Sherlock and the Cabbie have a chat.

AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Allusions to suicide.

Thank you so much for the kudos and the comments on this story! I wasn't expecting so many so fast! I am truly grateful, and I always appreciate what you guys have to say! Enjoy the conclusion! xxx Honey

The cabbie, whose name Sherlock has learned is Jefferson Hope, smiles an affable smile. It's false, of course, and he can see through the façade like water. There's something under his unassuming exterior, something that he's missing…

His mind drifts back to the first time he met Jane, and how wrong he was about her, and he vows not to make the same mistake twice with this man. Like rapid-fire he catalogues the knowable:

shaving foam neglected behind left ear — lives alone;
clothes, clean but old (at least…three years?) keeping up appearances but not planning for the future;
photo of children in the cab (old photo, new frame) no wife — deceased? (Torn edge.) Ah divorced;
kamikaze murder spree (?);
revenge? (Too pedestrian; hackneyed.) Boredom? (Possible.) (Strike that. Substitute love.)

Love, why love? Ah yes….

"Three years ago. Is that when they told you?" Sherlock asks.

"Told me wot?" Hope says.

"That you're dying?" Sherlock leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach, being careful not to muffle the phone hiding up the sleeve of his coat. For the first time, Hope's confident smile falters.

"Brain aneurysm. Right up 'ere," he says tapping his temple. "Any breath could be my last."

"So because you're dying you've murdered four people?" Sherlock asks.

"I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can have on an aneurysm," he smiles.

"Wrong! It's all off," Sherlock says leaning forward. "You aren't bitter. If you were bitter about dying you wouldn't have the strength to leave your bed in the morning. This — what you're doing — is calculated, driven by much stronger emotions. Anger? Maybe. You are estranged from your kids not by your decision. The wife's then. She left you, took the kids, and it still hurts. But it's not just anger. Anger is explosive and unpredictable; it has no concern of its ramifications. But you…you are careful. Exacting. You have purpose." Hope's eyes grow wide and Sherlock grins a grin of pure malice. "You see, Mr. Hope. Love is a tricky emotion. It's is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is all for your kids."

Hope's face pales considerably, but he manages to look Sherlock in the eye. "Oh you're good. Real good. He told me about you, but I almost forgot."

"He? What do you mean He?"

"You've got a fan, Mr. 'Olmes. Someone's been following your work," Hope grins and folds his hands on top of the table. The fluorescent classroom lights glint off of his glasses making his face look hollow.

"Who would want to follow me?"

"Come on. You're too modest!"

"I'm really not."

The men square off for a moment in steely silence before Hope finally breaks it with a scoff.

"Love," he spits, his demeanour changing. "What do you know about love anyhow? My wife did leave me, like you said. Kids took her side. Won't see me. Probably won't even come to my funeral in the end. But I do love them. They won't get much when I die, so what's a bloke to do?"

"Enlighten me," Sherlock drawls.

"You see I've got all this genius rattling around in my head and no idea 'ow to use it. So I consulted a specialist," the grin returns, only this time more sinister. Sherlock doesn't dare interrupt. The lunatic is on a roll now, and if he's patient he'll reveal everything. (Frailty of genius.) "He told me he would sponsor me if I found a way to catch your eye. For every one I kill more money goes to my kids after I'm gone. It's only too bad you caught on so quick and ended my fun before I even got started. But 'ere's the best part: I've got you now and my kids'll want for nothing ever again."

"A consulting criminal," Sherlock breathes. (Novel.) "So what am I? The prized stag? The big fish?"

"Summat like that. You see, my sponsor wants you out of the picture. You're too smart for your own good."

"Give me a name," Sherlock says suddenly.

"'Fraid not. And you're out of moves," Hope says and pulls out the gun again. "Time to choose now."

Sherlock stares down the barrel of the gun. "Are these my only options?"

"If you're back to numbers, it's either pick out of fifty-fifty, or pick the gun. The second option isn't really chance at all, and not even fun. I know how you like fun."

"Well then I'm going to have to disappoint you. I choose the gun."

"You sure?"

"Oh yes."

"Don' want to phone a friend?" he arches and eyebrow.

The compact weight in his coat sleeve makes him want to chuckle at the irony. "The gun."

Hope narrows his eyes, and pulls the trigger. A tiny flit of flame pokes out of the barrel, and Sherlock stands perfunctorily. (Gun lighter. Cliché.)

"I know what a real gun looks like, don't be stupid," he says.

"None of the others did."

"Obviously. Well this has been…interesting. I look forward to the court case," he says and strides to the door, slipping his phone out of his sleeve in order to fire a text off to Lestrade if Jane hasn't already. Before he gets to the door, Hope speaks up one last time.

"Just so I know…did you figure it out? Which one was which?"

Sherlock pauses and turns back around.

"Of course I did. Child's play."

"Ah. Okay. So which one is it then?" Sherlock scowls, but doesn't say anything. "Go on. Prove it. Prove you're cleverer than me. Play the game." Sherlock doesn't move. "I said I won't cheat. I'll take what ever you don't. And besides, what's out there anyway that's more interesting than this?"

"How about living?"

"Bollocks. We both know you don't care about that," Hope says, his eyebrows raised. "What does it really matter anyway? If you choose wrong at least the tedium will stop, am I right?"

"I won't choose wrong because I know which one is poison," Sherlock says. "I'm just not sure I'm the type to send another man to his death when a lifetime in prison is so much more rewarding. What's left of you life, that is."

"That's a lie too. You're bored of me already. You don't care what 'appens to me after all this." Hope smiles and tilts his head. "Come on."

Defiantly, Sherlock strides across the room and snatches the glass bottle in front of Hope and makes his way back towards the middle of the room with his back to the door.

"Oh ho! Isn't that interesting?" Hope remarks and picks up the remaining bottle. "You sure you're right?"

"I have said so, yes. Like I mentioned before I don't like to gamble," Sherlock says and holds the bottle to the light. It was identical in every way to the other one, but if he knew Hope like he thought he did, he knew his tell had been in the way he mentioned a 'double bluff.' The mention of a 'triple bluff' was a hasty afterthought, like a smoke screen to throw him off the scent. He was more than sure…

He twists off the cap and pours out the pill, and Hope does the same.

"You know the funny thing about gamblin', is you gotta know when the other man is waiting for you to mess up," Hope says casually and inspects his own pill. Sherlock starts, and his mind stutters to a stop. "I'm good at gamblin'," Hope continues, trapping Sherlock with his piercing gaze. "I told yer I knew how people think. I know 'ow you think, Mr. 'Olmes. I know 'ow you get when your brain is just about rotted out of your skull and the only thing you can do to keep from going mad is turn to that bliss you inject into your veins. You hate monotony, but you're trapped by your own futility. Isnt' that right? It's a curse, innit? A damn ruddy curse," Hope says, and despite the fact, Sherlock can't keep his insidious words from creeping into the crevices of his mind. Finding purchase in the chinks of his smooth armour. "I should know. It'shateful, this. Living. What's the point?"

"The – the point?" Sherlock hears himself say. His voice sounds far away and strange in his own ears. The memories crash over him like waves, and it's like being pulled down to the bottom of the ocean floor…

So many dark nights. A vacuous cavity in the middle of his being. Can't be filled. The fire in his blood can't be quelled. The chaos in his brain can't be quieted. Blankness. He craves the nothing more than he craves the needle in his arm. Nothing matters. What's the point? What's the point…?

Then, in that last remaining spark of light, there was a solution all those months ago. An out. And he welcomed it.

"There's only the respite of darkness in the end for people like us…" Hope brushes the capsule against his mouth.

Respite. Darkness. No more thinking. Freedom.

Sherlock's hands shake. He brings the pill to his lips…

Freedom.

A gunshot rings out from behind him making him drop the pill just as the bullet impacts Hope in the chest before whizzing clean through and shattering the window he was stood by. He crumples with scream and a sickening thud.

Sherlock spins around and is met with a sight he will later recall as being utterly incandescent.

There, in the doorway stands Jane, gun at the ready with a curl of smoke rising from the muzzle. Her hair is loose and tossed about her shoulders, catching the light and making it look amber. Her face is set in a hard scowl of fury and her eyes are molten, but her hand is steady and her posture controlled. She practically radiates her own heat like the sun.

She tucks the gun back into her waistband, and darts up to him. She grabs him by the upper arms and gives him a little shake, and he finally realises she's been trying to talk to him.

"Jane?" he swallows.

"Are you all right?" she asks, obviously for the second time. He snaps out of his daze.

"Of course," he says hoarsely. Her eyes rove over his face and down to his feet cataloguing and checking for injury. She stiffens when spots the pill on the floor. She inhales sharply, and Sherlock crushes it with the heel of his shoe. "Come on," he says and they rush over to Hope's side, crimson blood rapidly pooling beneath him.

"The police are on their way," Jane says with a hardness in her voice as she looks down at Hope.

"A name!" Sherlock demands and crouches over the dying man. "Who is your sponsor?"

"No," Hope coughs, blood flecking his lips.

"You're dying! What does it matter? GIVE ME A NAME!" he roars.

"No…"

Jane shoves Sherlock aside. In a flat, calculated voice she says, "You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you." She takes her foot and presses it into Hope's shoulder wrenching his chest wound. He screams in agony, and she briefly closes her eyes. "There isn't time for this. You're out of time," she says softly, almost remorsefully. He doesn't know why, but Sherlock pictures wings sprouting from her back like some sort of avenging angel.

Hope looks up at her through a haze of pain, and a silent understanding seems to pass between them. He closes his eyes.

"Moriarty…" he whispers. And with one final shuddering exhale, his breathing ceases.

It the sound of the police sirens in the distance piercing through the thick silence that finally has Sherlock springing back into action. He assesses Jane, and sees that she seems trapped in a different world (the world between here and war; London and Afghanistan) her brow fretted, and her mouth a thin hard line as she continues to stare down at the man she just killed. (A man she shot without a moment's hesitation. For him of all people.)

"Jane?" Sherlock says softly. He takes her hand. "Come on. We have to go."

She looks up at him and nods. "I know."

He pulls her along the corridor until they find a bathroom, and he steers her inside while flicking on the lights. She stands there as he turns on the tap full blast, waiting for it to heat.

"We need to get the powder burns out of your fingers," he says and pulls her over to the sink. He guides her hands under the stream of warm water. She doesn't say anything as he works the soap into her knuckles over her palms. "I don't suppose you'll serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case, hm?"

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?" she says suddenly, and their eyes meet in the mirror's reflection.

"Of course I wasn't," he says and busies himself with rinsing off the suds. "Just biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No that's not it. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? Risking your life to prove that you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot," she snorts, and despite himself he barks out a laugh.

"Come on, dry your hands," he says and tosses her a hand towel. "You'll have to go around the back, they cannot see you, understand? Ditch the towel in a skip somewhere and go straight back to the flat."

"What about you?" she says.

"I'll…tell them something. It'll be fine," he says and all but shoves her out into the corridor again. "Go!"

She looks at him one last time, a question in her eyes, but nods and retreats down the long hall, her brisk steps echoing off the walls. He watches until she turns the corner and he can hear the sound of the stair well door closing behind her. Then he makes his way back to the classroom and sits himself on one of the tables and waits.

…

Later, Sherlock is sat in the back of an ambulance, his mind working a mile a minute. One word, one name keeps pounding through his head keeping time with his pulse

Moriarty. Moriarty.

Who was he? Could the whole 'arch enemy' business actually exist? A consulting criminal; his antithesis; his counterpart. The concept was…exhilarating. (Finally something new.)

And then there was Jane…always Jane…an enigma he could never fully puzzle out. It was brilliant.

He was pulled out of his musings when a weight settled around his shoulders, and he looked down to see the hem of an ugly orange blanket.

"Smile!" Lestrade suddenly says appearing out of nowhere. He snaps a photo of him with his phone and the tiny flash causes annoy spots to flood his vision. He sniggers, and Sherlock throws him an askance glare.

"Your victim sensitivity training really was a waste wasn't it?" Sherlock says, and shrugs off the blanket.

"Coming from the guy who calls himself a sociopath?" Lestrade snorts. Sherlock practically growls when the blanket is put back in place by the paramedic.

"Why do they keep putting this blanket on me?"

"It's for shock."

"I'm not in shock."

"Good, then you can tell me what happened," Lestrade says and pulls out his black notebook.

"I already told you what happened I —"

"Yeah I know what you told me in there," Lestrade interrupts, "but I want you to tell me what really happened. I've known you long enough to know when something's going on."

Sherlock stands and looks him in the eye. "There's nothing else to tell, Inspector. I told you Hope had me a gun point, and I was too distracted to notice the shooter properly before they fled. My back was to the door."

"Did you know his gun was a novelty cigarette lighter?" Lestrade asks suspiciously.

"Obviously not or I would have left ages ago. The others didn't seem to notice either," he says casually.

"See, no. That's rubbish coming from you. You notice everything."

"Maybe I am in shock then!" Sherlock says, frustrated. "Look! I've got a blanket!"

Lestrade goes to say something else before something over Sherlock's shoulder catches his eye and he stops mid-thought, a small frown furrowing his brow. Sherlock turns to look and he sees Jane standing calmly next to a police cruiser with her hands behind her back. (Stupid,stupid. Stubborn — what was she still doing here?)

The DI takes a step in her direction, and without thinking, Sherlock grabs his elbow stopping him.

"Sherlock, what —?" he starts, but Sherlock shakes his head a fraction. The two men stare at each other for a moment until Lestrade's expression changes from one of confusion to one of dawning realisation. Alarmed, his eyes snap up to where Jane is stood, and then back to Sherlock in horror. "I told you not to involve her, Sherlock. I bloody well told you!" he hisses, rage making his voice shake.

"For your information, Jane does what she wants. She came here of her own volition, and frankly, if it weren't for her you would still have a serial killer running around," Sherlock intones. He watches the war play out behind the DI's eyes, and he says even lower. "And you would have one more body to contend with." The honesty, he knows will cost him, but he has no choice.

Lestrade opens and closes his mouth a few times as he takes Sherlock's meaning. Finally, he sighs wearily and pins Sherlock with his most steely gaze.

"Okay. Here's what's gonna happen: you're going to come down to the station first thing tomorrow and give me a full statement. And then we are never going to mention this again. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock says and goes to make his way over to Jane.

"Oh and Sherlock," Lestrade says tucking the notepad back into his jacket. "If ever I think you are endangering her, or using her as some bloody experiment or what have you, I will end our arrangement and slap you with a possession charge so fast your head will spin. Capisce?"

"What ever you say, Inspector," Sherlock says baring his teeth, and without anything further crosses the parking lot.

"Shock?" Jane asks cheerily as she gestures to the orange monstrosity currently doubling as some sort of cape.

"What? God no," Sherlock says and balls it up and tosses it into the open window of the cruiser. "What happened to 'go directly back to the flat?'"

"What ever happened, to 'I need some air, I'll be right back,'" she returns.

Sherlock huffs a laugh and they set off walking. "Good point," he concedes, and she hums in agreement. He stops her by the shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Hm? Yes. Of course. Why do you ask?"

"You have just killed a man," he says. He studies her as she suddenly sobers.

"Yes I…that's true, isn't it?" Sherlock doesn't say anything. For a moment she gets that far away look in her eye again, but then she clears her throat and quirks her lips. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No, no he wasn't. And frankly a bloody awful cabbie."

"Ha! He was a bad cabbie, wasn't he?" she says and they start walking again in tandem.

"You should have seen the route he took to get us here," Sherlock grumbles, and Jane starts to laugh, that airy laugh that reminds him of golden honey. He can't help but join in.

"Stop!" she says suddenly as they pass by Sergeant Donovan. She gives them a withering glare. "We can't giggle at a crime scene, it's not decent."

"Decent! Since when do you care about decent? And did you just say 'giggle?'"

"Why?"

"God you're such a girl," Sherlock says rolling his eyes, and she elbows him in the side.

"Berk."

"Bint."

"Toss pot."

"Hungry?"

"Bloody starved," she says.

"End of Baker Street. There's a good Chinese* stays open 'til two," he says, and they walk at an easy pace down the block.

* Coming soon! I think I am going to make a little aside piece of this main story arc having to do with little bits of domestic fluff. Especially because half the fun is exploring how Jane and Sherlock's dynamic changes due to the fact that she a girl. So from now on I will start linking words like Chinese to this other domestic-y thing...that I am doing. Planning on. Ahem.

** Update! The ongoing domestic-y thing I mentioned is called 'Afters' and the first chapter is up called 'Chinese.'

Anyways thanks for reading, and I will be working on the redeux of TBB soon!