AN: Here you go, folks! The final chapter, excluding the epilogue. I promise a full resolution and tying-up-of-loose-ends in said epilogue, with a brief glimpse at the next story at the end.

URGENT: I need to know, for next chapter and the next one, how dark you would like the story to be, ideally. I'm prepared to make it quite dark, but if you'd perfer more jolly japes then by all mean, let it be known! Otherwise you might be dissapointed.

Thanks to Sophie who has been reviewing, as well! The other Silver!Verse story (the Torchwood/Silver!Verse crossover 'Suspending Disbelief') should have a new chapter in a bit. Bob's working on it, I think!

As always, a pleasure to write for you all. R&R! - B.


Watson– If you can hear me, Watson –

Something wasn't quite right.

John cursed himself for his apparent inability to fully relax. He hadn't properly felt safe, or unwound, since Afghanistan. While he wouldn't have his life a bland series of banal and neutral events, just one night where he didn't feel like someone might die would be beneficial; if not for his mental health, for his date's peace of mind.

Sarah eyed him with caution. He'd stopped with a forkful of pasta half way to his mouth, gaining her full attention. She looked wary, yes; but more than a little concerned, too.

". . . John?" She ventured.
"Sorry, I-" He began to make an excuse, but stopped himself, resuming eating his food as if nothing had happened. "Don't worry. I'm just a little tired still,"

Sarah nodded, but wasn't entirely convinced. He'd been fine up until now – better, in fact. She'd had a good time, despite the fact they both thought the circus was a bit dodgy – more like art than a circus, as he'd put it. She'd laughed: in general, she thought he was funny, in a very British way – if that didn't sound too clichéd.

"Never mind. I've had some tough shifts lately; I'm not quite one hundred percent . . . Though, I imagine you've had tougher in your life," She added as an afterthought. John was glad of her awareness of his military past, but being reminded of it when he wasn't expecting it was a little rattling. He tried to hide this by smiling, though it was tight and forced at best.
"Well, yes," He agreed in a measured way. "Thank goodness it's over, though," He lied.
". . . What was it like?" She asked quietly, taking a sip of wine and a few seconds of weighted silence.

He stared at the small candle in the centre of the table, wondering how best to avoid giving a straight answer. In the end, he decided that the best way to do so was to answer her question with a question.
"The war, or coming home?" He sidestepped, giving himself more time to think of an answer.
She shrugged, putting her knife and fork together neatly.
"Both. Either. I don't have anyone in the armed forces in my family, so I can't even imagine . . ." She trailed off. ". . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. Bit personal for a first date – maybe next time-"
John just smiled. Well, if she thought there would be a next time, he was going to have to give her something. More dates would mean more questions – he'd have to work on that later.

"It was . . . Amazing. Really – exhilarating. But not just that . . . I think for a while, I really liked it," I still do, he reminded himself. "Job satisfaction's a fine thing. But it had to end, of course. I was hoping it wouldn't end so abruptly, but that's life," He shrugged, his eyes glazing over slightly. She returned his smile, but it faded with her next question:
"What happened?" She asked, but blushed – not for the first time. He took her hand from across the table, reassuring her with human contact.

It was funny: he was so used to reassuring his flatmate, pacifying his histrionic behaviour with words, but this . . . It was completely different. Just as special, but in a different way, he acknowledged as he felt her soft skin beneath his palm. He hoped he didn't have sweaty palms . . .

"Don't worry, it's fine to ask!" He told her. She stared at their hands, which held onto each other, and for a minute, John witnessed a battle going on all over her face. The side which won was the 'let's-throw-caution-to-the-wind' side, and she continued to hold his hand rather than withdraw.
"I was shot, unfortunately – in the left shoulder,"
"Blimey. Big scar?" She marvelled.
He paused, his mouth open to answer but without anything to say for a few seconds, and his eyes flicking all around the room.
". . . Not that big, no," He told her with a non-committal shrug.

She looked as if she was going to protest, as confusion at his words graced her eyes for a few seconds; it quickly disappeared: "But – oh, never mind,"

He laughed.
"I was very lucky," He assured her, and looked into her eyes as he referred to her: "I still am!"
He cursed himself for the cheesy line he'd just unleashed on his date.

–– tramway – darkness – breathe – Shadow – John –!

He stood up suddenly, pushing the table away from himself and looking around. A few eyes from neighbouring tables turned towards him, anticipating a couple's spat or some other such fight, with the sudden violent movement. He was sweating, and his head jerked all around, searching for the source of the voice; for the man it undoubtedly came from. It felt like it had been right by his ear.

Oh, no. Sherlock.

How was he going to explain this to Sarah? He felt the oncoming resignation that his date was about to be scuppered shoot through him.

"What's the matter?" Sarah asked, surprised. She was standing too by now, looking alarmed.
"I – listen, this has been nice – really, great, but – I need to leave," He answered, pulling out his wallet and taking out all the cash he could spare if he wanted to be able to get a cab. It barely covered the amount needed to pay for the meal, but he didn't care.

"But – why?" She asked, trying to keep her voice down but obviously shaken and angry.
"Something's come up. I need to leave, but I've had a really great time! Obviously, It's not you, it's me, I-"

Oops.

She smiled in bitter disbelief, and shook her head; narrowed her eyes. She finished her wine, quickly. He muttered an apology, and left the restaurant, stalking into the damp street once more. It was still thundering down with rain, so loud that he hardly heard the door of the restaurant shut behind him, as he tried to hail a cab to take him . . . He didn't know where. He wished in vain that he had Sherlock's ability. Sherlock was very particular with it, and ever so slightly careless and annoying. Would it have killed him to give him a location?

"So that's it?" Sarah called to him, from behind. He turned back to her, as the colour of her hair began to darken from the rain, and water and makeup trailed down her face. She looked seriously angry with him. "You're not even going to tell me what's so wrong that you couldn't possibly have finished our date?"
"It's Sherlock, he's . . . In a spot of bother," He called back, and she came closer so they didn't have to shout so loud over the heavy rain.
"How do you know?" He yelled, throwing her arms out to emphasise the question. She had a point: John cursed himself for not even pretending to look at his phone and fabricating a needy message from his flatmate before making his excuses.
"I got – a message," He countered, half-truthfully. He hoped she hadn't noticed the fact he'd neglected his mobile.
"But your phone was in your pocket the whole time!" Damn.
"It's complicated!" He told her exasperatedly.
"Are you a telepath?"
"I – what . . ."

The curveball felt physical, as if it had hit him in the chest at one hundred miles an hour. He looked her in the eye, and he saw a wave of realisation spread across her face. He must have a lousy poker face, but why would any sane person guess at that, almost immediately?

"No, that's – why would you-" He spluttered.
"So he's a telepath, then? – Sherlock?" She called back, her clothes getting progressively wetter as their surreal argument continued.

John was dumbstruck as Sarah hailed a cab effortlessly. He just stared, his mouth agape, as he hurried into the car. He wondered awkwardly whether she wanted him to join her, but her beckoning thankfully cut short his moment of uncertainty. He clambered in behind her.
She stared at him expectantly, and indicated the taxi driver. He snapped out of his amazed reverie and unbroken gaze at her to mumble: "Um, Baker Street – for now," He clarified the last part to Sarah alone.

They set off, and he didn't know what to ask first.

"How do – how did-" He paused, collecting himself. So many questions! He wondered if his myriad thoughts reflected just a fraction of what it was like to be in Sherlock's head at any given moment – in addition to these, the thoughts of others, flitting and flying about like bees around a hive – "What gave us away?"
She sighed, and shrugged in a non-committal way that oddly seemed to be befitting of this peculiar situation.

"I had a maternal uncle. He's dead now, but he was a very clever man. A doctor. Always knew how to cheer me up – he was great. I didn't know until I was about five or six that it wasn't normal for adults to think words, and for them to appear on the paper automatically . . . A pretty rubbish power, in the grand scheme of things, but useful – when I found out it even was a power, my mind was blown!" She explained animatedly, turning to face him and gesticulating wildly. He was surprised at her energetic conversation: perhaps he'd found her favourite subject?

"So . . . It runs in your family?" John prompted, fascinated that there were people out there who knew what he was; that she knew people like him, but just didn't bother to make a big fuss about it. No media outlets being called, no police involvement, no capes and tights – just oh, I've got this crazy uncle, and he can do this thing . . .

"On the male side, yes. In some families it's the female side, but not the Smiths – my mum's maiden name – and I haven't been gifted, unfortunately . . . So Sherlock's – telepathic," She floundered for the word, as smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Yes – yes, he is. Pretty useful for a detective," John admitted. He rubbed his eyes.
"I never thought I'd find anyone who actually had something like that going on in their gene pool, outside my family," She marvelled, and stared out of the window for a second, sitting back and drinking her new discovery in. "Don't get me wrong, I researched it endlessly – I took an extra genetics module at Uni specifically for the purpose, but I never found anyone who'd even heard of this type of thing. I suppose I might've met someone like my uncle without knowing it, but now – a telepath . . ."

John shifted uncomfortably, wondering whether or not to tell her that she'd met not one, but two people of her uncle's persuasion.

"But you must have a pretty strong connection, to be able to hear him from across London?"
"I don't know. To be honest, I don't have anything to measure it in comparison with . . . But yeah, I'd say it was pretty strong – Thank you for not freaking out," He added, squeezing her shoulder. She snorted.
"Please! . . . It's amazing, seriously – And what about you? Did you get gifted?"
He liked that word. It made what he was sound less like an awful curse that blighted his existence.

He opened his mouth to answer, but his phone buzzed.
"Sherlock!" He exclaimed. Sarah's eyes widened, and she grasped his arm tightly. They exchanged a glance, and she nodded. He answered the call.

"Hello?"
"Dr. John H. Watson?" It was Sherlock's voice, but not his own. There was a hint of petulance and ever-so-slight protest. He was being forced to say the words, but he wasn't afraid. He found the entire situation rather pathetic – quite obviously, as well.
"If you were aiming for natural speech patterns, you missed," John told them. "I can tell these words aren't Sherlock's,"
"Yes, well, they do so love to be dramatic," Sherlock's sarcastic tones drawled. John swore he heard the safety on a gun being clicked off.

Sherlock, you're not me. You'll die. Just, be careful!

Sherlock sighed, audibly annoyed and sceptical.
"Alright, alright! Put it away! - Doctor John H. Watson-" He began again.
"Dr. Watson will do," John replied coldly. He wasn't playing games with Sherlock's safety, even if Sherlock was.
"Dr. Watson. We have spent a lot of time and money on trying to recruit you. Added to this, we have now lost our entire league because of your-" – Sherlock sighed at this point – "Idiotic companion. It is only fair to say now that you are a marked man. You are property of the Black Lotus. Give yourself up within the hour, or suffer the consequences. Your associate will die slowly and painfully, and his death will be on your hands. Do you understand?"
". . . I understand," John replied shortly. Sarah's brow furrowed in concern.
"The tramway – come alone, and unarmed, or your friend will die. One hour," Sherlock's bored monotone informed him from the other end of the line. A strangled noise . . . The line went dead.

The taxi pulled up outside Baker Street, though John hadn't noticed the journey whatsoever. He was brought back to reality by Sarah squeezing his arm again.
"What's going on? Is he alright?"
"For now," John told her flatly, and her mouth opened to say something, but she shut it once more, as they left the cab. John paid the driver, and they ascended the steps of 221B through the ever-present rain. Sherlock would probably have told him the correct term for the weather reflecting the mood, and yawned exaggeratedly at how clichéd it was that it should be raining.

As soon as John had opened the door, they began to shuffle out of their wet coats, and John quickly explained the contents of the phone call, though it was painful to repeat the dire situation to Sarah. She was eager to help, though – which was useful, he supposed.
"This . . . Gang, have Sherlock. They're all people like – like Sherlock. They say I have to show up at the tramway in an hour, or they'll kill him," He elaborated bluntly.
"What do they want?" Sarah asked, perplexed and horrified.
"They want me," He responded in a low voice, only serving to confuse her more, but his dark brown eyes bore into hers as he told her, and silenced her. His sincerity scared her; this was serious.
"Why? – do they . . ." He composed herself, and spoke without faltering, interested only in the cold, hard truth: "Do they want to kill you?"
"No, no . . . Something much worse,"

Before Sarah could inquire what this was, Mrs. Hudson's door opened, and out came the old lady, dressed in a purple to match her sweet lavender scent. She was beaming, though her brow was creased slightly:
"Oh, John, dear! You didn't tell me you were having a dinner party?"
John went to reply, and then stopped. Of all the things she could have asked . . .
"I – I'm n-"

He caught himself, as a gang of about fifteen or so people appeared behind her front door, each clutching a steaming cup of tea in one of Mrs. Hudson's floral-and-white china cups; each sopping wet from the rain and looking pretty sorry for themselves. He'd never seen any of them before in his life. He decided to show them up anyway: tonight couldn't get any weirder. He decided, though, that Mrs. Hudson truly was a saint for looking after all of them while he was out. He spied several familiar blankets adorning the band of strangers.

"-I mean, I'm not particularly well dressed. Sorry, guys. Come upstairs, all of you!" He replied, and Sarah played along, smiling sweetly as they all trundled upstairs, entering his flat and jostling for space. He looked at Sarah, and her face questioned what was going on, but all he could do was shrug, and retrieve some more towels for the crowd from the airing cupboard.

They were men and women of all races, aged between about sixteen at the youngest to fifty at the eldest. Each had the same smell of decay and sweat about them, but it was muted by the petrichor smell of rain, emanating from the flecks of mud on them. They were thin, most of them, and showed signs of struggles in most cases.

John had a sneaking suspicion as to who they were, even though he'd never met any of them before. A woman pushed herself towards the front – ah. This one he recognised:
At the forefront, with a cheeky grin and a face that said 'Care for some backup?'
"Anthea . . .?"
"The very same," She replied mildly, inspecting her nails and changing the colour. Sarah's eyes widened perceptibly, and John spared her a quick smile before he turned back to the pesky MI5 agent.
"Who're all these people?" He demanded.

She smiled, and turned to face the crowd, her hand showing each of them in a dramatic, sweeping motion.
"Dr. Watson, Dr. Sawyer-" – Of course she knew who Sarah was – "May I introduce you to the gifted league. I thought this the safest place to bring them, for the time being,"

John slumped himself against the wall next to the door, and crossed his arms.
". . . Wow," He muttered, shaking his head and widening his eyes. God, he was tired. But his hand was totally still.
"You mean, all these people-?" Sarah began.
"Are like your Uncle. Yes, Dr. Sawyer," Replied Anthea curtly, looking the other woman up and down in a cursory assessment of her.
"How did you know about that?" Sarah snapped, but John intervened. Anthea raised her eyebrows at the other woman, as he quickly summarised:
"She works for the British Government. Sherlock's brother," He clarified: "MI5,"
"Oh, of course she does," Sarah said scathingly, her tone sarcastic but typically stiff-upper-lipped.

John puffed his cheeks out, and looked at the entire room full of people: a few had ventured into the kitchen in search of food, but had come across only gone off milk and botched experiments of Sherlock's.

"This is . . . " Sarah began honestly, shaking her head and smiling in sheer disbelief, as another wave of what she might have called reality, but didn't have the heart to, washed over her:
"This is the weirdest first date I have ever been on,"

Sneering, he stared down the barrel of a loaded gun. He did so hate when they insisted on being boring enough to use guns. No innovation involved; no mystery. That, plus they hadn't even worked out that he was a psychic yet. For a gang who worked with the genetically well endowed, they had an astronomical lack of self-awareness. Ignorance of this calibre could probably be seen from space.
Hmm. Perhaps if they weren't in a tramway, in a tunnel, in stormy, cloud-besotted London.

"Your friend has ten minutes, Mr. Holmes," The stout Chinese woman who appeared to be their leader informed him, her gun centimetres from his face – but by coincidence, not design. Really, if they insisted on firearms, they needed to watch where they pointed them. Their only bargaining chip might not work so well if it was missing a substantial amount of grey matter and the back of its skull he thought wryly.

He tested the handcuffs slowly, trying not to draw attention to his hands. He'd made a habit of moving them periodically, pretending to shifting himself to get comfortable: this way, when he eventually made the move to break out, they wouldn't suspect a thing at first – thus, he would have bought himself precious seconds of time.

These were the type he had, as a child, learned how to escape from. Now his hands were larger, it was still a small feat to escape from them – but one he hoped he could manage. The brand wasn't of a high quality, and they'd been foolish enough to lock them behind his back, where they could scarcely see them. But he wouldn't escape. Not yet – and not least because of that area of blackness that was just that little bit blacker than the rest. The Shadow in the dark.

The metal folding chair was very uncomfortable. He'd awoken on it, with the most awful neck cramp, after what he estimated was ten or so minutes. That's when they'd made him do that ever-so-overly-dramatic phone call. He'd actually requested that John be given less time to come and volunteer himself, simply because this chair was so bloody uncomfortable and he was so very bored. He crossed his legs, shuffling to gain purchase on the ever-so-slightly slippery material. He sighed: she was still looking at him somewhat expectantly, as if for some sort of rise or reaction.

Instead, what she got was a smile: wide-eyed, as disconcerting as possible, closed-lipped; his head cocked to one side. Her smug expression faded slowly, as his eyes followed her for longer and longer, never breaking contact. Sherlock Holmes was good at not blinking.

She turned away, and said something to the Shadow in Chinese. She was asking if he had the entrance ready to cover, once John arrived. Once in here, they planned to block the only exit (the other end of the tunnel that was located behind Sherlock was blocked off and impassable). Sherlock knew as much from staring continuously at it, letting his eyes take the full thirty minutes he'd been sitting still to adjust to the darkness: he saw the wall at the other end, in the distance, after a while.

After the same while, they'd turned him around, to face the entrance: they thought he was figuring out a way to escape through the wall, probably. He couldn't understand them all too well. They were thinking in Chinese. He could gain a notional understanding of their thoughts, but nothing more. Still useful, but nothing too specific.

It wasn't for the first time that, with eight minutes left until John would be here, that Sherlock tried to read the Shadow's mind. Every time, he came up short: a shadow has no human thoughts. Or do they? I doubt it, but then again I doubt that the parameters of the laws of physics are the same when dealing with someone who can literally cease to be human at will. He has thoughts. I just can't access them when he's like that.

But he – it – came closer. It said nothing; did nothing but move calmly, slowly, towards where he was forced to sit, just watching. He felt cold. Alone . . . Scared? – But why?

"What?" He questioned, a little aggressive. Of course it said nothing back. "It's no use trying to intimidate me. I've come close to death countless times. This is one of the poorer attempts for my life," He hissed into the black air. The darkness shrouded him, and he coughed and spluttered, as if it were acrid smoke from a wood burnt fire.

Shan, the general in charge of the operation, turned around from the notes she was making and barked something in Chinese at the Shadow. Sherlock's eyes watered, as his breathing returned to normal, the Shadow temporarily allowing him to live and ceasing the torture. It wasn't unlike simulated drowning.
But Sherlock didn't lose his bravado.

"You killed my friend at the museum yesterday, in cold blood. You didn't let him fight back," He said conversationally, but quietly enough for Shan not to hear. "You killed your sister to save your own skin, also in cold blood. She was a very smart woman," He whispered. ". . . Whereas you are a coward, and a dead man, Shadow. If it's not me who gets you, it'll be John . . . You'd better hope it's John, not me," He finished, very soft and gentle towards the end, which only served to add more malice to his words, as his silver eyes shone in the meagre light of the lanterns hanging from the now-empty storage containers.

He noticed from his peripheral vision that the slight patch of saturated darkness had moved behind him, and out of sight, unavailable to see even if he did want to look at it. He stared sincerely with steely resolve into black, and remained in this state for a few seconds; he then turned his head, looking towards the end of the tunnel, and trying to make out a silhouette.

He heard him before he saw him.

Knew you'd turn up.
How could I not? I don't want your blood on my hands. It'd stain my clothes.
Very drôle. Now, if you wouldn't mind enacting your heroic rescue. This chair is even less comfortable than it appears.
- They have you tied to a chair, then?
But of course. No imagination, this lot.
Are you hurt?
I'm fine.
Hmm. You're not a very good damsel in distress, are you?

Sherlock chuckled despite himself. Shan shot him a dirty look, but he ignored her, deciding to continue to unnerve her with his suddenly, apparently uncalled-for amused behaviour.

"What?" She demanded, but he didn't answer. Why bother? She persisted, and he ignored her again: "What?"

And you're not a very good rescuer.
I beg to differ. This is two daring rescues in, what – as many months? The cabbie, remember–
If you wouldn't mind – stop being so insufferable and help me. I presume you have a plan?
Why would you presume a thing like that?
You're joking.
Am I?
Yes. Don't be an idiot – I can read your mind, if you recall. Plus, you have the worst poker face I have ever seen.
But you can't even see me!
Just a figure of speech, obviously. Sometimes I wonder who is the most socially inept of the two of us.

"What are you laughing at?" Shan demanded, bringing her gun up again to his head, and pushing the muzzle to his forehead so it made a small, circular impression on his ghostly white skin. He rolled his eyes.
"Ask him yourself," Muttered Sherlock.

Alright, alright–! What's her name?
Shan. General Shan.

"Shan!" Bellowed an angry voice from the end of the corridor. The several henchmen either nursing wounds from being attacked by Anthea or Sherlock or busying themselves with something or other jumped in synchrony. Shan jumped, too – even Sherlock was a little alarmed.

"John Watson! How nice of you to join us," crooned Shan.
"Yeah, yeah – enough of the super-villain shit. And it's Doctor Watson to you, if you recall,"

Sherlock smirked in unashamed amusement. He wasn't going to bother hiding it from his captors, if they could even be called that. He shifted his hands, waiting for the opportune moment.

He saw the doctor's silhouette, marching purposefully, his arms swinging by his side in a very uniform manner. Once a soldier. . .

"I trust you have come to give yourself up in exchange for your friend's life?" Shan asked, indicating Sherlock with a gesture of her gun. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Again. At this rate, he was going to have to switch to sighing, just for a little variation in his I'm-so-bored social tropes.
"Yeah," John replied quietly. There was still underlying anger in his voice.

I trust this isn't the plan? Giving yourself up?
Just shut up and let me know when you're ready to duck.
To duck - ?
Shh!

Reluctantly, incredulously, Sherlock did just that. He busied himself with the handcuffs: this would take all of thirty seconds, if that.

John watched a point behind Sherlock's head, where he could tell the Shadow now resided. The great wisp of inky blackness came forward, by Shan's side, backing her up.
"Step this way, then, Dr. Watson," Shan said, as one of her companions opened a storage container for her. She smiled triumphantly, and it turned John's stomach, as he made his way into the dank, stinking container, turning around to face his enemies before they shut the door.

Now.

Sherlock threw himself to the ground, free of his bonds, and all of a sudden thought he had gone totally blind. There was a brilliant whiteness that flew above him, like interference with his vision from his own brain . . . No, no – that was an external source of light. Not only that, but – lightening. Indoor lightening. Impossible - at least, improbable . . . !

From his position, he saw Shan collapse to the floor, dead; her eyes, hollow and lacklustre, shone slightly back at him; her pupils and mouth were triplet 'O' shapes of blackness, forever cemented in shock. She was badly burned, her face blackened and – though it was probably just his mind playing tricks on him, because of all the shouting and blows making noise around him – he thought he could hear it sizzling quietly with the searing heat of a lightning bolt. Dead.

John ducked out of the container: the bolt had moved from behind the now-destroyed wall at the end of the tunnel, bounced off his container and onto Shan, eliminating the gang's leader, but also superheating the metal he'd been clutching onto up to white-hot temperatures for a brief moment. That bolt had been more than he'd bargained for when he'd instructed the woman responsible to throw it into the tunnel – hotter, even, than regular lightning.

He gasped with the pain of the burn, but fortunately he knew it wouldn't linger. He'd had worse, he thought, as he looked at his red-raw, partially-blackened hands in the light of a nearby lamp. He couldn't waste any time though: the lightning had been a good way of getting rid of Shan, but the main reason was that the sheer intensity of it would force the Shadow back into physical form.

John peered out, exposing none of himself to the skirmish that was going on outside. The gifted league had poured in through the hole made in the wall by the woman, a housewife named Megan, who'd conjured the lightning bolt that destroyed it, and were engaging the Black Lotus in hand-to-hand combat. If John hadn't been so sure he'd win, he'd never have put them in danger like this: however, the Black Louts' hunger for powerful new members had worked against them: they'd only created a more powerful opposing force for themselves to fight.

Checkmate.

They were well and truly rebelling against their former captors now: knocking them out one by one. It was a festival of psychedelic lights, colours, heat, and myriad powers – he saw Sherlock on the floor, hands still on his head. He was unharmed aside from minor cuts on his face from his fall to the floor, thankfully. He stared up at the Shadow, who was stumbling, blinded by the light he'd just borne the full brunt of: he was human, for now! It appeared the light had had a poisoning effect on him, and he'd taken it badly.

But though John had brought his gun, given to him by Sherlock a while ago, his damaged hands fumbled uselessly with it. It hurt his flayed palms to close around the weapon, and he didn't yet even have enough mobility to pull the trigger – let alone aim at the same 'd told the others to leave the Shadow to him, as well – if he could only heal in time - !

He did what he could, knocking out a few of the now seemingly infinite number of Shan's henchmen – more than they'd banked on, at least – and didn't hesitate when slashed in the face several times with sharp knives. Why was it always the face? He simply couldn't understand, but sighed in annoyance as he healed, still fighting, his enemies looking at him in fear and horror. He forgot that it hurt.

But still, the Shadow was recovering: he was even beginning to fight back, and John knew he had to do something, anything to get him now. But his hands were still inaccurate and clumsy from burn damage – he'd never be able to shoot the guy. He could punch him in the face, but all that'd earn him would be yet another death by suffocation.

Think, think!
I've been telling you to think for months. No, no – don't start now, just – stand back!

A crack; a yelp of anguish and agony. A loud bang – not the same as Anthea's nondescript, fully-silenced pistol's gunshot – ringing out through the tunnel and reverberating repeatedly. Simultaneously, white light came from the end of the tunnel, and blue flashing behind it. The cavalry had been called: the team had adhered to the plan, then – first secure Sherlock, and then call the police. He heard cries to remain still and put his hands in the air, as the last few members of the Black Lotus fled through the wall or were dispatched efficiently by John's ramshackle crew of former captives. John's soldiers. They all remained still after a few seconds, making sure to drop weapons if necessary.

Sherlock Holmes stood with his back to the light, in silhouette, still in the same position he'd shot the assassin from. John thought hysterically that he looked like a highwayman: indeed, there was something about a super-powered scuffle in an underground tunnel that had the daring and illegal feel of a robber at a roadside; a guerrilla resistance.

He wondered whether Sherlock had just been waiting so that it looked most dramatic when he finally took out the Shadow – his enemy; the murderer of his only friend (even if only for a short while). He'd stolen his gun from the fallen Shan, and had taken clear aim so that the bullet hadn't been deflected from the walls and into someone else.

He stood there, his coat swishing about him as he smirked, and withdrew the gun. He caught John looking, and even blew the muzzle for comic effect, before discarding the weapon haphazardly to the floor. John laughed, and so did Sherlock.

"So when you said, he's a bit different . . . That was a euphemism, after all?" Sarah piped up, coming from behind John and linking her arm with his. He'd only let her come with them because she'd confided in him that, actually, she was a black-belt in TKD.

The police blundered towards them, tasers held in front of them more in fear than confrontation. They weren't sure what they'd seen from far away, but it couldn't have been real . . . They focussed on casualties, weapons, and herding people into custody en masse – including John, Sarah and Sherlock. John looked for Anthea, but he didn't see her, and he wasn't surprised: she'd probably crept away, utilising her ability to avoid being questioned. He'd never met someone as slippery as her - well, at least not one who had the good of the country at heart.

He sniggered, as he was pulled alongside Sarah, by a police constable looking ecstatic to even be there, and handcuffed for now. He vaguely tuned into the sound of Sherlock protesting at being hauled into custody, asking snidely if they knew who he was.

He finally replied with a shrug, before they were dragged outside and separated: "Well, what can I say? He's just . . . He's Sherlock . . ."


AN: REMEMBER, let me know how dark you'd like the next one to be! Epilogue soon x