Sherlock didn't shift, and although he was basically overflowing with adrenaline. This usually eased his thought process, but the fact that he had a gun pressed against the back of his head didn't do his brainwork any good.

Moran continued, "I'll be here to ensure you don't miss. Her death is inevitable. If you decide to miss I'll take the risk and shoot her myself, and I'll shoot you in the kneecaps. I don't want you dead yet, I just want her gone and erased forever and I want you to live with the burden of being the one to kill her. Oh, before I forget to mention, if you do decide not to shoot her, it will also mean the end of a certain John Watson."

The sudden mention of that name visibly hit Sherlock. A repressed kind of panic appeared in his eyes, even though his posture remained perfectly still. The hand in which he was holding the gun didn't start shaking, as though he was putting all his effort in keeping his hand still. The adrenaline in his body was almost making him numb, but he had to try to keep his head clear. He just couldn't afford to lose control.

There was an unexpressed violence and hatred in his physical posture. That one sentence had reminded him of a different place, to what seemed to be a different lifetime, but with the same threat to John Watson's life.

Irene stared at him, her eyes finding Sherlock's. There was a short contact between their gazes that only lasted two seconds before Irene looked away swiftly. It was as though her gaze fixed on a certain spot behind the two men in front of her, but Sherlock wasn't entirely sure as the room, despite the light, remained slightly dark.

Unspoken words told him that there's something Irene wasn't telling him. Had she set him up? Was this all a joke to her? She didn't seem frightened in the least. She was just sitting there, staring at him, and apart from her terrible physical state, she seemed quite alright.

"May I talk to her?" Sherlock asked.

"That's good, you talk to her. Makes it easier to remember how you spoke to her just before you shot her, I'd imagine. Two minutes, that's all you get. I'm not leaving. I know what you're both capable of. No tricks," Moran said, and he shifted the gun slightly, the cool metal pressing into Sherlock's neck uncomfortably.

"I believe I'm not in a position to do so," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Don't even try," Moran said through his teeth, "well, rainman, talk to her. Make sure to cherish the moment because she'll be gone after those two minutes. If you want to confess your undying love for each other, now is the moment."

Sherlock repressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"Irene," Sherlock said, but she interrupted him.

"You won't save me this time," she said, her voice steady, but it seemed too forced, it's as though she had to put so much effort in sounding collected. Sherlock realized he had been wrong, that she wasn't faking anything, and that she was probably on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Or wasn't she?

"You don't seem very afraid," he said, keeping his voice down.

"Because I won't have to deal with it anymore once I'm dead here on the floor, and that's why I'm trying to stay calm here, it's more me, and it helps that I've stared down the barrel of a gun before," she replied, and Sherlock could see the ghost of a smile on her face.

"But it was never me holding the gun," he replied sternly, not showing that her choice of words surprised him slightly, she was choosing them too carefully. The words lingered in the back of his mind, not ready to delete them yet.

"I guess there's a first…time for everything," she said, and all of a sudden her previously cool exterior crumbled down, her voice breaking, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Please," she whispered, a couple of tears streaming down her wounded cheek, the saltiness stinging in the nasty gash, "just get it over with already. Shoot me, save John, I know how much he means to you. Moran isn't bluffing, if you refuse to shoot me, John's death is only a matter of minutes."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes because the change in her behavior was so sudden that it didn't seem to make sense, but it might as well have been the situation and the adrenaline. After all, she had shed a few tears when she was about to be killed in Karachi.

But she hadn't begged anyone. She had known that it was her fate to be killed back then, and now she was staring at the same fate and she was reacting completely different. She hadn't changed that much, she was still the same person, just with more life experience.

Something was up. Did she have a plan in mind? Her mind was a brilliant one, despite it being used for the wrong purposes.

"My time isn't up yet," Sherlock said, and his eyes widened slightly, his mind going into overdrive.

Time.

And one by one the pieces of the puzzle started falling into place.

There's a first…time for everything. The way she had emphasized the word "time" seemed so poignant to him. She was trying to buy time. But for what? Did this mean there was still a chance of them getting out of this alive?

Sherlock closed his eyes for a short moment, allowing his brains to work at full speed without all the visual impulses from outside.

Once I'm dead here on the floor.

He shook his head, this not being the right dialogue he had been looking for. The cold metal against the flesh of his neck was trying to make him snap back to reality, but he didn't give in.

It's more me.

That phrase. She had used that before and he remembered it vividly. His mind flashed back to the night in Mycroft's office, the night he had made her walls crumble down, the night he sentenced her to death.

Explosives. It's more me.

His eyes opened, immediately finding hers and she knew that he had realized what her secret was. They had managed to save each other's life through non-verbal communication before, and this time it wouldn't be any different. If only he knew how much time he had left.

"How much time do I have left?" he said quickly, trying to make it sound like he was directing his question at the hit man behind him. Sherlock pretended to start losing his cool, knowing that Moran would suspect something if he communicated with Irene once more.

"Ten seconds," Moran replied, but Sherlock ignored him, focusing on Irene's reaction.

Although her eyes were red and most definitely hurting, she blinked through the tears. Twice.

Two minutes. We need two more minutes before this place blows up. If we're very lucky she's miscalculated and everything will go down before that time. Including us, but that's just collateral damage. But knowing Irene, her calculation must've been immaculate. If only they had two more minutes.

"Sir?" A dark male voice called out from behind Sherlock.

"What?" Moran replied brusquely, not moving, simply yelling into Sherlock's ear, "I told you not to interrupt me while I'm dealing with our guests."

"Sorry sir, but there seems to be a problem with the thermostat. The temperature is getting too high, part of the err, cargo is melting."

"I'll deal with that later, get the fuck out," Moran hissed, and Sherlock sensed he was tightening his grip to the gun.

"Well, time's up, Mister Holmes," Moran continued, "I want you to look into her shiny blue eyes as you point your gun and shoot her. NOW. I'm not a very patient man today."

Sherlock pointed his gun at Irene, who almost seemed to beg him with her eyes. He knew that if he shot her at that moment, everything she had worked for would be futile, but if she died, she wouldn't get hurt by any of her failed plans.

She'd be dead.

And he'd still be alive.

"Please, we still have time. It was just a game," she seemed to plea him, genuine tears in her eyes, "if you shoot me we'll never be able to play again, wouldn't that be a shame?"

Sherlock's finger curled around the trigger. He was so close to shooting her, and he had wished it wouldn't have come to this. He thought about John, and what would happen to him if Irene didn't die here and now. The choice was almost too easy. He would always chose John, if he could save one person it was always better than not saving any at all. His time was up, and there probably wasn't even an actual bomb, and yet he knew he was going to regret whatever decision he made.

Sherlock was only a second away from firing the gun.

Then he was proved wrong for the second time that day.

There was a bomb after all.

And it was going off.

Everything faded to black as the shockwave and debris hit them.