When Sherlock woke the following morning, it was due to an urgent phone call he had received. He'd never heard Lestrade so shaken up before. When Sherlock had asked him what had happened, Lestrade had simply said "It's Moriarty. You need to get down here, fast."
Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. The previous day, he and John had received a call from Jack late in the evening, and it had been for the sole purpose of informing them that Moriarty was dead. Jack didn't divulge any details, only that it had been he himself who done it. Both John and Sherlock had slept considerably better that night. But now, for whatever reason, it seemed that the Shadows had decided to deliver Moriarty's remains to the public authorities. While they were a little confused as to why, John and Sherlock were of the same opinion that it had been done to give the population confirmation that one of the most feared and dangerous individuals it had known could never threaten them again. However, Lestrade's reaction had left them feeling slightly uneasy themselves. Just what exactly had happened?
When the cab stopped, Sherlock quickly payed the driver. He and John hurried inside the building, and as they reached the entrance John glanced up and down the street. He couldn't help himself. Sherlock noticed, and put a hand on his arm. John twitched a smile at him, before opening the door and walking into the building. Sherlock quickly followed him. Lestrade was waiting for them, and neither of them had ever seen him look so disturbed.
"Follow me."
Five minutes later they were in Lestrade's office. Lestrade had closed the door behind them, and had just as quickly seated himself behind his desk. A moment or so later he had pulled up an email that he had received, turning his laptop around so that Sherlock and John could see it. There was no message. Only a link to a video file. When they asked what it was, Lestrade simply said that it was a recording of what had happened to Moriarty. John and Sherlock looked at Lestrade, and then at each other.
"Let's just get this over with," John said.
"Are you sure you want to see it?" Lestrade asked him.
John managed not to sigh. "Yes, Greg. It's fine."
"All right," Lestrade answered reluctantly. "Just don't say I didn't warn you."
Without another word, Lestrade clicked the video. At first, it was difficult to make out any details. Judging by the darkness, the video had been filmed at midnight. The location appeared to be a courtyard, though neither John or Sherlock recognized it. A moment or so later, the soft light of the moon illuminated the area, shedding its light on eight figures making their way to a raised platform in the center of the courtyard. When John looked at them, he had to suppress a shiver. The figures were tall, clothed in black robes with the hoods drawn up around their faces. They marched silently in two columns, side by side. But it was the masks they wore that were the most frightening. White, without any features for a nose or mouth, and a pair of dark holes for the eyes, behind which lay nothing but darkness. They marched up to the platform, and in that moment John realized that there was a solitary object on it. A chopping block not unlike the ones that were once used for beheading traitors to the crown. John felt sick with dread, but he had to keep watching. Slowly, the procession mounted the steps, and it was only now that John realized they were dragging someone along with them.
It was James Moriarty.
If John hadn't been so familiar with Moriarty's profile, chances were that he wouldn't have been able to recognize him; so far was the extent of abuse he had undergone. He hardly seemed able to walk, and when he was forced onto his knees before the chopping block, John realized why. Moriarty's entire diaphragm had been wrapped in bandages, and on his back were a number of large horizontal bloodstains. But the biggest change by far was in his eyes. They were no longer cold and frightening, but instead were filled with desperation and silent agony, as though Moriarty wished for nothing short of death itself. John had never seen such misery in his life, and was shocked to find himself feeling sorry for him.
But then he remembered Mary and everything else Moriarty had done, and anger flared in his chest. His hands clenched into fists in his lap, and he kept watching.
Each of the eight figures took up positions on the platform. When they had taken their places, a voice off-screen spoke, listing the names of the victims that Moriarty had succeeding in killing over the years, ending the list with the Mary's death and finally the twice attempted murder and rape of John Watson.
"Do you have any last words?" the voice questioned at last with terrible coldness.
Moriarty shook his head mutely.
"Very well. Proceed."
The figure to the right of Moriarty stepped forward, while the one on the left forced his head down on the chopping block before stepping back. It was then that John's attention shifted to the executioner as they drew a sword from its sheathe. The blade was long, and it caught the moonlight as it rested for a moment on the back of Moriarty's neck. Sherlock and John braced themselves, knowing what was coming. Then there was a flash of of silver as the blade was swung, singing through the air before slicing through the neck of its target with a dull thud on wood.
The footage ended. Just as quickly, the email itself disappeared as though it had never existed.
John sat absolutely still in his chair, gradually becoming aware of the fact that his mouth had fallen open in shock. He quickly shut it again, and glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock's expression was unreadable, but when he noticed John was looking at him he reached over with one hand, lacing his fingers through John's. He held it tightly, and John understood. So that was the end of it. A swift but painful death. It was over.
"Has anyone else seen this?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade nodded. "Apparently whoever those people were, they sent another copy to the government. My guess is they wanted them to have confirmation as well."
"How do you know?"
"Mycroft told me."
"Mycroft?" Sherlock and John repeated. They looked at each other, seeing the same question in each other's eyes.
"Yeah?" Lestrade said slowly. "Is something wrong?"
For a split second, neither John or Sherlock said anything. Then, as if coming to a silent agreement, Sherlock turned just as quickly to Lestrade. "No," he said firmly, and stood up.
Then, almost as quickly as they'd arrived, they were gone. Lestrade sat alone in his office for a long time after that, puzzling over the reaction John and Sherlock had given to Mycroft's involvement. In the end he leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling; his mind numb from all the questions swarming in his head like a hornet's nest. What was going on?
