Author's Notes: So here it is. The final chapter. Many, many thanks to everyone who has left kudos on, bookmarked and/or commented on this fic. You're all wonderful. Enjoy!

"Here's the thing, Sherlock," Moriarty said, wandering towards him. "Your family has been ruling over our kind for centuries now; and let's face facts here. You're boring."

Despite the situation, despite the fact that he was in the grips of an immortal madman with megalomaniacal ideals, Sherlock managed a smile and a small raise of his eyebrow. "Let me guess: you rather fancy a go of it?"

"I think I'd look rather good with your brother's crown on my head, yes."

Sherlock's initial reaction was to laugh. "My kidnap won't stir my brother into any kind of action."

"Mm, that's where you're wrong. You and I both know that Mycroft Holmes will do anything to protect his little brother." Moriarty's features lightened with his triumphant mood. "Why else would've he had ordered you to murder the love of your life? As soon as your brother gets the slightest… inkling of your kidnap, all hell will break loose."

He leaned in closer to Sherlock, and his triumph was almost crazed. He let out a giggle.

"I don't know about you, but I'm sincerely looking forward to the show."

None of them had a chance to give a retort, for they were all shrouded in darkness once again.

The blindfolds were tight against their heads and they all stumbled, limbs flailing as Moran silently pushed at their backs, steering and hurrying them further and further forward, into a place where the scent of blood, old blood, cloyed in the thick, stuffy air. Cold, biting metal hit against their backs as they were, one after the other, pushed back into chairs.

"And to make sure you don't run away…" Moran said under his breath, the amusement in his tone little more than malicious as he grabbed at Sherlock's wrists, wrenching them to behind the chair. Molly, still blindfolded, spun her head around, disorientated, when a guttural, panting scream bled from Sherlock.

"What are you doing to him?" She was almost hysterical with her panic, and Moran chuckled.

"Venom, darlin'. Ropes soaked with venom. Let's make sure they're bound nice an' tight—" Another scream from Sherlock cut off whatever else Moran had to say. The crunch of dirt sounded as he stood, and his grip was heavy against Sherlock's shoulder, his tone now just over a whisper. "Lil' gift from the boss, y'know?"

The ropes burning into his skin, Sherlock could do nothing but nod in defeat. More screams, this time from John, sounded as he was provided with the same bounds, those screams bleeding out into heavy pants.

Sherlock blinked, the dark light of the evening filling his eyes, as Moran removed the blindfolds from his and the other's eyes. The room they had been escorted into was small, lit only by the row of windows that stood in front of them. In spite of the pain, and with a low hiss, Sherlock touched at his right hand. The cold silver of his daylight ring was gone. He didn't have to guess to know that John had suffered the same fate.

The last one Moran relieved of their blindfold was Lestrade, and Moran tilted his head, touching a gloved hand against the tip of Lestrade's chin.

"Sorry 'bout your wife by the way, but you know what it's like when we vampires get a lil' hungry." He leaned closer, grinning. "That bloodlust. Makes us almost delirious."

Growling, Lestrade wrenched against his bounds, but Moran merely stepped back, laughing as he ogled the sight of their trapped forms, clearly enjoying the sight of his handiwork, of them all lined up in a row, waiting for death.

He did not give a final parting word, but instead a contented nod, fetching the keys from his pocket and walking towards the door, slamming it and locking it behind him. Sherlock kept his gaze fixed outside the window, watching the moon. Four hours. If Mycroft didn't rescue them, that was all they had. He supposed that had to be an irony—so many years, so many centuries, spent loathing his brother and now his fate lay in his brother's hands.

"John… I presume you no longer have your daylight ring?"

John chuckled. "Of course I don't."

"What will they do to us?" He felt her move her gaze towards him. "They'll kill us, won't they? Once you're—"

Sherlock gave a slow nod.

Her only reaction was one of silence.

The four hours trickled by, every minute more agonising than the last as the sky gradually transformed from an inky black to the paler shade of the dawn. And as the moonlight slowly faded and the dawn began to appear over the horizon, the tortured screams of Sherlock and John gave way to hisses and winces, but the pain of the ropes, tied so tightly against their wrists and soaked so heavily with venom, did not fade but instead remained as pure, as potent, as the first time they had been wrapped against Sherlock and John's skin.

Yet when the sunlight did make its final ascent, there was only silence. The first burn of pain seared through Sherlock's right side, and a grunt ripped through him. Shifting in his seat, he tried to move, but nothing worked. The sunlight continued to creep up his form, seeping into and burning against his skin. Blisters and burns, he could feel them, forming against him as he screamed. Yelling, incoherent against his screams, echoed in his eardrums as he curled inwards, trying to escape the smoke, the thick, bitter smoke, filling his sight, stinging him. It was almost a relief when the flames began, licking up his legs, his arms and his chest—it would all be over, so quickly, in the time it took to blink, it would be over.

Through the smoke and the flames, he felt two hands grip at the scruff of his neck, hauling him back and he fell to the floor with a clatter. The flames and the ropes were gone, but the lurid stench of smoke remained. His vision blurred, but someone was calling him, someone panicked. Another set of hands, smaller, gripped at him and shook him. Blinking, he turned his head. Eyes, warm eyes, eyes of the purest brown gazed, wide, at him.

"Sherlock—Sherlock, please…"

His vision swam, but cleared. Bent over him was Molly, her brow creased in worry and her mouth inches from his. He turned his head, to find Lestrade crouched over John, who was laid on the floor like a rag doll, barely registering Lestrade's words as he tried to coax him back into full consciousness. Ropes, torn in half, dangled from Lestrade's wrists.

"Molly…" he said, his tongue tripping over her name as he turned to look at her again. "What—"

"The metal of the chair leg," Molly explained with a light laugh, relief dancing in her eyes as Sherlock carefully began to stand. "He eroded the ropes against it."

"It was that cocky bastard Moran," Lestrade interrupted. "I don't think he thought a hunter clever enough to think of that."

"He untied me and we dragged you to safety," Molly said before she stepped towards John, who on seeing her, blinked. "John, are you okay? Can you stand up?"

John gave a nod and with her help, got to his feet.

"So where do we go?" he asked. "We haven't got our daylight rings—"

"We have to go through the house," Sherlock said quickly. "Either that or wait here until the sun comes fully up and risk burning to death again."

"Frankly, I'd rather fight Moriarty."

"How good to know." Moran's Southern drawl entered the fray, and shutting the door, a predatory glint shone in his eyes. "I'll have to tell the boss."

That same predatory glint turned bloodthirsty as he, eyes turning black, grinned and leaped for Molly, his hands wrapping themselves tightly around her neck.

"I never saw why the boss wanted you alive so much," he said with a high laugh, forcing her to her knees, tightening his grip, "but I guess it's 'cause—"

His words gave way to a choke, his hands slipping from Molly's neck as Sherlock, who had made a grab for the abandoned ropes, looped them around Moran's neck and pulled. He may have been weakened, but his anger, his urge to protect her, his urge to not let history repeat itself, fed his strength. The venom seared through his skin, but he only pulled harder.

This time, he did not flinch at the sound of breaking bone.

Moran's body fell to the floor with a dull thump, but nobody grieved the man's death.

"Fetch his keys – give them to Lestrade," Sherlock ordered, to which Molly swiftly obeyed. "And the daylight rings."

"Will they get rid of all the burns?" Molly asked as she dropped the daylight rings into each of their palms whilst Lestrade fiddled with the door.

"The ones from the venom will remain, most likely. The magic in these things only goes so far."

True to Sherlock's word, the burns and blisters from the sunrise soon healed, but the marks from the venom remained. A rip of material caused Sherlock to glance up, only to see Molly tear at the hem of her shirt.

"There's going to be a fight," she said, binding his burns and briefly catching his eye. "You can't go in weak, I won't—"

Reaching forward, he cupped at her face and soundly caught her mouth with his. Yes, there was only a little time before he tried to confront and fight a psychopath intent on gaining his brother's crown, but he wasn't going to waste it. He loved her, with all his heart he loved her. She had brought back his humanity; and in it she had brought back his strength. A kiss was a pitiful way to pay his thanks to her, but for now, it was enough.

Breaking away from her, he headed out into the mansion to be met by the black eyes, sunken skin and wide, already exultant grin of James Moriarty.

Stake in hand, Moriarty lunged towards Sherlock, but John ran forward, taking Moriarty by the throat with his arms, but now no more than a savage in his rage, Moriarty growled and expertly, easily even, twisted his body, throwing John off him and against the wall with a loud crack. Seeing John now slumped against the wall, unconscious, Moriarty grinned and cracked his neck, focusing his black-eyed gaze on Sherlock. Stepping away from Lestrade and Molly, his footsteps audible against the hard concrete, Sherlock circled Moriarty who only adjusted his grip on the stake and widened his smile. Neither of them said anything, merely scanned one another, finding and deducting weaknesses and strengths.

They crashed together in a blur, attacking and blocking one another, their skills matching their strengths, but their motivations entirely different. Where Sherlock sought to protect, Moriarty sought to live. Grunts and yells filled the air of the corridor as they stayed, moving as one, locked in the battle.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled as he sidestepped another attack from Moriarty, "get Molly out of here!"

Moriarty's arm swooped down over his head but he again stopped it, watching as Lestrade, holding her tightly, steered Molly away from the fight and towards the doors of the mansion. She was fighting against him. Why was she fighting?

Moriarty delivered a swift blow to Sherlock's stomach, winding him before he aimed another blow, this time a swift kick to his cheek, and Sherlock crumpled to the floor with a deep groan. Stood over him, Moriarty's eyes faded to the familiar hollow shade of dark brown. His fingers found Sherlock's throat and held on, gleeful as he stared, watching him struggle for breath or speech.

"Such a pity, your obsession with human nature. You could've been so – powerful," Moriarty drawled, giving a smirk. "I'm disappointed in you, Sherlock." He had thought he had won. He would not, he would not. He would not.

With one final roar, deep and guttural and defiant, Sherlock aimed a punch at Moriarty's jaw. Stunned by the force, Moriarty stumbled back, drops of congealed blood on the edge of his mouth, threatening to spill. Only one thought running through his mind, Sherlock jumped to his feet and sprinted towards Moriarty, grabbing him and pinning him against the wall by the throat, the crunch of his head against it echoing. Moriarty laughed, blood spurting from his mouth, as Sherlock wrenched the stake from his grip, fire in his eyes.

"I've never been interested in power." With every ounce of his remaining strength, Sherlock dug and twisted the stake into his chest. Finally, Moriarty's laughter died away, engulfed by silence. Dark blood, almost black, traced from his mouth and down his chin. Slowly, Sherlock let the dead body of James Moriarty drop to the floor.

A glimpse in the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head. By the door, something flickered—like the sight of a television losing signal, it flickered. Sherlock's heart plummeted. He raced forward, but the form, the real form, of Sebastian Moran quickly transported into view. In his hand, he held a stake. Giving a grin, he wrenched open the door and ran.

"You have to let me go – let me help – please, Greg, please…"

Shouting, she was shouting—still fighting. Sherlock continued to sprint forward, down the pathway, searching, searching for Moran.

"Sherlock's got it under control," Lestrade's voice said, tone firm. "You've got to be kept safe—"

"Greg!"

Sherlock halted as the scene he had dreaded loomed up in front of him. Lestrade whipping around to see Molly, limp, Moran stood behind her, his stake sticking deep into her lower back before he withdrew it, her blood soaking out against her shirt in a dark crimson pool. Everything that followed seemed to happen in slow motion. Moran, surging forward to attack Lestrade. Lestrade, grabbing the stake from Moran's hands and driving it through Moran's neck. Moran, collapsing to the floor, finally dead. Cars speeded up the pathway towards them. Mycroft. Yet Sherlock's attention was only on Molly. Her blood, crimson, soaking against her shirt, she stumbled forward, falling towards him, his name barely a breath on her tongue. Cradling her close, Sherlock heard the thump of a car door being shut as Mycroft stepped out. He heard Lestrade update his brother on the situation at hand. He heard his brother crouch down beside him.

"Sherlock." As always, he was cold. Detached. Emotionless. "We need to get her to a hospital. Now."

Mycroft was always efficient at cleaning up problems. A little bit of hypnosis here, a little bit of bribery there, and soon enough, the problems erased themselves from history. Yet all the skill in the world, Sherlock knew, could not solve the problem that lay in front of him. Her bandages, made before the heat of the fight, were gone now, thrown away in some contamination bin and replaced by thin layers of white gauze. A quick fix for him; scars that would heal and fade in time. It was a quick fix for John too. He now lay in another hospital bed somewhere, out of some paranoid need to "keep an eye on him", as the doctors had claimed. Sherlock had almost laughed at that. John Watson had survived two world wars. He could easily survive a minor blow to the head.

Molly's case turned out to be that much more complex. For hours, the doctors examined her and the surgeons sought to fix what could not be cured. Now she slept, wrapped in a hospital gown, curled up into herself, the bruises on her arms mottled purple and yellow and blue in the late morning light.

"I'm sorry." Sat by her bed, Sherlock tore his gaze from Molly and found Mycroft, standing in the doorway, almost sheepish in his expression and his tone.

"You're sorry?"

Stepping forward, Mycroft shut the door behind him. "I should've told you my plans from the beginning. Perhaps then, you would not have got involved."

"And what exactly were those plans?"

"I have been tracking James Moriarty for a lot longer than I originally claimed." Mycroft's gaze flicked over Molly, and if he were so inclined, Sherlock might have thought to have seen some sympathy there, in his eyes. "I've been tracking him since the first time his adopted mother admitted herself into the hospital. I, admittedly, did not know exactly how important a threat Moriarty would become to either us or my reign when I began tracking him—"

"But you knew he'd be important to track him in the first place. I suppose it was a boon for you and your suspicions when he showed up in Edwin Moriarty's will. Where is he, by the way?"

"Dead, with a broken neck. Found in a council flat some time ago. It seems his son killed him soon after he had relayed a message to Violet Hunter—a message which contained instructions to attempt suicide and attack Miss Hooper. Apparently Moriarty deemed his father quite useless after that."

"He told me he hated him, so I'm not too surprised." Sherlock leaned forward and threaded his fingers through Molly's. Although she remained asleep, she subconsciously squeezed tighter against his fingertips. "What about the blackmail scheme?"

"Moriarty was seeking to gain secrets on every person in my close employ. People of worth, people of value—people who could influence, let's say, the result of an election. Langdale Pike was targeted because of his increasingly debilitating drug habit. Violet Hunter was targeted because of her daughter."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Her daughter?"

"She gave birth to the girl about fifteen years ago – obviously, to have a Half-Breed for a daughter is not such a bad thing, but Violet's job has brought her enemies – after all, not everyone believes that vampires and mortals should be so at peace with one another."

"And the Woman? Irene Adler? And Sholto? What importance did they have?"

"It's believed Moriarty thought Sholto a traitor. Expected, considering Sholto's bloodline and choices. Therefore, he was the perfect victim to make a statement. And the Woman's penchant for trading in secrets made her something of a desirable item in Moriarty's eyes. According to Miss Hunter, the Woman wisely decided to avoid working with Moriarty; unfortunately, he managed to appeal to her heart. Threatening Katherine's life secured her loyalty for as long as he wanted it."

The cogs whirred in Sherlock's mind and he looked up as they clicked into place. "You said – you've been—" His grip around Molly's fingers tightened. He was breathless (if it was with anger or relief or a mixture of both, he didn't know) when he spoke. "You ordered me to kill Molly because of Moriarty?"

"At the time, Moriarty was in the beginning stages of building his criminal empire. When I learned that Sebastian Moran had gone into his employ, I knew I could not risk Moriarty using your love for her as a weapon." Mycroft's expression changed, shifting into something akin to an understated pleading. "I have never done anything for purely selfish reasons. Everything – all my plans – have always been in order to protect not just my reign, but you as well, Sherlock."

"Me? That's a sentimental claim, Mycroft. Are you sure you want to use it so lightly?"

"I'm not using it lightly. Like Anthea, you are – something akin to a pressure point for me, much as I loathe admitting it."

"But you've never had to erase your – pressure point." Sherlock's glare was dark. "Have you?"

Mycroft's gaze fell back onto Molly. "Not in the way that you did, no. But she's stable Sherlock. She'll live."

"I know that."

"But she is not without damage," Mycroft warned. "Damage that cannot be repaired."

Sherlock knew that as well. He had heard it in the whispered conversations of the nurses; had seen in the insincere smiles of the doctors. He swallowed slightly.

"Unless—"

"Unless you turn her."

At this, Molly's eyes fluttered open. Looking at the two men, she gave a smile. "I heard that."

"Ah. Very well. I'll leave you to – discuss things," Mycroft said before he made a discreet departure from the room. Reaching up, Sherlock trailed his fingers through her curls, matted and tangled from the events of the night.

"Is it really what you want? Immortality? It's a big thing after all."

Molly gave a soft sigh, shifting up a little, wincing a little from her injuries as she looked to him.

"I can deal with being – damaged. I can live with it. But what I can't live with is the knowledge that if I remain mortal, I'll just be a burden."

"Molly—"

"Don't lie to me – you know I'll be a burden. People will threaten me to get to you, and people will threaten you to get me. If I remain – like this – I'll endanger not just myself, but you and everyone else. I can't – I can't live with that." She dropped her head, worrying at her bottom lip. "Immortality – being like you – it isn't just the logical choice. It's the right one."

"But could you do it, Molly? Immortality isn't just living for a few more years; it means having to watch people – your friends – die."

Gently, Molly stroked along the hollow of his cheek with her thumb, her eyes filled with not just optimism, but determination too.

"They can always come back, can't they? I'm living proof of that. Sherlock, I've always been searching for answers, all my life. I've always felt like there was something – something not entirely right, you know? Then, with you, that all kind of – washed away, really. It's stupid, I know, but I just know – I can face immortality with you there with me."

Sherlock felt his smile grow as he stood. He didn't need to question her words. The world had changed; there were possibilities, chances, now that they could not have taken before. Carefully, he pressed his lips against hers; dropping kisses on her jaw and against her neck. She gasped, the sound small and mewling, as his eyes grew black with his face twisted into a web of veins and gaunt skin and his teeth, his fangs, traced against the fragile surface of her flesh. He saw it now. Where she was his light in the dark, he was hers. And it would remain that way, for eternity.

Smiling, he bit down.