Mycroft ordered the driver to stop at exactly one kilometre, then turned a solemn gaze on John. "You'll tell me what's going on now, yes?"

"In a second." John typed out the name of the bouncer on shift at the door of Thelonius so Sherlock would know they were a proper distance away. He stared at the blank screen for a good thirty seconds after, waiting for an answer, an acknowledgement, anything.

"John?"

"In a minute." The screen remained unchanged. "Come on. Come on!" A full minute passed. "God damn it!" It took all John's control not to fling the phone against the window of the car. "Why the bloody hell hasn't he gotten out and answered me?" He glared up at the roof. "He promised he wouldn't do anything stupid."

"Doctor Watson." Mycroft's impatient voice was too similar to Sherlock's for John's nerves. "What is going on and how can I help?"

"Your brother...your idiot brother is in that stupid rec center with the madman who's been blowing up most of London for the last few days." John ran a shaking hand through his hair and settled it against the back of his neck. Oh, to have it holding a gun, sights firmly on a spot right between Moriarty's piggy little eyes. It wouldn't shake then. Nope. "He's talking. Fucking talking to Jim Moriarty about who lives and who dies." John slammed his fist against the armrest. The phone lay silent. John blew a breath out through clenched teeth. "Apparently I live."

"He sent you away as part of..." Mycroft stopped abruptly and pulled out his own phone, hitting a speed dial. "Code Five, urgent. Enclose and secure all persons at the following coordinates." The address of the rec center followed. He plucked the phone from John's hand. "Leave it here. It will mask your return. Or rather, ours." He opened the door and got out, moving swiftly toward a second black car which had just pulled up. "After you, John. A team will descend on the area in exactly three minutes. I expect you'll want to be present when Sherlock comes out."

"Oh hell yeah." He looked with longing toward the phone, his link to Sherlock.

"You'll be notified the instant there's a message." Mycroft gestured to the waiting car.

"Right. Minions and all that, as Sherlock says." Present tense. Because he's fine. John refused to believe otherwise. The stupid git just had to show off his huge intellect; that was all. Just keeping Moriarty talking 'till Mycroft got there with the might of the British government behind him. Right. John slid into the auto and buckled up. "Let's get moving, then. Faster the better and all that."

The return kilometre felt like it took an hour, every taxicab and lost tourist in London deciding to pick this route. John kept glancing at Mycroft's breast pocket, where he knew the man's phone was. He barely managed to keep from prodding the driver to go faster, keep from flinging open the car door and jumping out to sprint the rest of the way. The tremor in his hand wasn't intermittent now. Nor the one squeezing his heart.

How could Mycroft be so bleeding calm? John wanted to break every window in the car. He wanted to scream his lungs out. He barely restrained himself from punching Mycroft in the face when the other man laid a restraining hand on John's arm as they pulled up near the rec center. "Wait. It isn't safe. My people are just arriving. They'll go through it first."

"They were in the pool area. There were snipers above, laser sights, from around the balcony somewhere. I never saw..." His lungs tried to seize up again. "Explosives...a vest..." He pulled against Mycroft's grip. "Please—"

"Stay here." Mycroft retrieved his phone and keyed whatever super-spy speed dial he needed. "The pool area. High probability of explosives. Be aware of sniper activity, but very mindful of civilians, especially the possibility Sherlock Holmes may be present. Of course, he's to be unharmed." Mycroft managed to make a perfectly blank expression an eye-roll. "He's to be protected." He put the phone away. "Sit back, John. There's nothing we can do at the moment."

"Try calling him. I've already texted him twice. They won't be surprised if I try calling." Think, John. What did Sherlock say before you left? How did he say it? There's always subtext. Think. Problem was, thinking clearly got mixed up with about a dozen scenarios featuring Sherlock at the mercy of Jim Moriarty. And John knew a lot of ways to imagine how that might go. Very, very bad ways.

Mycroft inclined his head, the phone sliding back into lean fingers. Too much like Sherlock's. Seconds trickled away, pooling in John's diaphragm. "Hello."

John's whole body leapt to attention, scooting forward on the seat, leaning close to Mycroft, ears straining for a hint of a rich baritone.

"Ah." Ginger lashes swept down, hiding blue eyes. John's heart stuttered. "This is Mycroft Holmes. Please bring the phone to me at once. Yes. Thank you, no. No, you've performed admirably." Mycroft's throat worked for a moment. "That was one of my operatives. They heard Sherlock's phone ringing and found it abandoned beside the pool."

"Abandoned?" No. Sherlock would never voluntarily leave his phone— John lurched forward, yanking at the door handle, snarling when it didn't open. "I'm going in there. Right now. You better tell them, because you're not stopping me this time. I'll rip the door off the hinges if I have to."

"John." Mycroft reached out, but had sense enough to let his hand fall back. "It won't do any good. Sherlock isn't there. My people have been through the whole building. There's no one there. It's empty."