A/N: And here's part 3. And I have nothing further to say, so I shall say nothing else.
Disclaimer: Actually, no, I will repeat that I do not own any of these characters; they all belong to BBC, and now I shall say nothing else.
PART THREE- THE FINAL GAME
"JOHN!" Sherlock was vaguely aware that the shout came from his own lips.
John lay in a heap on the tiled floor, a red spot blossoming and spreading on his chest.
Sherlock scrambled to his feet, then dropped to his knees beside John. He grasped for his friend's hand, taking his pulse. His heart nearly stopped when he couldn't find it for a moment, but there it was. Weak, but there.
But too weak.
Moriarty pursed his lips together. "Well, that works, too."
Anger. Burning, burning anger welled up inside Sherlock. He'd thought he'd felt anger when Moriarty had framed him as being a fraud all those years ago. But those feelings were child's play compared the inferno burning inside him now. Sherlock stood, slowly, and turned around to face Moriarty.
Moriarty stared at him coolly. "I told you, Sherlock," he said. "The last time we stood in this room. I told you- I would burn you. Burn the heart out of you." He looked down at John., then back at Sherlock, a smirk creasing his face. "Feel the burn yet?"
Sherlock lunged towards Moriarty, but the other man expected it and dodged easily. "That really what this is going to come down to, Sherlock? All our games, our puzzles, our dance. And the final game is a fist fight? I'd thought better of you."
Sherlock started to lunge forward again, then he realized something. "Why haven't your henchmen shot me yet?"
Moriarty grimaced. "To be honest, I was wondering the same thing." He raised a hand and brought it down, but no shot came. Moriarty sighed in exasperation. "I expect they've left."
Sherlock knit his brows together. "Why?"
"I hired them to make sure one of you died. Apparently since they took care of that, they thought they could leave." Moriarty shook his head. "It's impossible to find good help these days."
"Then it's just you and me," Sherlock said.
Moriarty grinned. "Just you and me."
Though the burning haze of fire and pain, John could just barely make out voices. He lifted his head with great effort that nearly caused him to blackout. Sherlock and Moriarty stood a few feet away. The fire burning in his chest created a hazy cloud of pain in front of John's eyes and in his mind, making him unable to concentrate. He knew he had to concentrate. He had to do something. Something wasn't right.
Suddenly, he realized Moriarty's henchmen hadn't shot Sherlock. And a new idea, a hope that he could somehow get Sherlock out of here alive came to mind.
He tried to move his hand to his coat pocket, but the pain nearly caused him to blackout. He gritted his teeth. Then forced his hand to move into his pocket and weakly grasped the mobile phone within.
"Do you know why I had to hire those men, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked. "Under normal circumstances, I would have had my right man, Colonel Sebastian Moran up there. But something happened while I was 'dead.'" Moriarty's voice frosted over and became thick with ice. "Somebody got in Sebastian's way. And somebody killed him."
Sherlock glared. "According to someone I once knew, dying is what people do."
"Oh, yes," Moriarty whispered. "Yes, that is what people do. And now I'm simply returning the favour."
Chills shot down Sherlock's spine, and he fought the urge to look at John again. He would be fine. He had to be. "So now what?"
"Well, I'm not going to let you go, that's for certain," Moriarty said. "Even though John chose the 'bad bottle' in a sense. You aren't going to win this time, Sherlock Holmes. This final game- it's mine."
Sirens filled the air, startling both men. A brief flash of alarm shot across Moriarty's face.
"I think a few new players have entered the game," Sherlock said.
The alarm on Moriarty's face smoothed out into a look of confindence. "Doesn't matter. I've already won."
Movement from the floor startled both of them even more than the sirens had. John lunged forward and slid into Moriarty's ankles, knocking them both back into the pool.
Sherlock threw off his long coat, then dived in after them.
John struggled against Moriarty, but his wound and the sudden burst of movement before sapped his strength. Sherlock swam over to the grappling men, but Moriarty suddenly let go of John and dove beneath the surface.
Sherlock grabbed John and started to tow him back to the wall.
A sudden flash of pain shot up Sherlock's leg. He let go of John unintentionally and whirled around in the water just in time to see Moriarty break the surface, holding John's knife in hand.
Moriarty shot a triumphant grin at Sherlock, then in one swift motion, threw the knife at John.
John cried out, and more red coloured the water. Moriarty pushed back, and dove under the water again. Sherlock grabbed John and hauled him out of the water and onto the tile floor.
John coughed, a wet, spluttering sound. His knife protruded from his chest.
An emotion Sherlock could only describe as fear gripped his heart.
John coughed again. "Sher...lock..."
"Don't speak," Sherlock commanded with more strength in his voice than he felt. "Save your energy. You're getting out of here yet."
John gasped in pain, and grasped the knife's handle, but didn't pull it out. He looked at Sherlock with eyes full of pain, regret and sorrow. "Too... late for... that."
The double doors banged open, and five armed officers burst through, Lestrade at their head. He stopped when he saw John and Sherlock on the ground.
Sherlock ignored them. "John, you're wrong," he said, his voice actually quavering. "Shut up. Just please, shut up."
John tried to smile. He gasped and coughed again. Sherlock grabbed his hand and squeezed it. John opened his mouth and tried to speak.
"Don't..." Sherlock started.
"No," John gasped. "No time... Please. Don't... stop. For me. Don't... keep living. Caring... is an... advantage." He squeezed his eyes shut, his breaths becoming more laboured. He forced his eyes to open one last time and stared Sherlock in the eye. "Thank you," he whispered. "Goodbye... Sherlock."
"No," Sherlock whispered. "John!"
John smiled, then gasped one last time before his body went still.
To be continued...