(( Whew, this one turned out a bit bigger than I anticipated! ^_^ Again, thanks for all the support on this! I should be uploading the final chapter sometime this weekend, fingers crossed! ))

This is your last chance, Holmes. We're finishing this. The top of St. Barts in an hour. –SM

The threat didn't issue an immediate response. Sherlock merely put his mobile down on the nightstand of his hotel room. Yes, he was in London, a fact he didn't doubt the accomplished sniper knew. But Sebastian really hadn't learned anything from his handler if he thought that that pitiful text was enough to get Sherlock running. He ran his thumb over the front of the mobile before looking at himself in the mirror.

Three years had passed by. As Sherlock stared at himself in the mirror, he felt just a touch of surprise at how he had changed. There were superficial differences, ones he was sure any average idiot would spot. His hair had grown just a touch longer, and then Sherlock had cut most of it off. At one point, he had dyed it, and then discontinued the practice when he had found it to be more trouble than it was worth. There had come a point in his absence where people simply did not recognize Sherlock Holmes anymore, even if they were staring the dead man in the face.

He had gotten a bit thinner. It wasn't out of purpose or forgetfulness. The constant moving, shifting, planning, thinking took up all of his time. Not to mention that money had been an issue, when he had realized he couldn't access his bank accounts without drawing suspicion. Taking cases like he used to would be an even stronger indicator. So, much to Sherlock's eternal dismay, he took odd jobs here and there. Sweeping a Tesco, blowing away some leaves, waiting tables.

Then there were the minor differences, the ones which Sherlock was noticing only then. His eyes were cold and narrowed constantly, as if distrusting the face he saw in the mirror. His mouth was set in a permanent frown, stern and grim. Worst of all, Sherlock despaired, was that the small bit of humanity he had learned from John had completely disappeared. Friendliness and interest could be faked, and he could still do that, now even a bit better than before. But Sherlock could not remember the last time he had truly enjoyed someone's company, when he had thought someone little better than an idiot, or when someone had even made him smile.

Well, no, that wasn't true. He could, but that had been years ago.

Very persuasive, Sebastian, but you are not the spider, and I am not the fly. –SH

It was difficult to think of Sebastian and he as enemies, as it was difficult to think of Moriarty and him as enemies. Rivalry was far too favourable for Sebastian, because Sherlock wanted nothing more than to see the man dead. However, at some point or another, Sherlock had found the man's mobile, and they often sent teasing, taunting texts to one another. Sherlock had been tracking this sniper, the one who had almost killed John, for a long while. Not the entire three years, mind, but more than he had tracked any of the other men involved in Moriarty's ring.

He was clever, he was amusing, he was absolutely and undeniably evil.

In the saddest way possible, it was probably the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend.

Sebastian's response came in the form of a picture message. Giving a sarcastic roll of his eyes, Sherlock opened it.

It took less than five minutes for Sherlock to bolt from the room and to hail a cabbie. His voice was strangely hoarse as he did so, and he was inwardly thankful that his gun was still just inside his jacket. This was new, and likely Sebastian thought it a game. John had been one game Sherlock had never been willing to play.

And, of course, that was what the picture had been of. It had been John's unconscious face, and given the background of the image and Sebastian's previous message, he was on top of St. Barts. Sherlock swallowed and leaned forward to speak with the cabbie. "Yes, faster, hurry." For the first time since he had left John, he felt something icy rush through his veins. This wasn't good, this was horrendous, this was exactly why Sherlock had wanted to cast off all sentiment when he had left John. The thought occurred to him to leave John with Sebastian and let the pieces fall where they may.

He had made the ultimate sacrifice for John already, why should he do anything more?

Almost immediately, Sherlock's brain told him that he was an idiot. If he had one small ounce of humanity left, if he was anywhere near as good as John was, then he had to save him. Besides, his old egotistical mind told him, what would be the point of such a clever suicide if John would just be killed anyway?

On the same track, Sherlock knew he had to find a way to get John down and somewhere safe before he had woken. Sherlock had resolved years ago never to come back to John, and he was intent on keeping that promise.

The cab stopped. Sherlock paid. He got out. He went up the stairs. He went out onto the roof.

"Maybe it's not as dramatic as a fall, but I think you'll understand if John's gone a bit weak at the knees."

That was what Sherlock heard, before he noticed anything, before he noticed Sebastian Moran, before he noticed John, or before he noticed the chair John was slumped in. Before he noticed how precariously close to the edge John was slumping. His mind tried to come back with a witty answer, but he couldn't. Instead, he tried John's usual manner of dealing with things, and just raised his gun to Sebastian. As he did so, Sebastian mirrored his movement, bringing the gun up to aim directly at Sherlock's heart.

"You see, Holmes, I knew I had to entice you to come up here. You wouldn't take any old case, now, would you?" A sneering smile, but Sherlock's eyes weren't focused on the man in front of him. "No, you'd only come if it was interestin' to you, if it had something to give to you. See, that's why Johnny-boy here was always a better man than you." Sebastian laughed out loud, his eyes drifting down to the unconscious man in the chair. "I guess that's why he's in this position, now, isn't he?"

Sherlock wasn't having any of it. Already, being up here was giving him unpleasant memories. Moriarty taunting him, telling him he had won. Sherlock had known his plan by then, but his heart had still broken when he had looked down on John. Heard John's disbelieving, insistent words. And then there was the air, whooshing around him, looking down, seeing the ground speed up to him so frightengly fast, and God help him, Sherlock had never been afraid of heights, but-

"Sorry, am I boring you?" Sebastian's hand shot out to hold the back of John's chair, and tilted him back easily. If Sebastian had let go, then, John would've fallen. Sherlock's heart jumped into his throat.

"No." He coughed out, lowering his gun and extending his hands to his sides. They both knew Sherlock's physical 'surrender' was just a bluff. "But I was wondering what it was you wanted from me. Kill me? Fine. You could've done so the moment I had stepped out on the roof. You want to tell me something."

His face curled into an awful smirk, and Sebastian set the chair back on the ground again. "I'd just like to tell you a little story, Sherlock, and that's all. Then you can make your choice, again, and we'll see if you think so fondly of John this time. I'm just going to talk to you, and then you decide who dies."

Sherlock looked down at his feet for a second, pretending to consider the situation. Inwardly, his mind was set. So, this would be where Sherlock Holmes met his untimely end. The great Sherlock Holmes would be no more. His great mind couldn't save himself, now, and Sherlock felt miserable at that fact. However, John simply had to live. While it would never be said that Sherlock was unselfish, he did realize how truly good John Watson was. London needed him, certainly more than London needed Sherlock Holmes.

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Sebastian gave a small smile, then reached down to affectionately cuff John's shoulder. On the impact, John's body slumped to the side, nearly falling out of his chair. With a grunt, Seb pushed him back to place. Sherlock's warning of 'Be gentle!' died in his throat. "Did John ever tell you how he got his wound, Mr. Holmes?"

"He never told me, it was obvious. Army injury."

Somehow, he didn't think that was what Sebastian meant.

"Oh, you're good, aren't you? No, Mr. Holmes, John and I knew each other in the Army. He and I despised each other. Really, it was absolutely mad, how much we hated each other. Though I suppose it made sense, considering how I got all the bloody glory for being on the front lines and he was in that damn hospital all day." A lingering smile was on his face, but his eye twitched. Sherlock noticed it and recorded it. "One night, John wakes me up in my tent, and he's pissed drunk. He wakes me up and he starts yelling, threatening, and then I noticed this stupid bloke's got a bloody gun on him!" As he continued along his narrative, his voice became louder, more brash. "So what does he do? He fires a shot at me! Complete miss! And, o'course, I've got to shoot at him, now. I shoot and he falls. Bam. Like a sodding rock. Next week I'm dishonourably discharged for shooting a bloody doctor."

Sherlock knew the story was completed, and he looked down at his feet. It was a convincing story, and Sherlock had always been deathly curious about how John had gotten that scar. Not to mention that he had learned in his three years that people weren't always good, that even John must have had a dark side. There were no direct holes in his story, either, and Sherlock felt his resolve began to weak. He heard a small noise from John's chair.

"Wouldn't…have…missed."

Two pairs of eyes shot over to John, but it seemed as if the man wasn't saying any more. Indeed, his head tried to hold itself up, but then simply fell to the side. His eyelids fluttered and he rolled his hands into fists.

"Amusing story, Sebastian, but I've been so weary of fairy tales lately." Sherlock rose the gun again, trained directly on Sebastian's chest. Sebastian responded by tipping John's chair back again, but Sherlock didn't put down his gun.

"You want to kill me, Mr. Holmes? Fine, go on. You shoot me, me and John both go over. Doesn't matter, really, you're killing a murderer and a liar. Let's hope you know who is who. You shoot yourself, and I'll bloody push John over right here. I gave you the easy way out, Mr. Holmes, and I've known a lot of good men who have taken that route, shameful as it is. You didn't want it."

The safety was flicked off.

John's chair was pushed just a little more.

Sherlock stood a step forward, and Sebastian took a step back. This game had to be over, Sherlock told himself, if only for John's sake. The man seemed to be lapsing into unconsciousness again, his hands going limp on his lap. Good. Sherlock raised his gun again, and Sebastian chuckled.

"You won't do it. John's heroism rubbed off on you, hasn-"

His sentence was cut off by a startled grunt, and suddenly, three things happened at once. Later, when Sherlock was remembering this day, he would remember them one at a time.

One. Sebastian clutched at the new wound on his stomach, blood starting to seep through his shirt. A look of sheer pain crossed his face, and Sherlock remembered the sick burst of joy he had gotten from seeing that. He had then stumbled back, leading directly into part Two.

Two. Sebastian had stepped off the building, leading him to fall backward to the ground. Later, he would ponder the sentimental and symbolic meanings of Sherlock falling face-first and Sebastian falling while looking up at the sky. Sebastian didn't scream as he let out the ground, but that was only logical, all wind would be ripped out of his lungs. He didn't remember hearing the smash.

Three. With nobody to support John, the chair tipped backwards over the side of the building, and Sherlock's moves were completely automatic and involuntary. Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough to grab John's torso, but he had moved quickly enough to snatch his legs. He heard John's body hit the side of the building, but John was still alive.

So there Sherlock Holmes was, after years of being the intellectual one, the braniac who didn't need to use brawn, and who often teased John for having more muscle than wit at times.

Holding his best friend up (who weighed quite a bit more than he did) by his feet, feeling his grip slip, inch by inch.