"I am so changeable," Moriarty's voice echoed through the room, reverberating against the tiles, making it sound hollow. "You can't be aloud to continue… You just can't."

The words did not matter. They could have been anything. It was the voice, that voice that seemed to crawl into your head and stay there, moving along the inside of your skull. Any of those things would not have mattered to Sherlock, he would not be intimidated so easily. Except Moriarty was something new. He could not judge his motivations, could not gage his reactions.

And the cold fear that crept up Sherlock's spine was starting to show on his face. His eyes betrayed it. His back was still turned to Moriarty, so he wouldn't see. But John saw. Sherlock looked at John. John's face was almost apologetic, as if this was somehow his fault. It wasn't a reasonable thought.

"I would try to convince you…," Moriarty's voice echoed through the hollow space. "But everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock felt the fear reach to top of his spine and curl along his throat, making it hard to breath. And his heart was pounding even harder against his chest. It wasn't a game. It wasn't a puzzle. It wasn't anything new. This was the end.

Sherlock looked at John again. Asking for his permission. It surprised even Sherlock himself that he would do that. Sherlock worked alone, and had assistants. Sherlock didn't need a second opinion, hadn't needed one before. John's eyes locked with Sherlock's. His expression was still fear and incomprehension mingled together, and apparently causing nothing more than for his mouth to hang open. But Sherlock noted that John was still leaning against the stall. He hadn't been able to get up, and that showed Sherlock how deep his friend's fear truly ran.

John nodded. Just once. Just enough to say yes. To say he was willing to let Sherlock do whatever he was planning to defeat Moriarty. Yes, he was willing to be dragged into Sherlock's insanity once more.

Would it still have been yes if John had been able to predict Sherlock's next move? Sherlock's fingers gripped the gun tighter and his arm began to lift it even before he gave Moriarty his reply. "Probably my answer, has crossed yours." Sherlock said while slowly turning to face Moriarty; ending with his gun aimed at Moriarty.

Moriarty still had something resembling a smile, plastered on his face. It was no more a smile than Sherlock was a detective. It was a tear in the flesh of this man's face. Skin pulled to the very edge of his jaw.

Of course the expression on his face didn't change with Sherlock's move. A gun aimed at him was no threat at all and all three men in the room knew that. Sherlock looked at Moriarty, then at the jacket lying on the floor. The jacket Moriarty had strapped to John. The jacket that contained enough explosive to take out a small apartment block.

Sherlock lowered the gun. Moriarty's expression changed. Sherlock was now pointing the gun directly at the jacket. And this was a threat Moriarty felt.

Sherlock was only vaguely aware of John staring at him and then staring at the jacket. Maybe he even only knew because it was what he expected to see, rather than what he saw. Sherlock felt his arm started to feel warm, the way muscles did when you strained them. The gun was heavier than he'd expected, but then he'd never held it for very long before. Or perhaps it was the adrenaline rushing through his system that made him want to end the wait.

There was fear on Moriarty's face now, hidden behind arrogance, but still clear to see. Moriarty stretched his neck, moving his head from one side to another. Another sign that the threat was real to Moriarty now. Because even more than John, Moriarty could guess Sherlock's next move.

Red dots fluttering across a white shirt that seemed blue in the lighting of the pool. Damon was only vaguely aware that one of them was coming from his riffle. He moved his leg uneasily, it was starting to cramp up. He wished the order would come already, but his radio was silent for now.

As soon as Moriarty had reappeared in the room, Damon had known how this would end. But he had seen proof of the cruelty of such men before, so he was no longer surprised it was being dragged out.

Damon wasn't close enough to hear the conversation, but he could hear voices echoing through the room. Moriarty's voice was easily recognisable. As always it ranged from innocently jovial to openly violent. The other voice he heard echoing was deeper and therefore he could hear it more clearly, still the actual words were lost on him.

Damon didn't know their names, he suddenly realised. Damon stared as he saw the man who had spoken, was now pointing his gun at Moriarty again. He felt no fear, dread, not even excitement. Damon knew the man wouldn't shoot.

Damon changed his position. Not his riffle, that remained locked on its target, but he stretched his leg - that was really starting to hurt now - and moved to be able to lean on one knee. When he looked through his visor again, the scene had changed. The change was so minimal that Damon almost didn't notice it. But when he did, it became clear how critical the change had been.

The gun was now pointing at the explosives. Damon had seen the news; he knew how big the explosion would be. He knew he would be killed, within one breath's time. And that's when the adrenaline started to flood his system.

It was only the fear he felt for Moriarty, that made him take so long to realise the obvious solution. His orders had been clear. Do not shoot until ordered to. But Damon realised the man holding the gun down there, next to the pool, could pull the trigger and kill them all, before any of them even had had the time to realise what had happened. And Damon also knew there was something he could do to stop it from happening. All he had to do was pull the trigger himself.

John hardly even felt the sharp edge of the stall he was leaning against, cutting into his back. All he could feel was his heart pounding against his chest in outrage. Seemingly random thoughts crossed his mind. He had been here before. He had felt this al before. Dying was nothing new. But still John felt the same panic, the fear, the sadness, the outrage he had felt before. This was not it, this was not the end, he had too much still to do. He wanted to live.

Please, it was still the only word he could utter when faced with his own immortality.

I don't want to die.

This couldn't be his death. Trapped in a swimming pool. Staring at Sherlock, hoping as he had before, that the extraordinary mind of Sherlock Holmes had thought of a solution. Of a way to spare them. But why was the gun still pointing at the jacket then? Was he going to try and negotiate their way out of here? Why was he still silent then?

If he pulled the trigger now, would I feel it?

Moriarty's smile had been unbearable, but now it was gone John felt even more uneasy. He might just be seeing his own fear reflected in someone else's face, but John still felt it was Moriarty's fear he could see in those dark eyes. And if nothing else had scared him, this did. Despite having come here out of his own free will, knowing Sherlock would bring a gun, despite surrounding himself with the coldest people on earth, and despite having snipers to protect him, Moriarty felt enough fear for it to be visible. And that scared John. Moriarty's fear amplified his own as the hollow space of the pool had amplified Sherlock's words.

Then perhaps mine has already crossed yours, what had it meant? Where these the last words John would hear? He was still staring at Sherlock. What was he going to do? He wasn't going to pull the trigger, or he would've already... surely. Or did he need time to push himself to do it? John didn't look around the pool, but knew anyway that there was no way they were going to survive. The old woman hadn't.

John kept looking at his friend's face. He couldn't read it, he couldn't guess what he would do. He had seen fear in Sherlock's eyes the brief moment their eyes had met. But he had also seen something else. Regret, he would call it. And it scared him. John looked at Sherlock and through him went, what he thought to be his last conscious thought.

Please let me live.

Two men in the room thought it was the start of the explosion. Only Sherlock didn't. Because the horrible sound that echoed through the room, happened simultaneously with the horrible pain spreading through his arm, his chest and eventually it seemed his whole body.

The voice he heard yell at first wasn't John's, it was Moriarty's. Moriarty was screaming at the empty pool, its ceiling, its walls, or so it seemed. But Sherlock couldn't make anything out. The pain was too dominating. It was everywhere and everything. It literally made him sick to his stomach. But that wasn't enough to describe it. But he couldn't describe it, would never be able to put it into words. It tore at him in ways nothing ever had and he truly believed he would've begged for it to stop, cried for it to stop, surrendered, if that had helped.

The end was not as John expected. Because it was nothing more than a sound. No heat, no fire, no pain. This wasn't death.

Only when he saw Sherlock collapse did he realise there was no explosion and there would be none. And still he sat there against the stall. In his mind Sherlock was already dead, despite the fact he could still see him moving. But there was no other explanation possible in his mind. This confrontation would end in death. And so it had to. And Sherlock was on the floor. So Sherlock was dead.

"Who took the shot!" Moriarty's voice bellowed through the open space. He seemed to have forgotten about Sherlock and John. He kept demanding to know who had taken the shot.

John realised he should do something. Take the gun. Shoot Moriarty. But when his mind finally got his body to react, he rushed to Sherlock. Sherlock was lying face down. His face contorted and leaning against the tiles. His breathing was heavy, and the only thing that proved he was still alive, because he was lying perfectly still.

Sherlock's jacket was dark, but John could still see the blood. His training had given John a certain calm when it came to even the most horrific injuries. And this was not the first time he would see a friend die, still his heart wouldn't slow down.

John could see the wound, and his medical training told him Sherlock would live. Still, he felt a desperate need to get him to a hospital right now, as if his life depended on it. The truth was he couldn't take this, not after what had happened today.

Moriarty turned to look at John. Their eyes met briefly before Moriarty lowered his gaze to look at Sherlock. He stood there, judging the situation, John suspected. Then turned and left. No witty comment, no second look at John. John wasn't surprised, he hadn't expected it, but wasn't surprised either. After all, this had always been a game between Moriarty and Sherlock. John was just a prop, the way the old woman and the others had been props. Moriarty would no sooner speak to them, then to the pool itself, or the jacket lying on the floor.

Light. He turned on his side, but it didn't help. Light caused him to wake up. Sherlock had been in hospitals before, so his surroundings didn't surprise him. Nor did the sight of John sitting in the chair next to his bed. Sherlock smirked, but only to hide the fact that he did feel warmed by John's actions. John had shown him so much loyalty from the first day they'd met.

John was staring out the window, or maybe just into space. At any rate, it wasn't until Sherlock had slung his feet out of the bed, that John even realised he'd woken up. He got to his feet immediately. Sherlock saw the relieve on John's face, followed by worry.

"Sherlock, you can't get out of bed!"

"Of course I can, I already have," Sherlock said, while letting himself drop to the floor. It felt cool underneath his feet and he immediately started to wonder where his clothes were.

"You got shot!"

Sherlock let out a aggravated breath. "I am aware of that." He said. And he was. The pain was dulled, but still present.

John let out a deep breath. "You have to get back into the bed."

Sherlock smiled as he thought back to John's earlier remark. "John," he reprehended his friend, "people might talk."

John clenched his jaw and turned his back to Sherlock. "Sherlock," he started slowly, "you got shot, you have to stay in the hospital."

"What I need," Sherlock said slowly, "is more painkillers, clothes and cab fare. Preferably in that order."

John's expression changed. "Is the pain still bad?" he asked. Sherlock presumed John was thinking back to his own injuries. The irony of them having almost the same wound wasn't lost on Sherlock. "It won't be with more painkillers," Sherlock answered simply.

John nodded, but he seemed oddly absent, as if his mind was somewhere else. "Sherlock," he finally said. "We could've died."

Sherlock looked at John who looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock didn't respond, it was irrelevant. They didn't die. The only thing that was important about the incident was Moriarty. Sherlock had no doubt Moriarty got away. Even though his mind had been clouded by pain, he remembered hearing Moriarty leave. John was still looking at Sherlock, though Sherlock couldn't think of what John expected him to say.

John sighed. "Moriarty got away."

Sherlock looked at him. "I was there," he reminded John.

"I mean," John said, impatience seeping into his voice, "the police can't find him. I gave them a description and we have his name."

"I'm not surprised," Sherlock said. The police wasn't something he counted on.

"Lestrade said they even questioned Molly and everyone else here in the hospital, but there was no way to find him."

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock said, smirking.

"You know something," John realised.

"Maybe," Sherlock said. "Remember what the cabby said about Moriarty?"

John stared at Sherlock with the slightly sheepish look Sherlock had grown accustomed to. "No."

"Why, didn't you put it in your blog?" Sherlock asked mockingly.

John scowled at him.

"He said Moriarty was more than a man," Sherlock reminded John.

John frowned. "An organisation then?" John asked.

"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock said.

"But how will that help us find him?"

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised at that remark. He took a step forward. "When something's big, it's easier to find," Sherlock said, gesturing with his hands.

"Yes, fine, but I still don't see…"

"An organisation like that must have been noticed," Sherlock interrupted John.

"I already told you the police…"

Sherlock cried out in aggravation. "Not the police, John." He lifted his head to the sky and gestures with his hands. He didn't understand how John couldn't follow him.

"Then who?" John asked, exasperated.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He hated to say this next part. "Mycroft," he answered. Then he noticed something from the corner of his eye. Sherlock turned to the bed swiftly, causing his hospital gown to twirl around him. He was staring at the small cupboard standing next to the hospital bed. On it was a pink get well soon card. It had a kitten on it and it didn't take Sherlock all his talent for deduction to realise whom it was from. Molly Hooper - after all, he was in St. Bart's. "Oh god," he said.