A/N: Alas, the final chapter. It's been a lot of fun writing, and I appreciate every review you all have sent me. Please feel free to leave me further comments on what you thought of it!

Chapter Eleven

After they had cleaned themselves up, they fell into what may be their habit. They sat on the bed and smoked a cigarette. A comfortable lull fell between them. Moriarty was the one to break it, "That cut. It's gorgeous."

Sherlock had been idly playing with the line without his own knowledge. He snickered, "Of course you would think that. You made it."

Jim smiled, and they fell into silence again. When Sherlock stubbed his cigarette out, he looked pointedly at the man next to him. "I want him back."

The criminal grumbled, "Your precious little toy."

"He's mine. And believe me, after this, I don't think he could ever serve as a fix again."

Moriarty seemed to consider it after that. He knew that the cut would take several weeks to heal. It's too deliberate for Sherlock to try to play it off as a battle wound. "If you break the rules again, the consequences will be far direr, do you understand?"

Sherlock chuckled darkly. How had he gotten himself into a mess like this? "Of course."

The criminal eyed him for a moment, to see if the man didn't take him seriously. Satisfied, he replied, "He'll back to you within a week."

"Thank you," Sherlock said with some difficulty, looking into those void black eyes.

"Really, pets are only a liability, Sherlock. You shouldn't be so eager to have such a weakness."

"Sounds like the pot is calling the kettle black."

Moriarty opened his mouth to dispute, but then he realized the meaning. He broke out another pair of cigarettes, and they smoked in silence again. Sherlock took in his surroundings. A cell made for the mentally unstable trying to look like a normal room. There were thin bars lining the windows. Everything that could be made into a weapon was bolted down. There was no feeling to the room. Sherlock found he had a certain fondness for it.

He laughed to himself as he looked at his bedmate. His voice became a mocking of the little lost girl, "'But I don't want to go among mad people.'"

Moriarty's eyes lit up with amusement and a little hint of something else as he replied immediately, "'Oh, you can't help that…'" He leaned over until he was suggestively on top of Sherlock once again. "'We're all mad here.'" The criminal licked at the now healing cut. "'I'm mad,'" he continued, voice dropping. He crooned like a devil on Sherlock's shoulder, "'You're mad.'"