John hit the floor, cursing—mostly at himself. "Christ, what have I done? Bloody hell, you're right. I am an idiot."
"It's all right, John," said Sherlock breathlessly from the other side of the room. "Practically everyone is."
"That's not really a comfort right now, Sherlock. If you haven't noticed, somebody's shooting at us."
"Not us, John. You." Sherlock had edged across the floor, reaching for his fallen gun. "I thought you were a soldier?"
"Right. Because that makes it better. I led him right to you, Sherlock!" John couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. He was never going to forgive himself.
To his surprise, Sherlock was shaking his head, tapping now on his phone. "No. Actually, Moran led YOU here. The question is why. He obviously knew where I was. He could have just killed me, but he brought you here, too."
John jumped as his phone rang, startling him as it vibrated in his hand. He looked at the number and cursed again. He looked at Sherlock as he answered on speaker. "Moran? Good timing. I found him, and now someone's shooting at us. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
A hard chuckle from the other end. "I'll give you this, Watson, you're amusing. Gullible, it's true, but definitely amusing. Put Sherlock on the phone."
John closed his eyes and gave his head a shake, trying to fight down the nausea as Sherlock said, "Go ahead, Moran."
"That you, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, Colonel. You know they're going to charge me extra for that window, don't you?"
"My apologies. I'll be happy to cover the cost of a new window pane, Mr. Holmes. It'll be cheap for the price."
"What price is that?" Sherlock asked.
"Justice, of course." Moran's voice sounded almost surprised. "You let down your end of the deal, and I'm here to collect your debt."
"So, you're going to kill me?"
Another dry laugh. "Of course not—or not yet. I'm going to kill Captain Watson. That was the deal, wasn't it? Your death would have saved his life, but since you're alive, it's forfeit."
Sherlock's eyes were locked on John, who flinched at the pain he saw there. "No, The deal was that I jump to complete Jim's story, which I did. It was the jump that mattered. So far as the world is concerned, I am dead, Colonel. I held up my end of the deal."
"Maybe so, but a dead man has been systematically hunting down my people for the last year. You can't possibly think I'm going to let you walk out of there, do you? You deserve to die."
"Maybe I do, but John doesn't. I thought he saved your life, Colonel? Kill me if you must, but let him live."
John couldn't stand it anymore. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"What I've been doing for the last year, John. Trying to save your life." Sherlock was staring at the phone. "What do you say, Colonel? My life in exchange for the good man you already owe for saving your life?"
Silence for a moment and then, "No, sorry. Can't do that. I always abide by my contracts, Mr. Holmes. The deal was that if you died then, Watson lived. By reneging on your end, his life is forfeit. I don't mean to make him suffer, though, if that's any comfort—to him, I mean. Besides, really, he should be grateful."
"Grateful?" John couldn't stop the word coming out. "For what?"
"Why, John, didn't I thoughtfully arrange this nice little reunion for you? I gave you a chance to see each other, catch up, ease the months of grief." Moran's voice was hard now, bitter. "Because that's more than I got with Jim. You think you grieved any more than I did? You think your pain was worse than mine? I was bloody generous with you, because you did save my life back in Afghanistan. You can die happy, now, having seen and talked to Holmes, while I've lost Jim for eternity."
"I didn't know." John didn't even try to hide the sympathy in his voice. If Moran had been dealing with the same pain John had, he could forgive almost anything he did here today. Anything but killing Sherlock. "I'm sorry, Colonel."
"Don't get soft on me, Watson … but I suppose it's too late for that." Moran's voice was edged, laced with acid. "You've always been soft. You could have been a good sniper once, I had my eye on you when I saw your marksmanship scores, but you were a doctor, and more interested in saving lives than taking them. You've never had the stones to make the hard choices. That's what brought you here, the broken little soldier, running to daddy to fix him instead of realizing that he's been holding you back all these years. You let him. Because you're weak."
John listened numbly, but found that he was no longer shaking, no longer sick. He knew exactly what he had to do, and his hands, his resolve, were perfectly steady. "You're wrong, Moran. Friends don't make you weak. They give you something to fight for."
And, taking aim, he fired.
#
