Author's notes: Written frantically for the Sherlockbbc Commfest in two days, this story has been dictated my first reaction to one of the prompts and does not follow any one single prompt to the letter, which was a huge risk. My apologies to the OP, if it doesn't work out. Crossover with Inception (only the verse borrowed). Someone who hasn't seen Inception should be able to follow the story, as all core concepts have been explained (hence double the word-limit length). Apparently, I'm mental enough to attempt something like that.

Unbetaed or britpicked, so apologies for any errors. Also, I've adapted the fic as per my own understanding of the INCEPTION verse. My apologies to hard-core Inception-fans if I've missed something out.

"Take my hand!"

John nearly giggled before clasping Sherlock's handcuffed hand in a death grip, the flying pavement a blur at their heels.

"Now people will definitely talk!"

They reached the locked gate and Sherlock leapt over the side with the speed and agility of a flying monkey, a manoeuvre which never failed to amaze John, no matter how many times he saw it.

As the links clinked against the gate and John was dragged forward, he loped a hand through the bars to snag the oblivious detective and reel him in. "SHERLOCK!"

We are going to need, to co-ordinate! That's what John wanted to say. It was at the tip of his tongue, but Sherlock's flushed face was inches from his own. And John forgot the words as his pulse rocketed against his throat for an entirely different reason. For a moment they were pressed against each other closer than ever before, gazes locked, the bars of the gate too flimsy a barrier to be of any consequence. The burn along his outstretched arm reminded him that his shoulder was about to pop out, but he barely noticed. His own breath caught in his throat as John saw the sharp, silvery irises obliterated by dilated pupils. And he would have still found a way to rationalise the observation away as panic. After all they were on the run from the Yard. Sherlock was suspected to be Moriarty and-

His train of thought blew up spectacularly as Sherlock's free arm snaked through the bars to yank him nearer and cold, soft lips closed over his own.

There was no hesitation, no sense of uncertainty. Sherlock plundered his mouth like he belonged there, biting his bottom lip till John whimpered from the twin attacks of pain and pleasure. The way John melted into the kiss, allowing Sherlock to deepen it only proved that any permission Sherlock should have needed for this was granted a long time ago.

John's free hand shifted to clutch the surprisingly soft curls. He was determined that he wouldn't be the first to break away.

"What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs Hudson's been shot. Probably one of the killers you managed to attract. Jesus! She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go," John shot up instinctively from the lab table he had involuntarily fallen asleep over. The Doctor in him automatically steered to get his coat and pull it on, as he calculated how long they would take to reach Baker Street and praying that she wasn't hurt too badly.

When he turned to leave, he realised that Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. He was still slumped on the floor against the lab bench as he threw the rubber-ball listlessly to arc against the wall and back in his hand.

"Sherlock?"

"You go. I'm busy."

"Busy?"

"Thinking. I need to think."

"You need to...? Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

"She's my landlady!"

You machine! John wanted to scream. But his eyes paused to note the white knuckles clutching the ball a bit too hard, the strange tightening around the corners of Sherlock's mouth and all he said was, "Right." His fingers unerringly hit the speed-dial to call Mycroft.

As he made no further move to leave, Sherlock scrambled up from the floor, "What on earth are you-"

John simply ignored the outburst as Mycroft answered the phone. John did not allow the senior Holmes to speak. "You claimed to be sorry for what you did. Here's the first step towards making up for it. Mrs. Hudson's been shot. Thanks to you, Sherlock's a fugitive. He can't go back to Baker Street and I'm not leaving his side, as that would decrease the chances of him doing something incredibly stupid. She's your responsibility, Mycroft. You make sure she's alright."

He ended the call without waiting for a reply.

John knew he had done the right thing when he met Sherlock's wide, surprised and suddenly vulnerable looking eyes. The expression in them made John want to wrap his arms around the gangly idiot in a warm hug, but he settled for clearing his throat and sitting back on the stool before retorting, "What! Stop staring at me like that. I'm not going anywhere."

John was drumming his fingers against the closed lift-doors willing it to go faster. He needed to get back to Baker Street right now. They should never have left Mrs. Hudson alone. He was in the lobby of Bart's when he realised that Mycroft's assistance would reach Mrs. Hudson faster than he ever could and swallowed his pride and anger to call him.

"Mycroft," he started without preamble. "Mrs. Hudson's been shot. I'm on my way there right now but you-"

"That's impossible John." Mycroft's voice was disturbingly calm. The fact that it was Mycroft saying this brought John to an abrupt stop.

Mycroft continued, "221 Baker Street has always been under the highest priority surveillance. Even if there were shots fired in the vicinity of the apartment, much less someone actually getting shot inside the flat, it would raise multiple red flags on the system. If you were not present at Baker Street at the time of such an incident, I would know about it long before emergency services could reach there and call you," There was a pause, as muffled voices came down the line.

"There, I've confirmed it. Mrs. Hudson is fine."

But that meant… John was jolted out of the grip of the cold fist that closed around his throat, as Mycroft raised his voice, now more urgent than before, "Where are you presently, John? Is Sherlock with you?"

FUCK! He was running back to Bart's, running as fast as he could. Whoever had made that call, had wanted to separate him from Sherlock. And he had been so bloody stupid. He reached the lab completely out of breath to find it empty. The entire corridor was empty except for a janitor doing the early morning clean-up.

No! No! No! This wasn't happening! Not here!

"You lookin' for someone, son?"

The janitor looked an awful lot like old Larry, a cleaner from John's High school, but John didn't pause to ponder the co-incidence.

"There was a man in the lab, my friend, just five minutes ago. Did you see where he went?" His voice shook, "Please, it's really important."

"Take it easy, junior. Tall, posh bloke, right? Went up the stairs. Dunno where, though! That goes right to the roof."

"Thank you," John gasped before breaking into a run again.

His first instinct was to burst out onto the roof, but he curbed the impulse and entered quietly, gun on the ready.
- to find Sherlock standing on the edge of the roof and Jim Moriarty prancing around him, although too far to push Sherlock or pose any direct threat to him. Sherlock was already on the fucking ledge? Jim didn't even have a weapon on him.

John didn't stop to think. Sherlock was in danger. The how and why of how exactly Jim was making it happen didn't matter. He had a clear line of sight.

He shot Jim right in the head.

John hadn't expected any gratitude from Sherlock for saving his arse, but found that the Detective was as furious as he was, if not more. He dragged John roughly to the stairwell and pushed him against the wall before typing something furiously on his phone, "Why did you do that? Do you have the slightest idea what you've done?"

"Sher-"

Sherlock was shaking like a twig, his face twisted with panic, as he gripped his head with both hands, "You could've died. And Mrs. Hudson could already be dead, because of your misguided herocomplex, you imbecile. YOU SHOULD'VE LET ME JUMP!"

"No." If John had any second thoughts as to the veracity of his action, that one statement erased all doubt as all the pieces- the phone call, an unarmed Jim Moriarty and Sherlock standing on that ledge slotted neatly into place to create a singular, horrifying eventuality.

Sherlock jumps. Sherlock dies…and John lives.

"Didn't you hear a word of what I just said?" Sherlock roared, "Mrs. Hudson-"

"I don't care," John whispered, gripping Sherlock in a tight hug, his words shocking the detective into abrupt silence. "I cannot let it happen. I will not let it happen."

John was too slow, because only he knew that even one step behind Sherlock could be too far a distance to bridge when it mattered the most. How, even one step behind him could make John irreparably late.

Oh, how well he knew that!

"Captain, you do know that you're asking me to help you commit suicide."

"I need more…I need more time. It's come to the point that I've to remind myself that I'm still flesh and blood, not some kind of a spirit. It has stooped feeling real. I want to go deeper."

"That's…that's beyond suicidal! No one knows what's down there. You'll be better off shooting yourself in the mouth. I would rather watch you do that."

"You owe me, Carson. You promised…anything."

"I didn't promise to…I cannot do this. You can't expect me to stand by and-"

"I don't expect you to do anything of the sort. Just leave it here and go, as a last favour to a dying man. I'll never ask anything of you again."

"You'll be living a lie! Don't you care? None of it will real."

"Look at me, Carson. Do you see me living now? It's been three years since and…I feel the same. The only moments I feel even slightly alive are when I'm with him. I know its suicide and my body will waste away without my mind. But I'm choosing this way to go. The few hours I have here will give me a lifetime with him and it will be as real as I want it to be. Think of it as a mercy killing of sorts. I saved Dylan in Kandahar. This is the closest you can come to returning the favour. Think of it as fulfilling a dying man's final wish. Please."

Mycroft Holmes had waited three years for the text he received this morning. It said one word, "Checkmate."

By all rights he should have been at Heathrow Airport, welcoming his dead brother home. But here he was in the back-seat of his limo, fists clenched, praying to a God he had never believed in, as his driver raced towards John's current apartment. Unfortunately, his sources had not been as adept at discovering the black-market sale of a powerful, highly illegal anaesthetic to John Watson's erstwhile army Lieutenant. Sherlock's homeless Network would have known about it almost instantly, but his brother had been hot on Moran's heels at the tail-end of the three-year long sting Operation. He had entrusted Mycroft with John's well-being.

He shuddered to think what would happen, if he didn't get there on time. Losing John Watson was not an option.