"Alright, everybody – we all just need to calm the fuck down!" The shout reverberates piercingly, sending echoes throughout the vast woodland and over the endless expanse of sea.

"I concur with John – it is essential that we endeavour to be rational about our predicament." Sherlock sounds far too casual about the whole situation. The group looks to him, taking in the figure before them: dishevelled but somehow still full of grace, with his hands clasped behind his back, cold, piercing eyes analysing his surroundings, and a smug smirk splayed on his features.

In the distance, the view of the sea fades into the horizon, making it impossible to discern where the sea water ends and the night sky begins. There's no other word for it: endless. The sea is endless, the fear is endless, the trees are endless, the thoughts are endless (surely, there are dozens of synonyms for the word 'endless,' but none of them feel quite as appropriate in this instance).

The world is spinning, and Sherlock's mind is bereft of all of its prior clarity. The aforementioned is replaced by a grand amalgamation of sensations, all resulting in mass hysteria: there's panic, a sharp inclination to vomit, mental scrambling, ringing in the ears, and tempestuous, all-consuming terror. The scene is punctuated every few seconds by loud, clamorous noises, including beeping from the cockpit, screams from the passengers, glass shattering, metal bending, people falling, and air whooshing in through the door as the aeroplane loses altitude.

When John grips onto Sherlock's forearm for dear life, the rest of the world disappears around them. John looks into Sherlock's panic-stricken eyes and mirrors his expression as he mindlessly threads their fingers together, holding Sherlock's hand like it's the last thing he'll ever do. Sherlock gives John's hand a tight squeeze, communicating everything he can in the last few seconds that they have before they inevitably collide with the fast-approaching landscape below.

I'm sorry.
Forgive me for wronging you.
You're the greatest person I've ever known.
You're the only person ever to accept me for who I am.
You would've been the world's best father.
This is all my fault.
It's always my fault.
Forgive me, John.
Forgive me for being me.

John lets out one last triumphant sob, a mix of adrenaline and agony crossing his features. It's the last thing Sherlock hears before his whole world goes black.

Moran and his men have me hostage. Egypt. It's a trap.
Bring a battalion, and wear something splendidly tight. I've missed you dearly, Mr. Holmes.
After you come to my rescue, let's have dinner. – The Woman

The words that grace the screen of Sherlock's phone burn an image into Mycroft's memory – and not a particularly pleasing one, at that.

"When did you receive this?"

"Less than an hour ago." Mycroft massages his brow, sighing deeply, as his brother snatches the phone from his open palm. "It's not from her number, but it's definitely her."

"How can you be so sure?"

"She included that last line so as to verify the source of the message. It's an inside joke between us, of sorts."

"How could she have possibly gotten hold of another person's mobile during her so-called imprisonment?"

"Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex." Sherlock mocks his brother's characteristic shit-eating grin. "Oh, brother dear – we both know how skilful The Woman is concerning manipulation, given her craft. I'd hardly consider Moran's men to be more than just a batch of well-trained idiots passing as experts. I shudder to think that Miss Adler would find it difficult to get them wrapped around her finger, though I'm sure you'd rather not learn the details of such endeavours."

Mycroft's intended smile comes out in the form of a grimace. "I cannot expend such resources – I cannot risk losing so many men – just to save the life of one wretched Woman."

"But alas, dear brother – I haven't brought this to your attention simply to ask that you save her head. It's also a brilliant opportunity to eliminate the remaining strands of Moriarty's web." Mycroft stares at him intently, motioning for him to continue. "Surely they'll all be gathered there – what, with there being so few of them – and that gives us the chance to take them all out in one go."

Mycroft gives Sherlock a steady look. "How do you suggest we go about handling this? It's risky, Sherlock. More than I think you could possibly comprehend."

"All I need from you is transport and a few generous government allowances." Mycroft rolls his eyes. "I'll gather my own team."

When Sherlock comes to, he's underwater.

The catastrophe unfolding around him is muffled by the sea, and for a few moments, Sherlock just lies there, not caring about the searing pain in his lungs telling him to come up for air. Though he uses those few precious moments to steel himself, nothing could have possibly prepared him for the scene he enters when he resurfaces.

He takes in his surroundings – a shallow lagoon not far offshore, adjacent to a cluster of jagged rocks. There were eight other people on board, including the flight attendant and the pilot. Sherlock counts the people around him, only seeing three all together.

He scrambles to the person closest to him, less than two feet away. The man – the pilot, he realizes – is floating on his back, gasping for air as he fights to remain conscious. Sherlock feels a pang in his chest when his gaze drifts down the man's torso, resting on the morbid image of a large piece of shrapnel sticking out of the man's abdomen. Sherlock kneels at his side, cradling the man in his arms. Early fifties, two children and a wife, pilot for over thirty years. He notes the ID badge pinned to the man's chest pocket; the badge reads, "Captain Arthur Carlisle."

"Captain? Captain – can you hear me?"

The man convulses in Sherlock's arms, shuddering as his eyes flutter shut. He quickly jolts, his eyes opening wide as his hand comes up to grip Sherlock's shirt. "Oh, please, dear god, please don't let them die -"

And with that, the man goes limp.

He has no pulse, and he's stopped breathing.

Sherlock is unsure how much time has passed – he just knows that he's been frozen in place here, on his knees in the shallow lagoon, clutching this dead man to his chest. He's shivering from the cold, and his hearing is temporarily in remission. He just stares out onto the horizon, watching the sky as the sun slowly begins to descend.

It could be hours or mere minutes before Sherlock is snapped back into reality. He feels a warm, sturdy hand on his shoulder, and through the sharp ringing in his ears, Sherlock hears the distinct intonation of John's voice.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, bloody hell, are you alright? Come on, you can't go into shock now! We're fresh out of blankets!" John chuckles awkwardly at his own reference. "...Sherlock?"

Sherlock is pulled back to the present at the sound of his name; he looks around frantically as the corpse unceremoniously falls from his arms into the water. Sherlock rises to stand on wobbly legs. He whirls around to face John, standing with outstretched palms at his sides. He scans John's body for signs of injury. Gash on the left cheek. Otherwise, relatively unscathed.

John doesn't question – he sees the body in the water. He's had enough years in the army that he's capable of recognizing when a soldier has died in another soldier's arms. He knows that – however socially stunted Sherlock may seem to be – he feels helpless about it. John knows not to say anything. He just pulls his friend into an embrace and holds him there, not offended when he stiffens and doesn't hug him back.

Sherlock can hardly process what's happening. His brain is in overdrive, but when he tries to recall the events that led up to this point, he can only focus on minuscule, unimportant details. He remembers the faint purple marks underneath Lestrade's eyes (in the corners just by the bridge of his nose), suggesting severe sleep deprivation. He remembers the impression in Anderson's hair that meant that he'd slept on his left side the previous night. He can remember the look in Molly's eyes – sheer, blinding terror – before she fell unconscious in midair.

"John?" Sherlock's voice is hoarse when he speaks, and he suddenly feels the searing pain characteristic of inhaling salt water. Until now, it's been shrouded by the adrenaline taking over his body via his bloodstream.

"Yeah." It's not a question; it's more of an agreement, or maybe an affirmation, even. Yeah, this is happening. Yeah, I'm here. Yeah, he's dead. Yeah, I know.

And in that moment, something falls into place in Sherlock's mind. Like a light switch, his mind is turned back on – this time fully functional. He blinks a few times, not having realized that his eyes had been heavily lidded. He sniffles and clears his throat, running his hands through his wet hair and letting out a heavy exhale. He runs steepled fingers over his salt-swollen lips, as he desperately tries to grab hold of the reigns.

"John, hell – are you alright?"

John pulls back and looks into his friend's eyes, and sees nothing of the despair evident in his voice. "I'm fine, you tosser."

"And the... the others?"

"All okay, relatively speaking. A few are pretty beat up. Just... I could use your help, no matter how rubbish a nurse you are. Let's get you up onto dry land, yeah?"

Sherlock just nods and follows John as he trudges through the water toward the shore.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"How long? Since the – the, uh... the thing."

"Twenty minutes at the most would be my best guess. Everyone's out of the water – no thanks to you, you prat." John looks back to smile at Sherlock, but he doesn't return the gesture.

The location of Moran's operation in Egypt, Mycroft learns, is an abandoned warehouse that sits in the middle of a shipyard. There is little security on the perimeter and minimal surveillance all around, but every person inside the building is armed and well-trained. According to a reliable source, Irene is heavily guarded at all times of the day, but her handlers have become more and more lenient with her. In fact, many of them have fallen victim to her charms – which is, incidentally, how she got a hold of one man's mobile to contact Sherlock in the first place.

With this information, Sherlock devises a plan, and has his team on one of Mycroft's private jets to Egypt in under 24 hours.

Sherlock chooses his team carefully: he needs himself, obviously, and John – a skilled marksman who works brilliantly under pressure. He brings Lestrade as well – if not for his strategic skills, then for his knowledge of criminal behaviour – along with Donovan and Anderson per Lestrade's demands (he believes them to be competent and well-trained – bollocks, in Sherlock's opinion). The one unexpected member of the team is Molly Hooper, whom Sherlock asked to come along for her medical skills (should John be otherwise incapacitated) and to put her in the position of the backup surveillance person sitting in the white van one mile away, communicating through discreet earpieces and making sure "the coast is clear."

Upon storming the warehouse and taking down all but Moran and two of his men, Sherlock comes to Irene's rescue, undoing her binds and wrapping her half-naked body in his coat before scooping her weeping figure into his arms and carrying her to safety.

With that, the team packs up and boards the private jet, homeward bound.

Sherlock's plan almost goes off without a hitch.

Almost.