Disclaimer: Though I have recently fallen in love with BBC's Sherlock, I do not own the rights to the show! I've never even been to Cardiff…
This story takes place at the end of The Great Game – because I can't stand the cliffhanger! And it is my first attempt to write anything about Holmes, so I hope you'll go easy on me.
"Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"
Watson hated that voice. The lilt of song in it made him nauseous. He stayed in his crouch, afraid his legs wouldn't hold him if he tried to stand. He had wanted to see action again, it was true. But tonight was too much.
He remembered leaving to see Sarah, but had no memory of making it to her flat. Which was just as well – had she been kidnapped again because of him, the last words he would likely hear from her would be, "Sod off."
He'd crossed the street, deciding to walk a few blocks before hailing a cab. When one pulled over without being signaled, he'd started to think that his horrid day might have taken a turn for the better.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
A syringe had poked him in the side of the neck and he'd been hauled bodily into the car, hitting his head in the process. That was where everything had gotten fuzzy. Whether from the blow or the drugs he couldn't be sure, but it was probably both. And he didn't know how long it had taken for the world to finally clear up. But when it did, he had found himself alone – enough C4 to blow up Parliament strapped to his chest.
And a voice whispering in his ear.
His instructions had been quite clear – sit down, shut up, and wait. Or die.
So he had waited, trying to force his heart rate into a more steady rhythm. But with the (how had the old woman put it?) soft voice echoing random boasts through his mind, calmness had continually alluded him.
He had done his best to gather clues – as he was sure Sherlock would've done. But aside from the faint smell of chlorine – and the logical theory that he was at some kind of swimming pool (likely the one where Carl had died) – there had been nothing to go on.
When another voice registered in his consciousness, he had been both elated and heartsick. Holmes was here; undoubtedly as Moriarty had planned.
"Now comes the fun part," the cruel man had whispered. "Get up. Walk out to him. And say only what I tell you to. That is, if you value your life." A high laugh had echoed in his ear. "Let's see just how trained and loyal of a dog you are, Dr. Watson."
John had gotten to his feet and walked through the nearest door.
And now he found himself in this fresh hell. Moriarty – the psychopath that he was – had gone back on his word, and the dots of sniper rifles were again painting his and Sherlock's chests.
"Sorry boys! I'm so changeable!"
John screwed his eyes shut after failing to count the multiple dots that now danced over him and his friend, wanting nothing more than one last chance to wrap his arm around the villain's neck. This time, he wouldn't let go. Moriarty had always planned to kill them anyway. He should have seen it. He cursed himself silently.
"It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue."
Watson caught Sherlock's gaze. Somehow the man still seemed calm.
"You just can't. I would try to convince you, but… Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"
John watched Sherlock's face settle into a determined frown. Sherlock glanced at him, his eyes speaking volumes. John nodded – knowing he was giving consent for his own death. But Moriarty couldn't be allowed to live.
"Probably my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock replied to the madman, turning to point the Browning at him, before ever so slowly lowering his sights to the C4 covered vest. He seemed unconcerned by the myriad of red dots that danced over his body as he focused on his target. Watson swallowed hard.
Sherlock stared at his enemy, who merely smiled. John knew he had only seconds to live.
That's when an idea hit him. If he could manage to get the timing just right…
"Really, Sherlock?" Moriarty continued. "Sacrificing yourself and your friend for the greater good? I didn't think you had it in you…"
Neither man moved. Watson balanced his weight forward onto the balls of his feet, taking in a slow, deep breath as he prepared to spring.
"If we're going to die anyway," Holmes said, his finger tightening on the trigger, "You'll die with us."
Moriarty's smile faded into a feral grimace in the instant before Holmes fired. At the same second, Watson jumped up from his crouch, slamming into Sherlock and tackling him down into the water. He clung onto his friend, keeping him down as fire blossomed over their heads. Only when the orange glow began to fade did Watson struggle for the surface – his lungs greedily pulling in the smoke-filled air. He heard coughing next to him and was relieved to see Sherlock sputtering in the water – dazed, but kicking for the edge of the pool. John followed him.
As they pulled themselves exhaustedly over the edge and onto the hot tiles, Watson looked around. Something didn't add up. There was a blackened crater where the vest had been, and panels of the ceiling were raining intermittently down. But the majority of the building was still standing.
And there was no sign of Moriarty.
John cursed and spat chlorinated water. Holmes gasped for breath beside him, apparently already having arrived at the same conclusion.
"Only one of the C4 bricks was real." His voice was rough from smoke inhalation. "I noticed the sniper always aimed for the brick just over your heart. Moriarty wouldn't put himself in the way of certain death. He knew the explosion would be small enough for him to make it out alive, should the vest go off."
Watson stayed on his knees, despite the burning heat that surrounded them. But he knew they needed to get out of there. "So where is he?" John asked, still catching his breath. He began to cough.
Holmes followed suit and struggled to his feet, dragging his friend up as well. "Probably dove out the exit where he last appeared." He glanced around for a moment, paying particular attention to his torso. John noticed there were no red lights there.
"Dead. Or they've run off," Watson concluded.
"Yes," Holmes agreed. "They probably thought the job done."
"Or went to find Moriarty."
"Either way, I think it's time we made our own exit, don't you?"
"Please," John replied around a fresh bout of coughing.
They stumbled for the door Sherlock had entered through.
"Wait," John said, stopping to glance back at the pool. "The missile plans!"
Sherlock grabbed his arm, propelling him back toward the door as he waved the small flash drive in his face. "Grabbed it during our little dip."
John shook his head. "Is there anything you can't do?"
Sherlock's face set into a resolute stare as they collapsed out into the cold night, greedily drinking in the fresh air – and John was sure he was thinking about Moriarty's escape.
"I certainly hope not," his friend replied as the sound of police sirens filled their ears.
Well, that's it! How did I do? I'd really like to know. I have an idea for another Sherlock story, but I won't bother with it if this one is rubbish…