Breathe, John. Just keep breathing. You've been there before, you can do it again.
Truth be told the whole thing was getting old – being kidnapped and held at gunpoint with Semtex strapped to his chest – but he had to concede that Moriarty was trying to raise the stakes this time. He had never thought he would live to see the day where Mycroft Holmes was taken hostage by a madman, and yet here they were, side by side as unseen snipers aimed at them from the shadows.
Not to mention a distraught Sherlock, his hands visibly shaking around the gun Moriarty had handed him earlier.
"Time to make your decision, honey," the consulting criminal mocked lightly. "You know the rules of the game."
John knew them too, and he would gladly choke the life out of the arrogant bastard – if only he couldn't see the red dot dancing on his friend's brow. Sherlock was allowed just one shot, one bullet that would put either of his 'pets' out of their misery.
As for the other one, Moriarty had promised a very slow and painful death. And if Sherlock ever tried to kill him, then his snipers would take care of the three of them.
He struggled to make eye contact with his friend, desperately trying to pass through the message. 'It's okay, Sherlock. I don't mind, neither of us does. We're all going to die anyway, just pull the damn trigger.'
Beside him Mycroft looked as imperturbable as ever, though he could catch a glimpse of brotherly compassion flicker across those grim features. Sherlock raised his hand, aiming the gun at his brother before changing his mind and turning it on John.
His eyes were wide with a range of emotions – guilt, fear, and such a deep affection as he'd never shown before. John exhaled one last breath, then in the space of a heartbeat several things happened.
The red dots wavered, vanishing one by one. The echo of a gunshot shattered the silence, and he turned around to see Moriarty crumble to the floor with a baffled look frozen on his face.
"What the hell –" he started, only to trail off as his wife stepped forward into the light.
"Mary, what are you doing here? Where's the baby?"
"She's safe, Mrs Hudson is looking after her."
He allowed her to help him out of the bomb vest, while Mycroft gingerly did the same with his own. Sherlock had slumped to the floor next to the body of his arch-nemesis, staring in fascination at the barrel of the gun he was still clutching.
Mycroft was the quickest to react, snatching the gun from his brother's hand.
"It's alright, Sherlock. We're all fine, no harm done."
The younger Holmes brother turned an unfocused gaze around, and John's heart clenched in concern; he'd seen that look on the face of many a soldier, a look that meant his friend was far from okay.
Both he and Mary helped Sherlock to his feet, while Mycroft made a quick phone call.
"My PA will be here soon," the man announced. "She'll escort you to Baker Street first, and then to your residence. I'll take care of my brother."
John squeezed his friend's arm, whose gaze strayed for the briefest of moments to Mrs Watson's face. Mary gave him a slight nod before dragging her husband away.
The last thing John Watson saw out of the corner of his eye was Sherlock leaning against his brother, and that was the closest thing to a hug one could ever expect from the two of them.