A/N: So we had an earthquake the other day. It was actually the largest recorded in the state. I was sitting in my living room with dad and I was like 'WTF?' and he was like 'it's an earthquake'. I'm a complete seismology nerd, so I was over the moon when I felt it. I could ramble on for hours about the specifics, so I'm just gonna do all of us a favor and stop talking. :) I don't know how I keep forgetting to say this (oh, wait, because the poles will reverse before I do) but I still don't own Sherlock, or anything connected with it. If I did there would be more than three episodes. Like say thirty. Once again, my great thanks to everyone who reviewed and the rest of you should take the hint…

"Fourteen hours." Sherlock burst into John's thought process almost as he was having it, startling the doctor.

"Sorry?"

"Fourteen hours. That's how much time we have left. Do you have your gun?" John didn't even stop to question how Sherlock knew he'd been trying to figure out how much time was on the clock; by now he had learned to just roll with it.

"I've got it. If- when we do find her, how are we going to get her out? Moriarty's not going to just let us walk out of there without a fight." Sherlock glanced at him.

"Why do you think I asked if you had your gun?"

Moriarty paced the room. He wasn't usually the pacing type, but he could make exceptions. He wasn't nervous; at least, that's what he told himself. He was supremely confident in his abilities, up to and far past the point of arrogance. The fact that both men had lived through the pool didn't weigh on his mind; he considered that pure chance, luck on the part of that blasted consulting detective. Moriarty would've offered Sherlock the chance to work with him, before he decided to blow him up, but it was just so much more fun to leave him as an enemy. He turned to face Anna, who was now completely unconscious and barely breathing. Oh, he would enjoy it if Sherlock were to lose.

John had great faith in Sherlock's abilities, having seen them in action more times than he could count, but as always before a potential resolution, he was nervous. For all he had seen Sherlock crack problems whole governments couldn't, he was also vividly aware of the times when the detective had screwed up, or walked into a trap. In spite of his best efforts to repress them, thoughts of the pool flashed through his mind; he felt almost guilty at the association. Sherlock had done his best, but even he couldn't see the ending when someone else held the cards. Luck and skill, not foresight, had saved them that day. He shifted in the back of the car, attempting to dispel his worries. The potential gaping holes in their assumption about the building they were looking for was the first worry that sprung to mind.

"Sherlock, how do you know he didn't rent a building, or that he's commandeering one?" he asked. Sherlock gave him the briefest of glances before he looked back out the window.

"Because no buildings have been bought or leased in the past year along the riverfront."

"But how do you know he didn't just plan in advance for this 'game' too?"

"He didn't. He wasn't expecting us to survive the pool. He'd have no way to prepare in advance." John's breathing caught when Sherlock mentioned the pool; since that day, they'd studiously avoided any discussion of it by unspoken agreement. He glanced over at Sherlock, who he could tell was deliberately avoiding meeting his gaze. The air between them seemed to stiffen, and finally John decided to break the silence. It was time to get that out of both their systems; they needed to just face up and talk about it or they risked creating bad blood.

"Look, you know that it wasn't your fault what happened." John told him, cutting the younger man off as he attempted an indignant reply. "I may not be you, but I'm not blind, you know. It bothered you, nearly dying like that, and you know that Moriarty will do his damndest to use that against you." Sherlock's pre-prepared curt response was silenced by the intensity in John's voice. What he said was true; both of them had been more than lucky to survive, and though he'd never admit it (hardly even to himself) Sherlock had felt a distinct sense of guilt over it. Logically, he knew it made less than no sense to blame himself for all that had gone wrong. There was no way he could have predicted what Moriarty would have done, not when the man had set it up so that he was five steps ahead no matter the play, and with the exception of the old woman and those around her he had managed to rescue every hostage. But logic was not enough. Much as he claimed to be a sociopath, it wasn't true, and the emotions he hid from the world had turned on him after the pool, telling him that despite what logic said it was his fault; John had nearly died because of him. The distance had grown between the two men, and despite John's best efforts, Sherlock hadn't opened up any since then. He debated with himself for a moment, and then decided to throw caution to the winds; John wasn't going to let the matter pass this time, so he may as well be honest about it.

"It wasn't that," he told him. John looked at him, thoroughly surprised he'd actually replied.

"It wasn't what?"

"It wasn't nearly dying that bothered me; I could care less about that." Sherlock continued staring out the window, concentrating on keeping his voice as blank as possible. John looked confused, but not entirely surprised.

"So what was it that got to you so much? You practically stopped talking to me for a month." Sherlock laughed shortly.

"Do you really want to know? It's partly my pride; he won and I lost."

"Do we look dead to you? Because I don't think we do. We won just by living through it, and I guarantee you that's getting under his skin as much as it got under yours. What was the other part?" Sherlock considered his response carefully, trying to convey the issue. Before John came along, there were maybe one or two people not related to him that Sherlock had ever cared for. And neither of those previous people had ever been put in life-threatening danger because of him. Well, even that wasn't entirely true. He breathed in deeply and took the full plunge.

"It was because of you," he said. "If it had just been me, if you hadn't been there, I wouldn't have been bothered. But you were in danger, and…" He trailed off, lost for words to articulate his feelings. John seemed to get the gist of it, however.

"I've been in danger before, you know," he responded gently. "That was nothing new."

"I know. I know you were in a lot of danger before that, but that was different; I was the one who put you in danger that time. I do care about you; you're my friend, and I nearly got you killed. If it wasn't for you, we both would have died, and if it wasn't for me we'd never have gotten to that point." Sherlock fell silent, and John sighed.

"I care about you too. And yes, what happened was a massive pile-up of disasters, but there was no way in hell you could have stopped any of it. Moriarty had his plan all along, and it would have ended up how it did one way or another; you know that. None of this was your fault. We did not nearly die because of you. We nearly died because of him, and we survived because you could think quickly enough to come up with quite possibly the stupidest plan ever devised." John smiled at the end, trying to get his point across and break the repressed atmosphere. It seemed to work. Sherlock gave him just the slightest grin, and the stiff tension in the air faded. John breathed an internal sigh of relief, some of the stress leaving him. All of that stress shot back into home, however, at the next words that reached his ears.

"We're here. Time to go."

The north bank of the river Thames might possibly have been the most unpleasant spot on earth. At least, the part they were searching might well have been. It made sense; the nastier an area was, the less people who would go there for any reason. The desertion and disrepair made for a good hiding place. And, John couldn't deny, it certainly helped when one was trying not to be spotted. No one to sound the alarm, and lots of random, abandoned junk to get cover behind. He felt glad for the familiar weight of the handgun in his jacket. He knew good and well how to use it, and after his last encounter with Moriarty, his trigger finger was itching for the chance.

The first five of the dozen buildings marked off were well and truly abandoned; obviously no one had been using any of them for years. John began to dismay as each one struck out. With the extra need for secrecy and the muddy, tangled nature of the terrain, they were now down to just under half a day; if Anna were to survive at all, and without any serious health problems, they would have to find her soon. Each minute they spent checking a false lead was a minute closer to her death, and their failure. Six and seven provided no leads either, but as they crept up to the eighth building, a small warehouse with a tattered roof, Sherlock's hand shot out like a rocket, stopping John in his tracks.

"Is this it?" John whispered, reaching for his gun. Sherlock looked at him and mouthed 'maybe'. He gestured to the muddy ground.

"Footprints," he whispered. "Recent, too. Somebody's been here within the last two days, more than one person. No sign of them leaving."

"I wish we could be a little more certain."

"Yes, but we're rapidly running out of time. Do you have your gun out?" He glanced at John, who nodded in confirmation. He pulled his weapon out and the two men made their way up to the warehouse's outside wall. John breathed in deeply and slowly, mentally preparing himself for the siege. It was all or nothing now. He looked at Sherlock, waiting for the other man's sign. Sherlock nodded once shortly, then swung around and pulled open the door. John covered him and followed as he went in. The moment they were in the door the shooting started.