Oh God, we're going to die... Somehow the thought pissed him off far more than scared him. Snuffed by this...there wasn't a word low enough for Moriarty. I did not survive a bloody war to be snuffed by some barking schoolboy with delusions of grandeur in a deserted rec center in Chiswick!
Time to think. He'd finish hyperventilating over the damn bomb later.
Okay. Sherlock shoots the bomb, it goes off in every direction, but the floor is an obstacle. The explosion will go out and up before it goes down...pool roof is a bubble, not solid...minimal debris from that, it's lightweight, it'll fly out rather than crash back in. Into the pool is safest. Probably damp the concussion enough we might just stay conscious enough to not drown. But it's got to be at exactly the right second. Too soon and I'll make him miss; too late and I'll get shot by the damn snipers before I can reach him. Shit, I'm probably going to end up with real shrapnel in my leg this time...can't be helped...
He watched Sherlock's eyes narrow ever so slightly, watched full lips curve...John eased himself onto the balls of his feet. Just enough leverage to act as a spring, pushing Sherlock and himself into the pool hopefully a nanosecond before the explosion. He saw a slim finger tighten on the trigger of the Browning...a hair more...a hair more...
"You would now, wouldn't you? Blow yourself up just to get rid of me." Jim's smile didn't carry quite as much bravado this time. "Your pet's a bad influence. I should have brought us together two months ago; it would have gone so much nicer. No pesky hero complex getting in the way."
"Perhaps." Sherlock's lips curved just enough John noticed. Probably no one else would. "I believe I have re-evaluated my stance on heroes. John's quite heroic, you see." The gun never wavered. "So, yes. I will detonate your bomb, bringing down this building and killing us all. And before you think of signalling your snipers, allow me to remind you that a shot to any portion of my body will cause my finger to spasm on the trigger. My aim might be thrown off. Or it might not." His voice turned icy. "Any harm to John and I will destroy you."
What? Not that the idea of Moriarty in little pieces bothered John at all. But why was Sherlock still talking to him? God, just do it and don't make me stare at death too long.
"Stand-off then. How boring." Moriarty tried for one of his manic smiles, but it didn't quite work. Something lacking there.
"Not a stand-off. A negotiation." The ice hadn't melted from Sherlock's tones. "One from which we can all walk away alive and relatively happy."
"Are you insane?" John couldn't possibly have heard him right. "You don't negotiate with a...a monster like that." Something very Not Good settled in the icy depths of his gut, honing his voice to a whispered steel edge. "Pull the bloody trigger, Sherlock!"
"Be quiet, John." A gentle order, but it infuriated John. Sherlock never shifted his gaze from Moriarty.
"Ooo, puppy barks at you, Sherlock. You need to train him better. I suggest a muzzle." The madman didn't have any problem turning his dark, glittering eyes John's way. "He'd look good in a ball gag. I'd go with blue for his coloring."
Bastard. Yeah, every passing second, John had less problem dying if he took that fucker out.
"I get my hands on you, you sodding bastard, I'll squeeze your balls bloody blue." The urge to test the reflexes of the several snipers with laser sights trained on his chest tightened John's muscles in a savage flinch.
"John."
The "please" went unsaid. Sherlock never said it. But John always heard it.
"Fine."
The barest flick of Sherlock's eyes struck John. Less than the time it would take to blink. Still enough to make his breath hitch.
Trust me. Believe in me.
Please.
John let his head dip in a tiny movement, less even than when he'd agreed to death. I trust you. He saw the calm settle over Sherlock then. Read it in the way the line of the detective's jaw smoothed, in the deeper rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Whatever happened, John had at least given Sherlock peace.
Full lips parted, Sherlock's rich voice confident and mellow. "So, what do you say, Jimbo? Your little gunmen toddle off, and we all walk out of this to play another day."
"Well, I'm hardly going to call them off while you're still holding a gun on me, now am I?" Moriarty's glaze flicked to John again, a sneer not even barely veiled. "Hanging around the idiots too much, Sherlock. Bad for the brain." He shrugged, a quick jerk of his shoulders. "But I suppose the extras can go for the moment. Leave you one each."
"Good enough for a start." The red dots playing over Sherlock's dark coat winked out until only one remained. "Since we're talking symmetry, John should leave. He can call me when he's outside in a taxi, on his way somewhere safe."
"Like bloody hell I'm leaving!" John shot up to standing, fists curling, but didn't move otherwise, allowing the red dot to fix itself over his heart again. "Sherlock—"
"Negotiations, John. Give and take from each side." Sherlock's lip quirked in a faint smile. "This is actually a very simple example of the art, isn't it, Jim?" He twisted Moriarty's name into something precise and distasteful. "John lives; you live."
Moriarty had the gall to shake his head and smile, like he was tolerating the logic of a toddler. "So attached. You really must learn to distance yourself from your amusements, Sherlock. Fine; the good doctor can leave." The smile hardened, rendering the master criminal's narrow face into something very like the macabre skull sitting on the mantel back at Baker Street. "In fact, I insist. We don't discuss any further negotiations until he's at least a kilometre away from here. Out of your immediate radar. Isn't GPS wonderful?"
"It is." Sherlock's free hand snagged John's wrist, fingers digging in so tight John knew there'd be bruises. "Not a taxi. Call my brother. Trust no one else. Text me when you're in one of his cars."
"I hope you know what you're doing." The words slid out from between John's clenched teeth as he pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial. Thank God he didn't get an answer phone. "Mycroft, it's John. Sherlock said I need to ask you for a ride back home. I'm at—" He blinked as precise tones spoke his exact location. How the hell... Then again, CCTV. "Yes. Thank you." He ended the call and hoped his shrug looked nonchalant. "Happened to have a car in the area. Some political mess, as usual."
"John."
Was that a warning not to say too much in front of Moriarty? Or... Was it a good-bye? When did all the air leave the bloody place?
"Don't look at me that way. I won't do anything stupid." Of course, Sherlock hadn't bothered to even look at John.
"Home again, home again, Johnny-boy." Moriarty held up one hand and wiggled his fingers in a wave, the damn sing-song back in his voice. "Time for the big boys to play now. Run along."
Yeah, how'll you like it when I twist your arm around and shove that hand up your arse? John took the time to glare at Moriarty, letting his face say it all. "Don't take too long, Sherlock. You know I hate waiting." The laser on his chest vanished; a moment later he heard the clunk of a door closing and heavy footsteps fading away. He turned and walked out of the rec center, every step a cringe, waiting for one final report of a rifle to signal the death of his friend and the beginning of a life centered on hunting down Jim Moriarty and making sure the man died very slowly and very painfully.
A chill fog hugged the parking lot, half-shrouding the long black car loitering by the exit. John waited until one back window cracked just enough he recognized Mycroft Holmes. He didn't wait for an invitation to get in.
"Good evening, John. I assume this has something to do with my missile plans." Mycroft reclined at ease, umbrella at his side. "Though I fear that little problem has taken a nasty turn." His mobile lips turned down. "What has my brother gotten into now? Do tell, doctor."
"Drive. Just drive. One kilometre, any direction. Quickly." Relief sagged John's shoulders when Mycroft immediately signaled the driver without further interrogation. John pulled out his phone, staring at the black screen with his gaze unfocused, too many equally dark thoughts fighting for queue space in his panic-shrunken brain.
OUT OF YOUR VICINITY. NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE. JW
God, let me get an answer.