Doctor Watson', which was incredibly ludicrous. The two men were nothing alike – physically, mentally or personality: all were different. Moran was a soldier, as was John, but that was as far as their similarities went. Moran was violent, prone to blood lust, smart but not intelligent, obedient to directions from his 'commander' and tended to over react to setbacks. John's violence was carefully controlled; he neither liked nor disliked killing and fighting, was clever but not brilliant, was as likely to disobey Sherlock as to obey him in any given situation, and always took the most extraordinary events in his stride. He was superior to Moran in every way because he had empathy but not a bleeding heart, a seemingly bottomless well of patience, and had the annoying strength of personality to stand up to Sherlock when he was being outrageous.

After three months of careful sabotage and observation, Sherlock disposed of Moran in such as way as to be untraceable. With Mycroft's help, he locked the former Colonel up in an asylum that housed some of the more dangerous and 'untouchable' criminals of the world. Once you went in there, you never came out and the life expectancy of an inmate was not particularly long. As many of the inmates had committed genocide and war crimes of unspeakable depravity, that was no loss to the world at large.

Moriarty did not suspect the change. Sherlock was sure of that. The master criminal had never had the same bond that Sherlock did with his Doctor Watson, and so never noticed that Moran had been neutralised. Sherlock found the dual identity a great help in mapping and tagging Moriarty's overseas network – any setbacks on the part of Moran, Sherlock could blame on himself and vice versa. Had he not been a genius, things would have gotten very confusing.

Even so, he was unhappy that it took him three years to complete his task. He sent John memory sticks with crucial information in them – smuggling them back in such a way that not even Mycroft knew they existed – but there was no contact with John at all. Sherlock had no idea what his Heart was doing, how he was faring without the spice of danger in his life that Sherlock's cases had offered him. Had his limp returned? Did he still sleep in Sherlock's bed or had he returned to his own room? Had he taken a job – and if so, was it one of the ones that Sherlock had chosen for him or something else altogether? These questions occurred in the few moments of downtime that Sherlock had: it annoyed him not to have the answers at his fingertips.

Mycroft kept track of Sherlock of course, funnelling funds and information his way when he could. He did not deign to inform Sherlock of his Heart's status; though Sherlock had no doubt that his older brother was keeping 'tabs' on John.

At one point, twenty six months into their separation, Sherlock missed his Heart so badly that he slipped into a little tattoo parlour he had spotted while impersonating Moran in a café and had a set of initials engraved over his physical heart. Small and plain, they stood as a visual reminder against his pale skin. He covered them carefully of course, beneath a patch of synthetic skin, but he knew they were there, which helped in an odd sort of way. What John would say about them was another matter entirely: Sherlock was completely unable to predict that reaction and looked forward to finding out.

And then suddenly he was terribly busy. It was not difficult to make it appear to Moriarty that Colonel Moran was betraying him, nor was it difficult to get Interpol's assistance in taking the criminal network apart. He'd been able to get enough information to John to warn him that the 'take down' – as one Interpol agent insisted on calling the operation – was about to occur, which meant that John would present a copy of his information to Scotland Yard. The Yard would be able, with some assistance from Mycroft's people, to capture Moriarty, after which Sherlock could come home.

Thus it was a very nasty shock to hear that things had not gone well in England. After two months of constant activity and strain, hearing that Moriarty had escaped the Yard's web at the very last moment was almost enough to make Sherlock homicidal. He knew full well that John would be Moriarty's sole target now – his Heart was alone in London, completely vulnerable to the criminal master minds attacks. With everything he had worked for destroyed, it was hard to predict what Moriarty would do – he could destroy 221B with Mrs Hudson and John inside, or kidnap John and torture him to death, or simply shoot John through a window or as he stepped outside…

Sherlock was on the move at once, though it would unfortunately take him twenty four hours to reach England from where he was – the connections and sheer distance were all against him – sending strict instructions ahead to his brother to secure his John and Mrs Hudson against all dangers at once. He didn't wait for confirmation, taking the most insane route across the world instead, making connections by the skin of his teeth in an effort to get home sooner. His time away from John had at least taught him the importance of sleeping when one could, which had the added benefit of appearing to make time go faster. It had been a difficult discipline to master, but it stood him in good stead now.

Just as he set foot in France, Mycroft contacted him once more, to say that Moriarty had been killed, that there was a private plane waiting for him and that Mrs Hudson and 221B were unharmed. John had taken a flesh wound to the right leg and would be 'fine' – the most useless description of an injury that Sherlock had ever been displeased to hear: of course it was a flesh wound – a paper cut was a flesh wound after all… Further information indicated that Moriarty had made an attempt to shoot John, but his Heart had laid a quite good trap of his own. He'd been shot when a careless, soon to be closely investigated and unemployed, constable had let loose of the criminal mastermind before he was properly restrained. John had shot Moriarty dead in self-defence, in front of several members of the Yard.

Barely had the small plane set down, than Sherlock was on the move. It was a private airstrip, which meant he didn't need to deal with customs and their official nonsense. Getting arrested for punching a passport inspector in the nose was not what Sherlock wanted to be doing, something that Mycroft had no doubt anticipated. He was in an unmarked car and on his way to Baker Street in moments. Fortunately, the driver had the sense to avoid the main motorways, showing a good knowledge of how to get through central London while avoiding the worst of the traffic.

His front door had never looked so good and Sherlock was out of the car almost before it had stopped, fishing for his house key, which he'd kept safe for three long years. It was midnight, so Mrs Hudson would be asleep, but John was up, or at least in the front room, because there was a light on in there. Sherlock took the stairs four at a time, bounding across the landing and into the front room in a breathless rush, coming to a halt as John levered himself up from his armchair, pushing aside the blanket that had been draped over his lap.

He was thinner than he had been when Sherlock had left Baker Street – so his appetite had diminished with their separation: Mrs Hudson did what she could, as indicated by the homemade biscuits beside John's cold cup of tea. His Heart was employed in the same ER that had treated his wound, but also by the Coroners Office, which Sherlock had not expected. One of those jobs would have to go, but he'd let John make the choice as he was unsure which job his Heart preferred. His sister had passed away twenty four months ago, her picture was on the mantle: Sherlock made a note to say something supportive about that…

"Hello Sherlock," John's voice interrupted his thoughts, as warm and pleasant as always. He had crossed the front room while Sherlock deduced, limping slightly in deference to the wound that pulled beneath its dressing to stand in front of Sherlock, a smile lighting his eyes. On his little finger, the Vernet ring gleamed in the low light. It had been cleaned regularly, by John himself, all the indications were there to see. Sherlock's heart raced in his chest at the sight.

Sherlock reached out, his hands tingling in anticipation, and stroked his fingers over his John's cheeks, then his palms, pressing lightly. That simple contact rushed over his body in a wave, waking his skin in a way he'd never thought possible. He'd had no desire for physical, intimate contact with others for the last three years – all he'd wanted was the man now in front of him, the man leaning into his touch, his own hands coming up to rest comfortably on Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock bent his head slowly and pressed their foreheads together, letting John's breath wash over his skin. He could smell John, that indescribable scent that meant home and comfort to him. Three years, six months and four days ago, Sherlock had first declared to his John that kissing was unhygienic and disgusting. He had since learned that kissing another's skin could be very rewarding indeed – and that John's taste and texture was extremely desirable. However there had always been a stopping point, a line that Sherlock was unwilling to cross. With John in front of him now after three long years of separation, no barriers could be tolerated.

Taking a slow breath, Sherlock used his grip on John's head to tip his face up slightly and then pressed their lips together. A moment of warm pressure and then John parted his lips for Sherlock, allowing him access to the moist cavern of his mouth. Taste exploded across Sherlock's tongue, something that was different to John's scent but complimentary. John sucked lightly on Sherlock's questing tongue, tearing a moan from him in reflex. Sensation rocketed through Sherlock, overwhelming and exciting. Beneath his shirt, he could feel the weight of his tattoo – John's initials intertwined on his flesh – in a way he'd never experienced before. It was as if having the man in front of him had somehow awakened the nerve endings beneath the tattoo.

When the need for air overrode his need to explore this new heady combination of taste and touch and pleasure, Sherlock drew back reluctantly, looking intently into John's face, wanting to see that the other man felt as he did still. There was wonder there, desire of course, but the overwhelming expression could only ever be labelled as joy.

"Hello my Heart," Sherlock murmured and took a deep breath for the first time in three years.

END