As Sherlock crept carefully up the stairs to the second floor landing, mind already having worked through the most likely choice of room and floor, he heard the shot go off. His world slowed for a moment, the sound causing a chill of horror to penetrate what he had thought was an impermeable wall of anger and determination. But that sound, that single loud detonation, might signal the end to something greater than he had ever known before, something even he had yet been able to define. And it shattered his perfect concentration and the cold distance he derived from the rage burning within. And so, no longer content to drift silently toward his goal, he finished the stairs and sprinted headlong, heedless of all else but his one purpose: John.

He rounded the last corner at a flat run, imagining he could still hear that shot, and feel it, within his chest as his heart beat frantically against the hurt that threatened to decimate his last defenses. He slid to a stop outside of his chosen location and, contrary to his desires, he lightly grasped the handle. Simultaneously, his other hand clenched the leather grip of the harpoon in anticipation. Taking a steadying breath, he pushed the door open soft as a whisper and glided into the room, becoming instantly hyperaware of his environment.

Immediate and obvious threats were presented first. It was dark but for one small lamp on a desk about fifteen feet inward. And there, perhaps another similar distance away from the desk and standing erect at the window, posed a strange man; or rather, the outline of one. He was mostly cast in silhouette and facing away from the detective, but enough of him remained visible for Sherlock to assess his person for potential dangers; how the clothes hung, the angle of his stance. Finding nothing acutely concerning other than several possible hidden knives, and noting the gun lying openly upon the single desk, he performed a secondary surveillance of the remainder of the room's attributes, eyes falling immediately on the only thing truly out of place in an unused office space. A large low-rimmed bin that contained….John…

"He's dead by now; so it's just the two us," the man said as he gazed down toward the street. He gestured vaguely behind him, "Feel free to check, but I am very good at what I do." Then he snorted and finished with, "Go ahead…you've got the rest of your life."

Sherlock was barely listening as he slid down to kneel beside the ice filled tub of water, harpoon dropping beside him with a clang. He plunged his arms underneath and wrapped them around, pulling John and his accompanying chair forth from the freezing liquid. He slid the ropes over the doctor's head, as they had loosened when part of the seat's back had broken with the impact of being thrown in there in the first place. He laid him out in as straight a manner as he could manage with his now trembling arms, eyes glancing every now and then to ascertain that the silhouette remained in place. His respirations increased as he felt just how cold John's skin was. He saw the entrance wound, just under the clavicle, midway. The water was red-tinged, but the wound was only barely leaking now…or at all.

And then everything locked in place for Sherlock. One moment in time suspended as he recognized something vital to life that was missing. His eyes sought the doctor's chest. He waited as the seconds stretched out before him. Nothing. Motionless. Desperate, he grabbed at the frigid wrist, fighting the panic welling up inside of him, drowning in its intensity. And he counted the seconds as his fingertips sought proof of life:

1…

2…

3…

4…

5…

6…

7…

8…

9…

And he felt, he felt…nothing. The arm fell from his fingers as his brain tried to deny the evidence presented before it. His mind was in complete disarray. Gunshot wound: barely bleeding. Skin temperature: below that necessary to support life. Respirations: Absent. Pulse: Absent. All signs pointed to…to… No. No! He was here! He had come! John-should-be-alive-and-tied-up-and-prepared-with-that-look-in-his-eyes-that-said-"I'm-ready-when-you-are"-and-they-should-tackle-this-together-and-get-congratulated-by-Mycroft-after-and-then-go-out-to-eat-and-return-to-the-flat-to-laugh-about-it-over-tea-and-Mrs.-Hudson's-biscuits-and-cake-and-she-would-fret-over-being-woken-at-such-an-hour-but-she-would-dote-over-them-both-while-she-listened-to-them-talk-and-shake-her-head-and-then-he-and-John-would-look-at-each-other-with-that-understanding-and-spark-that-bespoke-a-connection-deeper-than-any-other-that-Sherlock-had-ever-known-and-he-had-heard-someone-remark-once-upon-best-friends-who-turned-out-to-be-soulmates-and-he-had-thought-it-ignorant-and-infantile-but-now-he-wanted-nothing-more-than-to-spend-the-rest-of-his-life-with-that-wonderful-feeling-of-completion-that-came-when-John-was-by-his-side-and-in-his-life-but-now-that-couldn't-happen-because-he-was-too-late-too-late-too-late-TOO-LATE!

The man had turned to face him finally, a smirk barely evident upon his shadowed features. He squinted a bit at having been facing out into the moonlight and now into the darker office space. He cleared his throat, thrilled to finally address the audience he had waited for, his words carefully chosen for their potential emotional damage. "My name is Sebas-Oomph!" he grunted as Sherlock Holmes crashed into him bodily, carrying them both to the floor. Breath whooshed further out of Sebastian as they landed. The detective's hands closed around the assassin's throat, and he began pounding his head into the tiles. Sebastian was a better trained fighter than to let surprise completely defeat him, however, and he broke the hold using both arms up and through and then twisting his larger torso around, almost pinning Sherlock beneath him. But the other rolled away, coming to his feet in a crouch, and then ramming right back in with fists flying into Sebastian's face, throat, and kidneys. The only true protection the larger man had from the repeated blows was his added muscle mass that somewhat dulled them.

Sherlock's mind was in a vicious fog of hate as he threw himself into attack after attack. He may have lacked the mass of the other man, but his training in open-handed combat was far from inferior, actions and reactions playing out in his mind seconds before he completed them, making his attacks seem to flow together as fluidly as a practiced dancer. Right jab: connect to left cheek. His left, swinging in low: a feint to get closer. Catch left arm by elbow and force upwards creating satisfying yelp. Left hook to right eye: his vision obscured momentarily. Right chop to neck: slight choking noise emitted. Follow quickly with triple jab to nose and chin: end with upper cut from right. Grasp head between hands and pull down: knee to abdomen: repeatedly. Deflect incoming left, right, right crosses: damn, missed one, ouch: delete pain. Duck overhand swipe and twist away to avoid further close-grappling with larger opponent. Feint left kick, follow with right hover-kick to side of head: adequate delivery, repeat when possible. Drop low to sweep leg into knees: target on floor, but up again quickly. Catch him as he bullies in, arms around his neck: twist and throw down to ground, stomp on inner thigh/groin. Attempt same with knee-cap: he rolled, damn. Left kick to right shoulder as he attempts to regain his stance: not quite as effective as hoped: need a more central point of impact. A roundhouse kick to the sternum threw the assassin back a few paces and had him gasping momentarily before barreling back in, grabbing the detective in an arm locking grapple. They crashed into the wall, and Sebastian's hold loosened a bit when they hit, which was enough for Sherlock to wriggle free and drive the heel of his hand into an exposed nose, the crunch audible. He pushed Sherlock away, sending him tumbling over by the tub and John.

Sherlock clambered to his feet as he felt something whish by his throat, ending in a thonk behind him. He spared a quick glance and saw the knife stuck halfway to the hilt in the wall. "Warning shot," the assassin grinned, blood running down from his nose and onto his chest. He seemed quite unsteady, the detective's repeated impacts finally wearing the larger man down and forcing him to resort to alternative weaponry. The next knife came up from his waist and Sherlock dove to the side, feeling his coat pull as the blade went through. He landed in a roll and came up with the harpoon in hand. His eyes could have burned the solar system for all the fires they held within as he faced this man. John's murderer.

The detective noted the moment when the man's other hand began its path towards the next blade, choosing his timing carefully. He tucked the harpoon under his arm as he began his run, grabbed tightly with both hands on the leather grip, and collided forcefully into the assassin before he could work the next knife into position. They slammed into the wall and each other, hard. And they remained there for a moment, face to face and eye to eye, as if each was measuring the other's determination to die, the resolve to do whatever it takes.

Sherlock was the first to step away, wincing as he did from a deep gash to his shoulder. The knife fell away from Moran's hand where he had brought it up high to throw, clattering to the floor. The detective observed Moran, clinically analyzing the results of his final assault, eyeing the precise angle at which the harpoon entered the bottom of the large rib cage and then into the wall behind him, pinning him up. Still alive, if barely, the madman grinned, bloody froth forming around his teeth. He attempted to whisper, but it was more a gurgle, "Still…got…'im…Final…problem…Jimmm..."

The detective eyed him coldly and analyzed his options. Strangle? Too classic. Shoot? Too boring. Drown? Too easy. Stab? Not good enough! Exsanguinate? Too painless! His mind ran over and over the possibilities. But then he had his answer, everything falling into place within his mind palace and coming forth for his approval. He took a step to close the distance he had put between them, watching the assassin's fingers twitch at his proximity, and he grasped the handle of the reverse-pronged harpoon. He leaned in close to the man's face and whispered, "This…will hurt." And he pulled back a bit to smile eerily into the face of his best friend's killer. Then he put all of his wiry power into dragging the harpoon a bit more sideways through the wall before yanking straight back, all in one tremendous feat of strength born of adrenaline, hatred, and pain. The result of which caught the wiring for the light switch on the end of the metal prongs and pulled them straight into Moran's chest cavity. He grunted and shook as the voltage crackled through his weakened form.

But he embraced death somewhat quickly soon after that shock of additional trauma to his body. And Sherlock then heaved the harpoon fully free from it, allowing the dead man to fall in a heap. He had no more attention to spare for this one, though, as his heart cried out for only one thing…but that thing was gone. Left in its place behind him was an empty shell, once abounding with life. Now…vacant. It was to this vacant shell that Sherlock Holmes relocated himself, and sat by, and cried by, ignoring the wound to his shoulder in favor of the other, deeper one within his heart. Carefully, he removed his long coat and draped it gently over John's lifeless form.

His phone buzzed as he sat staring despondently at his best friend. It was Mycroft, informing him that paramedics and MI6 would be there within five minutes. So he should just hold on. Hold on. But to what? He responded to his brother quickly: Finished –SH. And the phone fell from his fingers. He had nothing to ground him now. Nothing to secure his overburdened mind to. His thoughts were desperate, hysterical, and near-crazed in their force. John, lying there, so cold, pale, and still. His blood…his blood…he reached out a shaking hand and touched it to the seeping crimson ribbon. He pulled his hand back at the strangeness of it, rubbing it between his fingers. Slick, and though warmer than the external temperature, still far too cold to do anything but confirm his nightmare. He brought the blood-stained fingers to his lips, touching them there as his eyes slid closed, and he tried to remember how to breathe.

When his eyes opened again seconds later, they were focused above John's body. Past it, to where Moran lay. And Sherlock's brain flatlined at seeing the cause of his world's end. A red haze brought up the rear of that void and began to fill out his insides with an anger so potent it could be bottled and sold as the Devil's tears. He stood, eyes locked onto the murderer, the filth, that afflicted this room's tiled floor. He crossed to stand over the assassin's corpse, and then bent to pick up the harpoon, running his hands over it as if he held a lover's curves. He licked a bit of John's blood from his lips as the soul fled his eyes in fear of what was replacing it. He lifted the weapon…and brought it down, repeatedly.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The paramedics arrived first, seeing Sherlock, who promptly, and violently, waved them away. He was sitting on the ground beside John, knees drawn up to his chest. One took a few steps toward Moran, stopped, and then decided nothing further was needed, making a hasty retreat. The two who knelt beside John heard Sherlock's whisper of, "He's gone," but ignored him, making him sick inside to watch as John's body was shifted around like a rag doll. His own heart seemed to have stopped, ceasing the pulse of life within him. A stretcher arrived outside of the hallway, and Sherlock could hear additional personnel coming up. He lowered his head between his knees, trying desperately to hold on to what little sanity he had remaining. And then he heard, lightly intrusive at first, but gaining clarity, "..is 30.2 degrees Celsius. Respirations agonal, almost nonexistent; maybe 4-5 per minute and shallow. Grab the ambu and bag him for me, Clark. Pulse is running about 20-30 bpm. Severe bradycardia. Have the pacer and defib ready in case, but let's see if a bit of warming will bring it up first. And Scot, get those damned wet clothes off of him." There was a pause, and Sherlock's head snapped up as the medic finished, "Leave the coat over him, though. It's thicker than the blankets we have, so we'll just pile those on top."

The first beat of Sherlock's restarted heart was the most excruciatingly painful ka-thump he had ever experienced. It felt as though liquefied shards of glass had been pumped through it. And oh, it felt so good! His mind suddenly worked again, and it trailed down through its acquired knowledge, things overlooked before due to his extreme emotional state: Hypothermia 101- subject may present with profound bradycardia, and distal pulses may be diminished and possibly not palpable at all. Adequate cardiac assessment should involve pulse checks at proximal locations, such as the carotid or femoral arteries instead, and should be taken over a minimum of 30 seconds to ensure pulselessness under these conditions. Respirations may be exhibit bradypnea, agonal breaths, or absence. Treatment depends on degree of presenting hypothermia and length of time spent in that condition.

He looked to John, so still and pale, now connected with electrodes and wires, and an ambu mask assisting his breathing held firmly in place over his mouth and nose. And there, on the monitor, the peak and trough of a very slow, but very life-confirming, cardiac rhythm. He crawled closer, extending his hand out and taking the other's chill one in it as they began to lift the doctor onto the stretcher. He smiled, tremulously, fragile, but still there. The one directing the resuscitation activities turned to quickly give him a list of details of what they were doing, where they were taking him; but Sherlock heard only parts. Still gonna be close. Race against warming versus re-bleeding when circulation returns. The facts were absorbed, but just not understood at the moment. All he could focus on was John. John. Alive. Barely…but that kept his own heart beating for now.