Everything Sherlock had been trying to plan was lost in his words. His jaw slackened, his brain went numb, he no longer could form a full sentence. He had to do something, though. Moriarty was turning his attention back to John but there was space between them. A small plan started to formulate, one that would solve most of the problems in the current equation, but he had to choose to go through with it.

"We have been regarded as freaks in this world, you and I. We need to show them that we're superior. Don't you want to be respected rather than looked down on?"

His sight moved to John who had been silent the entire time. He was trying to convey his words with his eyes. Sherlock could see that he looked more worried about him than himself. He wondered what he must've looked like to him. Pale and nervous, he was sure, maybe even a bit nauseous. He tried to show John that it was going to be okay but he wasn't quite as adept at expressing messages so subtly. If he picked up on it, he didn't show it.

"Yes, of course," he replied, turning back to Moriarty. "Why wouldn't I want that?"

"It's just another example of how similar we are."

"Similar but not the same."

"Not yet."

Moriarty was done with Sherlock at that point, he could see. His gun turned back to the doctor sitting helplessly in his hospital bed. John stared at Sherlock, his eyes telling him to go but he couldn't. He shook his head slightly in response leaving John looking sad and mildly disappointed. It didn't matter how he felt toward him, all that mattered is that he left the hospital alive. It was then that Moriarty smirked and Sherlock saw it. He had tightened his grip around the trigger ever so slightly and he knew that if he was going to make the choice he had to do it right then. The choice was all too easy to make. It was his turn to do the protecting.

He ran and slid along the slick, linoleum surface as the shot cracked through the air. He threw out his body to shield John and it jerked to a stand still as it completed its mission: stopping the bullet. The bullet ripped through him easily but didn't exit, most likely slowed down by the bone. The debris from the wound splattered John who looked on horrified. Sherlock fell to his knees, blood quickly soaking his shirt, but he had a smug grin on his face. He had won, he saved the man he loved, and no one could tell him otherwise.

"NO!" Moriarty raged.

"Sherlock!" John cried, reaching out for him but he fell just outside of his grasp.

He moved for him anyway, not caring that the sudden jerk caused his stitches to rip. He held him under his arms and dragged him halfway up on the bed, red liquid leaking through his own shirt. He brushed the curly locks from his friend's face as he visibly tried to fight off his tears.

"Sherlock, please don't die."

"This is really touching but not according to my plan," Moriarty snapped, looking furious. "If I don't get to have him then I'll still kill you while he's alive. He'll suffer for this."

He cocked the gun and aimed for John's head but John made no move to avoid it. Sherlock weakly tried to push him down but he wouldn't budge.

"John, please," he croaked.

"No," he said defiantly.

Sherlock's life poured out over John as they both waited patiently for death. He stared into John's eyes, wanting to tell him how he truly felt but couldn't. He felt weaker each second and it was hard for him to hold on. He was reaching out for John's hand when a shot sliced through the air and he flinched. He shut his eyes tightly and couldn't bring himself to look up and see him dead, his sanity wouldn't have been able to handle it, but he was surprised when he felt someone stroke his face with a shaky hand. He opened one eye and then the other. John was still alive.

There was another shot and then another and another. He could hear bodies drop heavily to the floor. He looked to Moriarty but he hadn't fired. In fact, he looked just as shocked. It didn't take him long to realize, however, that the shots weren't from his men because he was frantically scanning the room for an escape. All thoughts of killing John seemed vacant from his mind which caused Sherlock to relax a little. His thoughts grew fuzzy and it became hard for him to think coherently. He wasn't even clear enough to be startled when the door was kicked in and a small army marched into the room.

"James Moriarty, you're going to have to come with us!" The leader of the group shouted, pointing his weapon defensively at the man in the suit.

Moriarty was smart and wasn't about to bait them into getting himself shot. He held up his hands in surrender and the army men charged him, restraining him in handcuffs and almost knocking him over. He had an expression of pure anger and insanity that was directed at Sherlock and John, one of whom it barely registered for. He had a few last words before they pulled him away, though, and he wanted to make sure they hit home.

"I will make good on my plan," Moriarty hissed, struggling against his bonds to give him more time to talk. "Sherlock Holmes, if you live I will destroy you and if you don't I want you to die knowing that once I escape I will relish spilling the blood of John Watson by my own hand."

He was dragged out satisfied, knowing his words cracked through the haze of the dying man. Sherlock, having lost all color in his face, clutched Johns arm protectively. He was feeling very light headed as he turned his attention to the military force that still lingered at the doorway. It certainly wasn't the police, he concluded as someone pushed through the hoard. He was unsurprised to see it was Mycroft weaving his way into the room closely followed by Anthea.

"Of course it was you," Sherlock said, losing his grip on consciousness.

"You really need to learn to answer your phone," he said, looking at his little brother knowingly.

Mycroft hurried to Sherlock's aid, examining him for where the bullet struck. He pulled off his suit jacket and shirt with the help of John but looked very pale, most likely at what he saw.

"John, you're going to need to work your medical magic while I go and fetch some of the staff held captive upstairs."

"Yeah, okay," John replied nervously, looking around the room to see what he had to work with.

He looked to Anthea who nodded and the two rushed out of the room. Sherlock was sweating, feeling cold and hot at the same time, and his breaths became quick and shallow. John pulled him all the way onto the bed and started to clean away the blood. He was unable to move very fast because the pain was debilitating and he was still losing blood himself. Just as John appeared over him holding an IV needle he slipped into darkness.