The gun shook violently at his side. Sherlock paced. He could not let his nerves get the best of him, but he could not let his guard down for an instant, either.

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hm?" the ever-apathetic detective turned, shaking with a never before felt nervousness.

"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk," John smiled through his fear and shook his head.

"People do little else," Sherlock's voice trembled, but he managed a grin. It soothed him to hear John joking in such a casual manner.

Mere moments ago, a bomb was strapped to John Watson's chest, ready to detonate and stop his heart… yet here we was, still managing to make humour through the strife. The army taught John to be strong physically, but John's emotional strength was genuine. He had seen pain, he had seen loss, yet still he knew that life went on and his spirit could not be conquered. John was just thrilled to be alive, and Sherlock was glad for it, as well. His best friend nearly died right in front of him, though. Sherlock could not shake off that horror so easily.

The detective stifled nervous laughter and smiled at his friend, blinking furiously to keep himself from crying. Watson chuckled and looked up gratefully at Sherlock. The gun finally stopped shaking in his hand. No matter how many times he had denied it—Sherlock was his friend. The man was not some distant colleague, and he was no ordinary flatmate. John genuinely cared for Sherlock, and it was evidently mutual. At that moment, both men accepted this silently shared revelation. There would be no more pretending, now. No more distance, no more callous denials of their friendship. They were the best of friends, and they would be for the rest of their lives.

"Sorry, boys! I'm soooo changeable! It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." The man's voice rang through the pool room and echoed off the walls. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

The sing-songy voice of Jim Moriarty pierced Sherlock to the bone and made his blood run cold. Abhorrence blanketed his mind his mind, and adrenaline rushed through his whirring consciousness. No. He would not allow it to end this way. Sherlock almost lost John once, and Moriarty had the pleasure of watching the horror play out on his grief stricken face. He would not give Moriarty the satisfaction of breaking him like that again.

Sherlock looked over to John, communicating silently. His eyes were relit with fear, but he nodded in certain response—he trusted the detective with his life. Sherlock took a deep breath and swallowed any sign of anxiety. He turned slowly and pointed his gun at his detested enemy. "Probably my answer has crossed yours," he said, keeping his voice level.

If he and John were going to die that day, they wouldn't be going alone. He lowered the gun inch by inch, heart pounding. Sherlock did not deal fickle bluffs. Moriarty could either let them go, or burn with them for eternity in the explosion. He aimed his steady gun at the jacket of explosives. He wasn't afraid to die. He was only afraid to lose.

He would not lose this game, though. Sherlock would not let himself lose John.

*Stay tuned for more! The coming chapters are wonderful*