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Can not think of anything else, can not reason about anything else, can not do their jobs can not eat or sleep or read or hear. This is death, surely: the area of his head in absolute silence. It is inconceivable that he still can ...
Close your eyes.
When opened, James Moriarty in front of him, smiling. The surprise hit, and all subsequent related sensations (nausea, adrenaline, earthquakes, et cetera), where they must stand in a box adjacent to avoid falling to the floor. In the procedure two or three of the postcards that are wrinkled at the bottom of his pocket roll on wet pavement.
Close your eyes.
CHTMsurrounded them. not manage to achieve that amount. Another order was
Picasso's Guernica. Quite suitable.
John says hi, honey. -M Three months and twenty days after Magritte, Sherlock led to Berlin, where Moriarty was waiting for enjoy a private screening and three pieces of works absolutely sublime, that Sherlock does not remember, because it was Moriarty beside her and whispered in his ear: Do not you want to know what I've done with your pet? Hmm? Do not you want to know how she dresses? How do you breathe? Who sleeps these days? In present time, Sherlock is based on pa minute, Sherlock can not - is unable to - breathe because your throat and does not obey his mind and decides to narrow the possibilities beyond the physical. The postcard has not written. He received three days ago. Sherlock led to a port in Russia, where smiles James Moriarty to Sherlock deformed his face and vomits on a cargo of salt. "Where is John asks, his voice rough from disuse and the acid. Moriarty laugh and clap again, this time of pure joy. Sherlock must admit, Moriarty set the stage with excessive attention to detail. Sherlock attempt any dialogue that is just filler between a script severely set. Sherlock is not here tone. All in Sherlock Holmes, all that defines its existence, logic, rationale, criteria, all stops at this one, insignificant person. All shudders to an absolute void of anything else other than on this pathetic, simple, mediocre humanity. -John whispers something in him, something that resonates within you as an echo. Moriarty agree with everything in your body expressing satisfaction. - You like? I did it for you, "smiles the closest thing has quietly. Go on, try it. And the mind of Sherlock definitely lost lights, because it is unable to understand what may relate to "prove it," until it shakes the silence, pushed by something stronger, andnorme, on the shoulders of John and his neck is too thin, his eyes downcast, her expression gentle. In the way that shrinks when Moriarty puts a hand on her back, but chin up mm to him in recognition. In submission. Moriarty pushes a little John, one arm around his waist. John does not raise his head and no hands out of the pockets of his jacket and has a bruise on his collarbone, ridiculously Sherlock visible and can not ... can not ... "You can do it, Sherlock. Make any thing with him. It does not matter. There is nothing here, "puts his hand on the skull of John, as if by destroying the bone fist. Act impossible. Sherleck is unable to maintain its expression still or your hand or your body, leaning toward John without taking a step. Nothing but the desire to be helpful. Is not that right, Doctor ? Want to tell our dear Sherlock what have you done for me ? John shakes his head pathetically, and shrinks about himself, his eyes tight and animal groan. Sherlock back, trying to catch, hold, release your breath and not illogical, pathetic, like: - Oh, God. God John .
And Moriarty is turned to place a hand on her cheek, kissing her forehead. And John is relaxed, without opening his eyes. "It's
so shy," he says, while mirarlcry all the time. I would love to hear you scream all the time. When I start a fire or explode something

exclaims "I can not not think of you, Sherlock, and then smiles, all teeth Is not that love? "Have You ever present in the moments that are important to me? Sherlock

swings, looking around, while still speaking in spasms Moriarty. Sherlock shadow study (three men, not four, but something seriously curious about the motion, the order ...) and John (all this is not about John at all, for Moriarty he is nothing more than a match for which the mark on his neck, the look on his face, everything is ...). - Was not the game dsleep if he and John survive. (In the depths of his reason, yet slowly unraveling, believes that it is considering the possibility - irrational, illogical, improbable but not impossible,

not impossible - for both to survive and can not stop smiling. Oh, the emotions are so impractical, he thinks. So irritating drawbacks. can not stop smiling.

John is alive, after all, and Moriarty has no idea what it is, what that means.) Moriarty

laughs hysterically. "Oh, I'm sorry I disappointed dad. Do you want us to play again? -Blink excessively. Sherlock squints.

Let John go and play with you. Only two of us. No one else, and there it is. Last lines. That's all that was established in the dialogue. Sherlock note how John presses his lips; Moriarty not busy pretending to meditate. -Ooooh, tempting-hum. Let me think-dramatic pause. Typical. Doctor, our beloved Sherlock fire the right leg, if you please.
John obeys.

It's a relief finally dropping to the floor, so much so that almost surpasses the pain in his right shin or the shock that goes through, the whisper in your head that sounds like children that never was: John shot at us! John has shot!

That does not change anythingriarty listens and shakes with laughter, while spitting on the floor like a rabid animal. Sherlock gets up, taking advantage of the adrenaline to drag his leg and wondering vaguely if the snipers are dead, if it has been Mycroft intervention or the same John. If John will shoot when he noticed move, only reaction.
John fires, indeed, but the body ("body?) Moriarty. Shoots him in the chest, stomach and genitals and forehead; shoots to empty the cartridge and continues to squeeze the trigger a few times. Then falls to his knees and begins to beat his face with the barrel. Sherlock
kneels beside him.

Even in anger, there is some calm in John, a restraint on itsbios tight lines around her eyes, her forehead. His face reddens and his eyes twinkle.
-John, "he says. You do not hear, repeat: - John.

---

John dropped the gun and moans something human, something between a vowel and a gasp, shrinking in on itself. Sherlock swings, trying to breathe through an impossibly narrow trachea.

If the death of Moriarty has been as surprising as anticlimax, the sound of helicopters and ambulances, doubly so. John is collected, squeezed her head between arms and Sherlock ... Sherlock


turned to the shadows and wait for a break, twice, that Mycroft appears.
"I thought for a moment just to give them healtha, raising his voice over the sudden cacophony. Slopes, with an expression that Sherlock does not remember seeing his face before, but John growls, serious and instinctive, and Mycroft stops, regaining his usual composure. A waiting ambulance. Sherlock nods, but does not move until John does, peeping from between her hands, her arms at him. It does not say a word, not a single sign of recognition in any of his actions, but when Sherlock stretched a hand to him, John takes it.
- Stockholm? He asks, referring to how long he was following. Doubt it, but ...
Affairs
-state I stopped for a longer period than would be preferred, "replies Mycroft, Jo studyingbecause of the dead were trying to hunt them down.

"Just a moment," says John? Repeats.

John raises his head, but looking beyond her shoulder.

I do not know if I can get up-supported and Mycroft start a movement, but John is faster, from under his arm and lifting both the agility of practice. There is some new muscles in John, with his disposition. Sherlock

focuses on regulating your breathing and ignoring the hole in his leg as much as possible.
"Perhaps," murmured Mycroft, bending his ear with the Doctor ...
"I know a pause. Your leg starts to throb, "Mycroft?
John shrugs, nods and breathes his chin wet.

(Remember the first order, one week and three days after the pool.
The
Narcissus by Caravaggio. A simple

affection in his letter, his real point, italic and stylish, too great and seems inclined to try to escape the paper.

Sherlock thought, looking at John:
If you ever do, will not be enough pieces from you for someone to think you were human, and horribly
, his mind continued: -
But if not return to do so, if you do it again and again ...


And John smiled, confident and curious expression and then forgot Sherlock, onlyfor a moment, what I thought.)