'Excuse me?'

'Don't play games, Mr Watson. I know you know Mr Moriarty.'

'I don't know him. He's tried to kill people I care about a few times, but I don't know him.'

The sharp smack of hand on cheek.

'Tell me.'

'I don't know anything about him except these he's A) A psychopath and B) A psychopath. He forced my friend to fake his own death, blew up an old woman and is a psychopath.'

'You work with him, no?'

'What? NO. What the hell do you want with him?'

John's shoulder was aching dully, never getting worse but never ceasing. He tried to adjust his position. No such luck.

'Why should I tell you?'

'He's obviously been a naughty boy. What did he do?'

'He.. he, killed somebody close to me, somebody I cared about.'

'He's killed a lot of people who are cared about. Not all of them torture people for information.'

'He goes unnoticed. He is a snake.'

'Wrong. He's a spider.'

#####

'Any news?' Sherlock swept into Mycroft's office with a take-away coffee.

'Nothing as of yet. I'm expecting a report soon.'

'Are your men completely insolent?'

'They're not my men.'

Sherlock scowled, pulling the lid from his cardboard cup. 'Ugh, Kenco.' Mycroft smiled wryly, running his fingers across the edge of his desk.

Three rings.

'Holmes.' Mycroft nodded. 'Mmmhm. Mmm. Mmhm. Right. Where? Okay. Thank you.'

Sherlock looked up from his coffee. 'Who was that?'

'MI5. They've traced the van using traffic cameras. It headed north, Fifty Five Ryeman Park. A disused industrial estate. Ghastly place. They're sending their men. I'll call for a car.'

#####

John felt sick. He needed to go to hospital, the 'doctor' who'd fixed him up had done a slack job, he could tell. His body ached, he was covered in blood and he was so tired.

'Moriarty is dead. He killed himself. Put a gun in his mouth and boom. Bye bye birdy.'

'Don't lie to me.' Asan snarled, sliding his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small knife with a long, thin blade. John closed his eyes as he felt the smooth coldness of the blade teasing at his neck.

Sherlock.

He kept his eyes shut. Tight shut. His breathing was coming in quick bursts, his heart almsot beating out of his chest. He heard movement. He prepared for the worst, for the blade to trace a delicate line across his throat. For the white-hot pain that would follow. Instead, there was nothing. He daren't open his eyes. He took a breath, sent a silent message to Sherlock and then exhaled slowly.

He didn' even open his eyes when a gunshot reverberated heavily around the round. He didn't feel any pain, it couldn't have been meant for him. But there was only Mr Asan in the room. He opened his eyes.

Mycroft Holmes was standing in the doorway, cliché hero style, about six MI5 agents behind him.

John looked at Mr Asan, he wasn't dead, but he would be soon.

'Let's get you to a hospital, Doctor Watson.'