Footsteps. The signature of Sherlock's stride scrawled itself in echoes down the warehouse walls and blotted relief in John's heart. His muscles relaxed and he breathed. He was here. He had come. John then felt foolish for feeling the extent of such relief – of course Sherlock would come, he had known it all along; but even still, feeling his presence was akin to safety itself.

The detective appeared out of the darkness, clad as always in his trench coat and scarf, hands in his pockets, and stopped twenty metres away. A wild tenacity glinted behind Sherlock's eyes that was tinted by a sinister edge. Kitty Stapleton smiled a cool smile that the detective saw right through: she was frightened. She had gotten herself tangled into an intricate personal web that she had not anticipated to be so sensitive; true, she had hit Sherlock to the core, and that was what unnerved her. The steely threat pierced her from the detective's glacial stare and she suddenly felt vulnerable. His look was penetrating and she wondered how much of her he could read. Even still, her stance at John's side did not waver.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's face and the flash of a glance told him all he needed to know. John was full of anxiety, fear and frustration, but all his attention was on the man before him. Not an inch of concentration was given to the gun that had appeared at his temple – he was worried for Sherlock and Sherlock alone. John was well aware how tense his partner was and how rash that could make him become.

'Evening,' said Sherlock, his deep voice revealing no emotion.

'I'm glad you could make it,' Kitty replied in her alluring tone. 'You were quicker than I anticipated but, well, I have been told not to underestimate you.'

'Good. Let us skip the mindless conversation, please, I am rather in a hurry.'

'Oh, but why?' Kitty pouted. 'It's such a pleasure to finally see you in the flesh, I don't want to waste it.'

'Is he here, or not?' Sherlock inquired, and the edge in the question told her he was not interested in idle conversational games.

'Who?'

'Don't play stupid.'

'I'm afraid he couldn't make it,' she snapped. 'Moriarty is a busy man, of course.'

'And what interest has he in you?' Sherlock eyed her with disdain and John couldn't help the smirk that twitched up his lip. 'Murdering a medium-profile businessman isn't exactly remarkable.'

'Well, between you and I, I think he likes me,' she grinned.

Sherlock snorted and began walking forward, stopping ten metres away.

'You're utterly delusional,' he told her bitterly, his lip curling in disgust.

And then Sherlock froze as an all-too-familiar voice rang out in response to his remark.

'But she is quite a looker, don't you think?'

Jim Moriarty twirled on his heel into the light from behind a shipping crate, hands in his pockets, with a smug smile on his face as though he was a long-awaited celebrity appeasing a gaggle of fans.

'Surprise!' he sang into the shocked silence. 'I told you at our last meeting that I was considering a live-in like your doctor here, but now I see that it's all just a big waste of time.' Moriarty stopped and surveyed Sherlock with a look of deepest disappointment, like a father catching his son doing something unlawful. 'Look at you, Sherlock, so involved. And here you had me thinking we were something alike.'

'Sorry to disappoint you,' Sherlock said evenly, his eyes fixed on Moriarty's big doleful ones.

'Getting rid of John, here.' Moriarty continued to stroll idly around where John was tied to the chair, looking him up and down with an attempt at mild interest. 'I would be doing you a favour, Sherlock. He's buried further into your head than I have! And how boring are human relationships, really? It's changed you.'

John looked from Moriarty to Sherlock and back again and realised that between them, all else was irrelevant. The room didn't matter, he didn't matter, Kitty didn't matter. They may as well have been standing in an empty white room for all they cared about was the other. The tension that bounced between the consulting criminal and detective was all but tangible; everything else around them seemed to shrink. The criminal extracted a shiny revolver from his waistcoat and twirled it nonchalantly in his fingers.

'I need you,' Moriarty said, in an almost loving tone. 'I need you to need me, because we're perfect for each other. And that's why I have to kill him.'

'No,' Sherlock commanded, and his voice suddenly rang out, echoing around the room.

He took a step forward and stood tall, dominant and powerful. Moriarty just shook his head in despair.

'No, no, no,' he groaned. 'Look at how desperate you are! I'm doing you a favour, Sherlock, us a favour!'

'Then why get Stapleton involved?' Sherlock asked swiftly. 'If not to be your partner.'

Moriarty tapped the gun against his bottom lip, frowning in thought.

'Good point,' he allowed, and before anyone could even blink, he raised the gun and shot the woman in the chest.

The ear-splitting gunshot echoed repeatedly around the room as Kitty fell back in a heap on the cold cement floor, her own gun clattering from her limp hand. John had yelled aloud in response and Sherlock's body froze stiff. Moriarty merely lowered his gun and tapped it against his leg as though for something to do.

'Just a pawn,' he murmured absently. 'A pretty one, though, am I right?'

A new level of desperation had lowered upon Sherlock. One death would precede another, and telling him that was the reason Kitty was now quietly bleeding on the floor.

'This is between us, as you said,' Sherlock enunciated clearly. 'John isn't involved, let him go and we can continue this – conversation.'

'But he's such a big part of it, you know? He's so pivotal, he's the reason you've become so boring! You don't care about me anymore.'

Moriarty pouted like a child.

'Let him go,' said Sherlock. 'You want me dead, let John go.'

'I never said I wanted you dead, no you're no fun when you're not around.' Moriarty rolled his eyes theatrically as though this point was the most obvious thing in the world. 'I said I wanted to burn you. Burn the –'

'The heart out of me,' Sherlock murmured, a look of dawning on his face. 'Of course.'

'Now we're all on the same page.'

'Take me,' Sherlock demanded, without a hint of hesitation. 'Let him leave, take me instead.'

'Sherlock,' John spoke up sharply. 'Sher- stop, stop it.'

'Isn't this sweet,' Moriarty droned in a morbidly amused way.

'I'm not leaving here without you,' John told the detective stubbornly.

'Oh, don't be ridiculous, John,' Sherlock dismissed.

'Not a chance.' John shook his head.

'John, I need you,' Sherlock said lowly. 'So, if you even think about getting yourself killed I'm afraid I will never forgive you.'

'I won't if you won't,' hissed John.

'Hello?' Moriarty cooed. 'I am still here, you know.'

'I know,' snapped both Sherlock and John, which only made Moriarty grin wider.

'Okay, okay,' Moriarty insisted, raising his hands in submission. 'Here, I'll play nice and give you lovebirds a moment to hug or hold hands or whatever it is you do.'

He flicked out a knife and approached John. Sherlock took another step forward but Moriarty only cut John's bonds where he was tied to the chair.

'Play nice? You just shot that woman!' John protested in shock, massaging his wrists.

'Yeah, well she could have shot me if she really wanted,' Moriarty shrugged.

'A moment, please?' Sherlock insisted sharply.

Moriarty clicked his heels together, set his face and saluted before turning his back on them and strolling back towards the shipping container, twirling the revolver absently in his hand again as he did so.

As soon as Moriarty had turned away, John threw himself onto Sherlock, grabbing him fiercely around the middle and clutching him as though his life depended on it. Sherlock stood stock still for a fraction of a second before placing his arms in a protective cage around his doctor and enclosing him into his chest. The detective closed his eyes and pressed his lips to John's hair, feeling a heavy gratitude weigh down upon his chest.

'I won't let him hurt you,' Sherlock promised, his quiet voice muffled by John's blond locks.

'You have a plan, don't you?'

Sherlock leaned back to smile crookedly at John's anxious face.

'Your life is infinitely more precious than mine,' he assured the doctor. 'Of course I do.'

'What do we do?' John whispered.

'I have a gun.'

'If you pull it on Moriarty he'll just shoot me.'

'You misunderstand. You heard what he said but you didn't listen; think, John.'

John stared at him for a moment before resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder just to relish the touch of his lips against such a miraculous construction of human life, just for a moment.

'Oh, Christ,' he breathed, shaking his head.

'Your life is more precious than mine,' Sherlock repeated, slipping his hand into the inside pocket of his coat, feeling for the cool metal.

'Don't. Don't do it, give me your word that you won't,' John begged.

The doctor pressed his eyelids shut, tightly until little white lights popped in the darkness. His chest felt as though it had fallen away into a hollow, empty chasm of the deepest fear he had ever felt; then, he looked up into the spectacle of home, the vision of humanity, the definition of purpose, the face of Sherlock Holmes.

'Kiss me,' he said lowly.

Sherlock obeyed without a second thought and pressed his lips against John's, and all their unspoken love was made painfully clear. John put his fear to him and when they broke apart, Sherlock set his face and stepped in front of his doctor, holding the man behind him.

'I'm no fun when I'm not around,' Sherlock called to Moriarty, and the criminal immediately turned around to face them.

Time seemed to stop as both John and Moriarty watched Sherlock press the revolver to his temple and place his forefinger on the trigger.

'So, what will it be?' the detective inquired.