These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ... but not to me.

THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON

Ch. 7

Warnings: Violence; language; men cuddling.

OooOooO

The Lennon Maxim

In October of 1940, a baby boy was born in Liverpool, England, to Julia and Alfred Lennon, a merchant seaman. His parents named him John Winston Lennon. (At least one parent was an admirer of Winston Churchill.) Lennon, determined to become known as a famous musician one day, organized his first band, The Quarrymen, in September 1956. In 1960, The Quarrymen became the worldwide phenomenon known as The Beatles.

During his life, Lennon wrote dozens of songs, the lyrics of which have gone on to become legendary and was the author of books, poems, and yes, left numerous quotes, including the infamous …"We're more Popular than Jesus now," which did not rate much interest in the UK but caused an absolute furor in the States, ultimately leading to the band's decision to suspend their tours (due to threats of violence.)

Lennon was a songwriter, an artist, a writer, considered a genius by many, including himself, and was voted the 5th most influential musician who ever lived. On December 8, 1980, in New York City, he was shot four times in the back by a highly disturbed fan. He was declared dead on arrival at hospital a short while later.

One of Lennon's most famous songs was Imagine, an inspiringly beautiful song, the music and lyrics of which do not come into this narrative (although John Watson could probably pick them out on his guitar.)

However, despite his incredibly creative years with The Beatles, his songs, lyrics, poems, writings, autobiography, world-famous record albums, his marriages, world travels, his much advertised drug use, and the fact that he would forever be known as the man who married " the woman who broke up The Beatles, " John Lennon is quite often remembered for this quote:

"Life is What Happens to You While You're Busy Making Other Plans."

Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Mycroft might have done very well to remember thatone.

OooOooO

Sherlock is in a cab, on his way to John's surgery. He watches the scenery without really seeing it. Previously, Sherlock had asked Lestrade to set up a meeting for him with the flat mate of the last dead overdose victim, found by the lake.

But at this moment, on this afternoon, Sherlock's thoughts are all on a certain military doctor and what he plans on saying to him, as soon as he can get the two of them alone. To this end, he decides to text D.I. Lestrade to tell him that he will have to muddle through his overdose murders, just for today, as he, Sherlock, has had an extremely important affair come up. Sherlock smirks at that wording but never sends the text.

His text chime sounds. It is, in fact, from DI Lestrade, who has beat Sherlock to the punch.

Tox screens suggest possible new designer drug.

But there's a puzzle.

Can you come? Bring John ?

GL

Sherlock reads Lestrade's text, hesitates. The cab is nearly at John's surgery. Once they arrive, he will confer with John and together they can decide. Dinner might have to be postponed for a few hours. This is acase and John always understands about a case.

Besides, Lestrade used the word puzzle.

Damn it, the man knows how to push Sherlock's buttons.

And if this puzzle of Lestrade's slightly postpones a certain conversation Sherlock intends to have with the good doctor, then that just gives him more time to decide what he is going to say, correct?

And once this meeting at the Yard is over, it will be much, much later in the day, early evening in fact. Which will call for a nice dinner with John…much more romantic than sitting in a café somewhere, mid-afternoon, trying to convince John of – no, not convince. Show. Yes, that is right. Show and tell.

Sherlock nearly smiles at that.

Yes, dinner will work out much, much better. John likes going out to dinner. He finds it romantic.

"And, afterward,"Sherlock thinks smugly, "we can finish up at Baker Street."

Sherlock knows that if he cannot get his point across to John with words … well, words don't always work that well for him, anyway, not where John is concerned.

But he knows what does.

And once these incredible delusions that have John in a strop are dealt with, together they will decide what to do about the threat that may – or may not – have come from Moriarty. Since Sherlock is forbidden to bring the subject up in this fashion by Mycroft…and Sherlock knows that in this instance Mycroft is probably correct, the git…then he, Sherlock, will have to find a way to get John to tell him about those two phone calls and the incident in the underground.

"Johnwillbe protected, at any and all costs,"thinks Sherlock, quietly furious at the thought of Moriarty – or anyone – daring to lay a hand on John Watson.

So the sooner this stupid cab gets to their destination, the better.

Sherlock's expression can best be described as a self-congratulatory smirk as he watches the scenery outside the window.

OooOooO

Dr. John H. Watson, M.D., Captain John Watson, is seriously pissed. In fact, John is so damned mad, he can hardly see straight. Often, when men get angry, they get sloppy. When John Watson gets angry, he goes still, his thoughts become quiet, and he allows his anger to sink below his consciousness where he can call it forth at will, when he most needs it to direct his actions.

But in this instance -

Sitting in his office, waiting for Sherlock to collect him, John stares at the landline phone on his desk.

His conversation with that snake Moriarty has left John literally vibrating in fury. He cannot remember being this angry, this coldly determined to murder another human being, during his short tenure on the planet.

John feels he could literally tear Moriarty apart, using his bare hands and nothing else, and bathe in the sick fuck's blood.

Yes, John is that angry.

"There is no way in hell," John thinks, "that I can give Sherlock the entire message Jim has just given me over the phone."

Besides, thinks John savagely, most of it was just staged bravado. The usual crap, but the words would most definitely infuriate and enrage Sherlock – and might just possibly cause him to take off after Moriarty without a thought to his own safety, with possible disastrous consequences for all of them.

John is very well aware that Sherlock is still convinced that his physical safety takes a back seat to his brain's activities.

Transport, remembers John. "Everything else is just transport." Sherlock's very words. And that was months and many layers of friendship ago.

And now friendship has become – what?

They were friends. They are now lovers. But has anything else changed? He is not certain. Sherlock is still the same infuriating, incredible, and yes, unbelievably amazing human being John has ever known. And John would not want Sherlock to change anything about himself. What John does want, however, is to just – know - where he stands. Oh, he'll always stand right there, at Sherlock's side. But damn it, a man wants to hear … what he wants to hear. Is that too much to ask?

But when it comes to his personal safety, Sherlock has not, to John's mind, changed his mind about that. In fact, he has rather begun to rely on John taking care of that aspect of their working relationship. And that frequently terrifies John. He is not always with Sherlock. They spend many, many hours apart, in fact, while John is at the surgery and Sherlock is – wherever he is.

John runs over the conversation with Moriarty, wondering which bits, if any, he can safely repeat to Sherlock – without certain consequences.

"Here is the message, John. Make sure you get it right. Do you want to take notes?"

John can literally hear the vicious smirk in the weird sing song.

"Get on with it, you twisted fuck," growls John.

"Language, Johnny Boy," says Jim. John can sense him grinning that mad grin over the phone.

"Tell our boy wonder, in these exact words: I warned you once before what would happen if you interfere in my affairs. The deaths you and Johnny Boy have been investigating are nothing more than three of my – little - experiments. Successful ones, I might add. Got it so far, John Boy?"

"Moriarty – " warns John, his tone low and menacing.

"Very well. And – John? I know you are a fan of the James Bond genre, ("And just exactly how does the shit know that, thinks John), so you should be able to appreciate this: Mr. Fleming had it right all along. Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. And here's the sticking point, Johnny Dearest – The third time it's enemy action."

Now Moriarty's voice takes on the strange cadence that, despite his determination not to be affected by anything this arse says, still manages to scrape along John's spine.

"Give him that message from me, will you John? "

John's had enough and the anger that he has kept under control for the past few hours now erupts. His hands tighten on the phone. But before he can tell the sick son of a bitch just what he is going to do to him, in exact details, Jim adds one more thing. His voice suddenly gentles as if they were discussing what wine to have with dinner. It drops to a whisper, a sick caress in John's ear.

"Oh and John? See you quite, quite soon."

"Looking forward to it," John says with fierce hatred.

Moriarty hangs up.

John stands up abruptly, pacing around his small examining room. He is thinking back to the first two phone calls.

Not for the first time, John is very glad he did not mention those calls to Sherlock.

Sherlock would have been angry, incensed most probably.

And what good would it have done any of them? John muses. The calls couldn't be traced. He knows. He checked.

John frowns slightly, thinking.

There is no way in hell that Moriarty is getting sloppy, but that doesn't mean that John can just let things go either. To that end, John texts Sally Donovan to ask if she can arrange for a trace on the last call made to the surgery, on their landline. John checks his watch, then sends Sally the exact time of Moriarty's call, gives her the landline number.

His text bell chimes and he glances at his mobile, raises an eyebrow. The text is from Lestrade.

OooOooO

Sherlock frowns. They should be at John's surgery by now. It isn't that far from Baker Street.

There seems to be an inordinate amount of traffic that afternoon on this road. The cab has come to a stop. They are surrounded by vehicles on all sides.

"What's going on?" he murmurs to the cabby, his deep baritone causing the cabby to look up to meet his eyes on the rear view mirror.

"Looks like some commotion up ahead, sir."

Sherlock glances at the cabby's ID. Oddly enough, his first name is John. Sherlock frowns at the slight coincidence, not sure why it bothers him.

OooOooO

John picks up his phone to call Sherlock directly to see where he is, how close he is to the surgery, when Connie, the receptionist, knocks quickly, then opens the door to John's office.

"Dr. Watson, there's been a traffic accident quite close, with wounded. The police are asking if they can bring some of the wounded here until the ambulance can get through to collect them."

"Of course," says John unhesitatingly.

Damn it, thinks John. Of course, this had to happen now. He needs to see Sherlock. And he has to reply to Lestrade's text…no, better yet, Sherlock will be here any minute. He'll just tell him to go on to the yard to see if he can help Lestrade. John will meet him there later once he deals with these injuries. And if he can't make it, he'll meet Sherlock back at Baker Street later that evening.

Sherlock. He is determined to tell him about Moriarty's phone call…but he still doesn't know which bits, if any, he can or should edit out without Sherlock getting suspicious.

And in the end, what does it all matter anyway, thinks John. How are they to find the bastard?

The text chime sounds. It's from Sally Donovan.

Trace confirmed. Location follows.

Can you fill me in?

SD

Her second text lists a street so close to Whitehall Street that John is startled.

What the - That is damned close to Mycroft's office. There has to be a mistake somewhere. There is no way that James Moriarty is operating someplace so close to Mycroft, without Mycroft knowing it. Not possible, is it?

Frowning, he picks up his mobile to call Sherlock. The accident obviously has him running late. John has no idea how much traffic is, or isn't, backed up due to the accident. Sherlock could be a few hundred yards away.

No. He'd just get out of the cab and walk. He must still be some distance away.

"Dr. Watson? We have three wounded and the police are bringing them in to the outer waiting area."

"Be right there." John stands, leaving his mobile phone temporarily forgotten behind him on the desk.

"Connie, see if an ambulance can get to us through all this traffic, all right?" John grabs his med kit and follows her out of the office.

Behind him, his mobile begins to ring.

OooOooO

Sherlock stares at John's surgery number, willing John to pick up. He's loath to leave a message as he doesn't know how busy John might be or how long it will take him to check his messages.It all depends on whether this accident has resulted in injuries. If so, then John is most probably dealing with some of the injured now.

"Or he is standing outside the surgery, watching for me. But if that's the case, why doesn't he answer his phone?"

OooOooO

As he enters the clinic's main waiting area, John notices there are no more scheduled patients waiting to be seen, other than the wounded the police are currently bringing in from the accident. At least that will make it a little easier. He will be able to concentrate on the accident victims.

"Bring her through to the surgery, please." The young woman is at least able to walk in under her own steam, although a little unsteady. A young police officer is supporting her.

John bends over the first victim and checks her vitals, when Sherlock strides into the surgery, glances around, and deduces John must be in an examining room in the back. Sherlock is very familiar with the surgery and he soon finds the room John is using. He nods once at John.

John barely glances up at Sherlock, sees him standing there, gives a curt nod and goes back to his examination of the victim. Two medics have come into the surgery. Good, thinks John. At least one emergency vehicle has found its way to the accident. They can take her to hospital as soon as he completes his triageassessment.

This is one of the few times that Sherlock has had to actually observe Doctor John in action, and the new opportunity to collect data on John is not to be dismissed. Sherlock stands to the far side of the room, stays out of everyone's way, and just watches.

"Connie, where's Sarah?" asks John.

"Sarah's early day, remember?" Connie hold John's emergency med kit and hands him items as he asks for them.

"Right. Then it's just the two of us. Bloody hell."

At the young woman's silence, John glances up from the injured woman. He has temporarily had to push Sherlock away from his awareness so he can work. He knows that the detective stands to the far side of the room, watching, deducing, observing. It does not bother him. This is what Sherlock does, after all.

"Oh God, Connie. I forgot. You have to get to the nursery to pick up the baby."

"It's okay," the receptionist assures him. "I can call my sister. She can go get Jeremy."

John listens to the injured woman's heart while he carries on his conversation with the young receptionist.

"Actually, Connie, if you can give me a few more minutes, you might as well go. We'll be done here shortly. Surgery's officially closed and there are no patients waiting. We've worked through all the appointments for today. I can always close up. I know you are anxious to go collect your son."

"That would be great, Doctor Watson."

She smiles at John as she watches him work with the injured woman on the stretcher. She rather obviously ignores Mr. Holmes, who stands in the far corner. To tell the truth, the tall man rather intimidates Connie and she never knows what to say to him.

John straightens up; the woman has a broken collar bone but it hasn't broken the skin and she's in no immediate danger. Good . Painful though. He squeezes her hand, to reassure her and nods at the medics.

"Broken collar bone; no immediate danger. But she's in pain. I'm not allowed to give her anything but you—"

"We'll take care of it, Doctor Watson." One of the paramedics, Carl by his name tag, knows John from a previous run to the surgery. John smiles wearily at him.

"Good man. Okay, her vitals are strong. If the ambulance is outside, you can go ahead."

John bends over the woman one more time and carefully smoothes her sweaty hair back from her face. Sherlock watches, intrigued. And not a little proud of the incredible expertise, poise and calm professionalism that Dr. John Watson, M.D. shows under pressure.

Proud? That's odd. He had nothing to do with John becoming a doctor. Still. The feeling of pride remains. He is aware that, once more, his possessiveness of John…his ownership of John…has again come into play. He watches the young paramedic lean toward John to say something and Sherlock looks away suddenly as he swallows.

He will not obsess about this. He won't.

When Sherlock glances back, John still stoops over the woman on the stretcher. Automatically, Sherlock deduces: early 30's, married, two young children.

John whispers a reassuring word, "You'll be fine. I know it hurts, but you're going to be okay. These young men are taking you to hospital right now. It's a broken collar bone, but nothing else that I can find. They'll take x-rays at the hospital. Try not to worry."

The woman whispers her thanks to John as the medics help her off the exam table and onto the stretcher they have carried in with them to take her to the waiting ambulance. John is grateful that at least one ambulance has managed to make its way through the crowd.

The second victim sits in the outside waiting room, perched rather vicariously on one of the plastic waiting room chairs, having walked in under his own accord. John takes his stethoscope and followed by Connie, then Sherlock, he goes back to the waiting room to check on the young man. He treats his obvious scalp laceration, listens to his heart, checks his vitals, and calms his fears with a few quiet words.

"Lucky man. Nothing too bad. You'll be sore though. Go with these men and they'll take you to hospital." The young man (early 20's, unmarried, second-year art student, scared to death, deduces Sherlock) thanks John and rises, a little unsteady on his feet. One of the medics comes back in to escort him out to the ambulance.

John straightens up. Looks around.

"Connie, I thought you said there were three?"

"I believe the third one was already treated by emergency services, Doctor."

The young woman is disinfecting and replacing items in John's med kit. She sets the kit on the counter and smiles at John tiredly.

"If you mean it about locking up, I really need –"

"Of course, I meant it. Go get your son. And thank you for staying, Connie."

"You're welcome, Doctor Watson. I'll see you tomorrow then?" She shrugs into her coat, picks up her purse and car keys. She nods in Sherlock's general direction. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. He stares back at her.

John smiles at the young woman, aware that Sherlock now stands just a few feet behind him.

"Yes, that's fine. See you tomorrow. Be careful. This traffic is a bear."

Connie waves at him, leaves through the front surgery door.

"Give me a minute, Sherlock," John murmurs.

He goes to the door and walks outside to stare in both directions. He is a little concerned that there might be more victims of the accident. He can – barely - see where two or three vehicles are jumbled together, about a quarter mile from the clinic. Traffic is horrid in all directions and he wonders if Connie will be able to get through it in time to pick up her son before the nursery begins to charge her extra.

John can't see any other policemen coming his way - they all appear to be working the accident. He decides it's safe to go back inside but will keep the surgery door open and unlocked for now, just in case. He decides to stick around for a while, in the event more victims show up.

John comes back inside and goes to the first examining room to wash his hands for the third time in a few minutes. Sherlock trails in after him, watching, deducing, observing.

"Stop that," John murmurs. Sherlock stands directly behind John now. John can feel Sherlock through his very bones.

"Stop what?" murmurs the detective.

He bends slightly over John, whispers into his left ear. Yes, thatear – the one that seems to be connected directly to John's groin. John shudders.

He finishes drying his hands – and turns directly into Sherlock's embrace.

"Stop this," whispers John, his voice coming in slightly throaty gasps. "It's very unprofessional. If someone else comes in for treatment –"

"If someone else comes in, they can bloody well wait a moment," murmurs Sherlock.

He bends over slightly, John automatically tilts his head up, and Sherlock kisses John fully on the lips, nibbling, tasting, all the while murmuring things, impossible things.

John shuts his eyes, feels his groin tighten and nearly groans aloud. Finally, he finds the strength to push Sherlock away slightly, get his breath.

He stares up at the strange pale gray eyes, gone nearly translucent now. Sherlock stands over John, possessively, right in his personal space, and stares back at the doctor.

"Sherlock, Lestrade is waiting for us at the Met."

Sherlock grins that grin that ever means only one thing. John swallows against the suffocating feeling in his chest.

It's want, sheer animal need for this man in front of him. Pure lust for Sherlock.

Sherlock murmurs, "Let him wait."

He reaches out to pull John to him and the two of them stand there for a moment, entwined in each other's arms. John can hear Sherlock's heart beat under his cheek, where it temporarily lies against the detective's chest.

"Okay. But Lestrade is still waiting. He has something to tell us about the drug found in those victim's. And I think you need to go see him. I'm staying here a bit to make certain there are no more victims from the accident. We were originally told there would be three."

Sherlock sighs, steps back from his lover a step.

"John –"

"No, Sherlock. I mean it. I'm staying here for a while. I have two reports I have to complete for NHS and I can finish those, while waiting to see if anyone else needs to be treated. I'll be right behind you. Go ahead. Lestrade did say puzzle, remember?"

John straightens his white coat, grins at Sherlock and the glance sends tiny frissons of pleasure through the detective's soul.

He studies the doctor for a few seconds, finally relents.

"All right. I'll take a cab to the Yard, see what this puzzle of Lestrade's entails and you'll be right behind me. "

He reaches out a hand and cups the side of John's face in those long beautiful fingers. John can't help himself. He leans slightly into the detective's warm touch and closes his eyes briefly.

"And afterward, we are going out to dinner. I've let this mess out here rob us of our lunch. But we willbe having dinner together later. Wherever you want, John."

John glances at Sherlock, slightly puzzled over this obvious attempt at romance on the detective's part.

He is delighted with the notion of having dinner with Sherlock but just a little confused at the detective's sudden romantic streak.

But not enough confused to do anything to spoil it either.

"All right. I'll take you up on that. Now go. Right now or I can't be responsible – no. No, Sherlock. Not here in my own surgery!"

"Why ever not?" murmurs the detective. He steps back into John's personal space and bends over the doctor protectively, while he caresses John's cheek with the back of his hand.

John sighs and pushes back against the detective's chest. He is determined to get to those reports.

And a determined John Watson … Sherlock relents, at last. He straightens up and drops his hand from the perusal of John's face.

"Okay, I'm going. Right now. But the idea of being with you, here in the surgery, is intriguing."

He grins at the doctor, who grins back.

"We're idiots," thinks John Watson, not for the first time.

"Sherlock, just go, now, before I lose what's left of my resolve. I promise you, I'll be thirty minutes behind, an hour at the most. "

"I could wait here while you – "

"No, Sherlock! I mean it. I cannot concentrate when you are like this. It's just not possible. But keep the thought, okay?"

John turns away to pick up his med kit. Holding it in one hand, he strides back to the reception area to get two blank accident forms.

Sherlock walks behind John, watching the doctor move around the room, picking out forms from the cabinet behind the receptionist's desk, punching in a short sequence to switch the surgery's main line to the night recording, waiting to lock the door behind Sherlock.

"I don't see why I can't just wait for you."

"Well, I can. We'll end up on an exam table in a few moments, if we go on like this, and believe me, they aren't wide enough to accommodate two grown men."

John, forms clenched in one fist and med kit in the other grins at the detective and offers his face up for a quick buss on the lips.

Sherlock complies, grins into John's mouth, and straightens, trying to rearrange his clothing.

"All right. Thirty minutes to an hour. Right behind me. Get to those damned reports."

He goes to the front door, turns to say something to John. John stops on his way back to his office and sees Sherlock standing there. He raises one eyebrow inquisitively.

For a few fleeting seconds, Sherlock has the oddest feeling. He can see John, see him standing right there, outlined by the light from his office, he is real, tangible. At the same time, he feels as if he and John are standing on opposite sides of a quay, watching, watching, as one of them slips away from the other. It is a brief, fleeting whisper of vertigo, of longing. And of loss.

He shakes his head. He realizes he is being ridiculous and puts down those few odd seconds to not having eaten that day. Well, he'll take care of that tonight. He intends to take care of a lot of things tonight.

"Right behind me, John," Sherlock says. He winds his scarf back around his neck and opens the surgery door, preparatory to hailing a cab.

"Right behind you, Sherlock," grins John. He watches as Sherlock leaves, then crosses to the front door and locks it. He goes into his office, leaves the door askew, to sit behind his desk and begins completing the accident reports.

The sooner he can get these blasted reports completed the better. He doesn't really expect any more victims from the accident, he would have heard by now, but he will feel better if he gives it another thirty minutes, just to be sure. He bends to his task.

OooOooO

"Right." John signs the second completed report, drops both of them in the Out box on the corner of the desk. He stands and removes his white doctor's coat and drops it in the laundry bin in the corner of the room. Back at his desk, he opens the bottom right drawer and takes out the Browning. He has taken to carrying the gun around with him since the first threat.

Threat. Threats. Moriarty.

"Shite!" breathes John. In the excitement of treating the accident victims, he has completely forgotten to give Sherlock Moriarty's message.

John slips the Browning into the waistband of his trousers, shakes his shirt and jumper down over to hide the gun, and reaches to pick up his phone. He can't let another minute go by without telling Sherlock.

The detective is going to be livid, thinks John. As he thumbs the speed dial to call Sherlock, John can't say he can blame him. He should have told him immediately but he let himself be – distracted – by the slight lovemaking.

"Sherlock Holmes. John?"

"Sherlock, listen. In all the excitement this afternoon, I forgot to - oh, bloody hell, Sherlock. I was going to tell you later tonight but I think it should be now. And I can tell you right now you're not going to like it."

"John? What is it?" Sherlock sits up straighter in the passenger seat of the cab. They are nearing the Yard. But all of his attention is on John Watson's voice. What the hell - ?

John sighs. He closes his eyes, as if this will make it easier to tell Sherlock about Moriarty.

"Sherlock – I got a call this afternoon, just before you arrived at the clinic, literally just before the accident victims came in the front door. And I have a message for you. From our good friend, Jim."

Sherlock's senses are on full alert now. Moriarty called John at the surgery – today? And John didn't even mention it to him?

His voice, when he can find it, comes lower and much more angry than he means it to be.

"John –"

"Sherlock, wait a minute."

John hears the slight sound and he wonders if this has to do with the accident. He lays the mobile phone on his desk and goes to the outer office, tugging the Browning from his waistband as he walks.

Sherlock sits in the cab and fumes. Fumes.

Once John comes back and tells him what he has to tell him, he intends to have a very long talk with the Army doctor. This casual attitude on his part to threats from a madman must – and will - stop. He must be kept in the loop.

He feels an unreasoning anger swell up and threaten to choke off his air supply.

Mycroft be arsed. He willsay whatever he must to John Watson to make certain the ex-military man no longer thinks he has to take things into his own hands.Alone.

Damn it. They aren't alone. Not anymore. Neither one of them. They are together in this. And Sherlock will do whatever he must to impress that upon a certain doctor.

The fact that Sherlock now bears a rather unreasoning and unfair anger toward John for acting the same way that he, Sherlock, has acted for years totally escapes the detective.

More angry by the moment, Sherlock waits for John to pick up his damned mobile and talkto him.

In the outer waiting area, John stands, frowns at a stretcher in the middle of the room that was not there just a few minutes ago. That damn door was locked. He whirls around, the Browning now an extension of his right arm.

James Moriarty stands to John's far right, hands in the pockets of his suit trousers. He grins that cracked grin.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. It's going to be a nice evening, don't you think?"

"You sick twisted fuck," spits John. He now holds the Browning with both hands, the barrel aimed at Jim's head. His hands have never been steadier. "That door was locked. How the hell-"

"You know, Johnny Boy, I wonder if you kiss Sherlock with that dirty little mouth. Really, your language leaves so much to be desired these days. And, John, seriously, you don't really believe I've watched you at your little day job here for months and not availed myself of the opportunity to have extra keys made." He raises an eyebrow.

John glances around the waiting area, as he carefully maneuvers Moriarty between himself and the front door.

It's obvious Moriarty is waiting for someone else or he wouldn't be standing there, calmly watching John. John assumes it is one of his men, probably whoever brought the stretcher into the outer office. He quickly gestures at Jim, forcing Moriarty to turn with him as he searches the outer office for the second man. And there isalways a second man.

"Why so nervous, Johnny Boy? I just thought I'd stop by to say Hi and see if you want to come out and play."

"Mycroft's men," thinks John. "Where the bloody hell are Mycroft's men?"

"All right Jim, take them off." John gestures slightly with the Browning.

Jim frowns. "Not sure I follow you John Boy."

John gestures. "Your shoes, Jim. Take them off and sit down on the floor."

John holds the Browning steady in both hands. He stands well back of the door now, sideways, and makes far less of a target than earlier. He is still able to see the entire waiting room area. His office is to his right, the door still slightly ajar.

Office. Sherlock. Mobile.

Jim frowns at John as if he is truly seeing him for the first time. Then he shrugs, toes off one designer shoe, then the other. Gracefully, he lowers himself down until he sits on the floor.

"Cross your ankles, Jim and sit on your hands."

John's voice is raspy, his eyes tracing back and forth between the corners of the waiting room and Moriarty, who appears quietly amused now. It's still daylight outside and there are police vehicles just down the road, working the accident. And Mycroft ...

From where he stands, John glances sideways toward the front door and can see an ambulance directly outside, the driver nonchalantly leaning up against the passenger side door. The second man? He glances back at Moriarty, gives him his full attention.

Jim Moriarty is frowning at him now and actually sweating a little, John is happy to see.

Good. Sweat means the bastard's heart is racing and if his heart is racing, his blood will pour that much faster.

John has never shot a man in cold blood before, let alone one who is sitting on the ground in front of him.

He decides there is an exception to every rule.

John's finger tightens on the trigger.

"Say goodbye to it," John growls to Moriarty.

But Jim begins to smile that slow cold smile, the edges of his lips turning up in a familiar ironic tilt.

John frowns. He feels the slight disturbance, barely registered in the air.

The rear examination room.

"Aw fuck me," thinks John in those last two seconds.

On automatic pilot now, he swivels to his right, gun raised, and fires at the shadow figure that stands there. His optical pupils register a flash.

The twin explosions sound devastatingly loud in the enclosed space.

And of course, with the horrendous traffic outside the surgery, now being augmented by the early evening rush hour, no one hears the two shots.

No one save Sherlock.

The detective leans forward, snaps his words out at the cab driver in cold venom.

"Turn this bloody thing around and go back to the clinic – Now!"

John's eyes widen, the blood drains from his face in one near instantaneous rush, like a tide going out in fast forward speed. He falls heavily to his knees, and the Browning slips crookedly from his fingers, tilting as the heavy muzzle falls forward, tilting as the trigger guard catches on his right forefinger, tilting as John's body tilts, and finally releases as his fingers spasms. The L9A1 hits the floor exactly three seconds before John does.

Jim stands up slowly, toes his shoes back on, then just stands there, his hands in his pockets, totally unconcerned that another 300 quid silk shirt has been forever ruined, covered with multiple sprays of crimson that fan out over his slim torso, sprays of John Watson's blood, which soak Jim's shirt, and soak the carpet at his feet.

He grins like an idiot.

Standing to his far left, legs splayed in a shooter's crouch, both hands lovingly wrapped around his Sig Sauer P226, is Sebastian Moran.

At their feet, John's breath comes in desperate gasps.

Seb grins at Jim.

"Miss me?" he asks.

OooOooO