Chapter Twenty-Four

July 18th

Two things:

Firstly, swissmiss is amazing for all her work with this and for helping me to rework this as it was written almost a year ago and I couldn't distangle it - very strange working with this as my writing has changed so much in a year.

Secondly, we are back to weekly updates after this on Mondays (or at least that's the intention!) But I'm so eager to get this one out because while the last chapter was a collapse of relief, this is the one I've had to hold back for ages ;-)

July 18th

Everything in John was focused on getting into the car. Just getting in without the Holmes brothers working everything out.

Greg glanced at him as they pulled out. "You okay?"

John nodded. "Yeah. He took the gun you leant me."

Greg changed gears almost violently. "You said he would," he said, flashing a look in the mirror as he pulled out to follow Mycroft's sleek car.

With a heavy sigh, John nodded. "Idiot," he muttered. "He's crap with guns."

Greg snorted. "We weren't all trained in the army," he said, changing lanes.

John drummed his fingers on the door frame and shook his head. "He's the one charging off like it's the fucking Alamo." He turned back to Greg and studied him. "You bring it?"

Greg shifted, his discomfort at the situation clear. "Last resort, John. You promised."

John looked out the window and said nothing.

Harsh, stripping sunlight beat down upon them as they made their way to the training area of the camp.

"I saw you, the other day," Moran said conversationally as they walked. "You got a damned good eye, kid."

There was a part of John that bristled at the idea of being called 'kid', but he swallowed it back. "Yeah?" he asked, pleased at the idea that Moran, Moran of all people, had noticed.

"You need a bit of work," Moran added, stopping them at the edge of the range. "You already practiced here?"

John nodded. "Eighty percent hit rate," he said with some pride.

Moran winced. "Come and see me when it's a hundred."

They all pulled up, the squad cars in front, Mycroft's people behind, in a cacophony of sirens and tires screeching. A few stray passers-by had caught a glimpse of something on the roof and were pointing from beyond the police lines.

Greg stopped the car and rested his hands on the steering wheel. John listened to the ticking of the engine as it wound to a halt.

"Are you sure?" Greg asked, his head angling to look out through the windscreen.

In response, John pushed the door open and got out in one swift move. Before he'd even set foot on the pavement, he felt his heart drop through his stomach at the sight of his precious little girl standing on the edge of the roof.

Blood spewed from gasping lips as John fumbled with the mess of bone and tissue. It was a lost cause, hopeless from the moment the bomb went off, but there was something far too cold and callous about just waiting and watching a man die without trying.

"Hurts-" Then there was a shot.

Stunned, John looked up at Moran, who frowned sadly at the body.

"Nothing to be done." Moran tucked the gun away. "You knew that better than I did."

John stared back down at the blank face that was no longer twisted in pain.

"I…" He nodded.

"You'll learn," Moran said softly.

Sherlock was staring at his phone.

John could feel his breathing throbbing like war drums going off in his throat. Sherlock looked up and over at him.

What the hell was there to say that they didn't already know?

John nodded at him and Sherlock relaxed fractionally, then turned and walked into Bart's.

Mycroft stood next to John. "I will do my best," he said after a moment and nodded to someone. "Ashcroft will oversee things out here." He slipped a device into his ear with a nod at John's former comms man and then walked towards the building with several others.

"Jesus, John." Ashcroft glanced at him and then up at Ava. "I don't even know what to say-"

"Then don't," John said evenly, staring up at his daughter's gently swaying form.

It was past her bedtime.

He couldn't think about that now.

Moran's face was screwed up as he watched the Red Cross workers filter through the village.

"Waste of time," he sneered.

John dragged his gaze from the children he'd been watching, grinning as a team scored a goal. "What?"

"You can't win a war and heal a country at the same time." Moran kicked at a stone. "Fucking press. They'll tear us apart without a moment's hesitation when it suits them." He glared at the journalist who was snapping photographs of the peaceful scene.

"This isn't the dark ages, sir. We can't just go around conquering left, right and centre. Though I did notice there was a well on the way in that we could maybe annex," John replied.

Moran didn't react to the attempt at lightening the tone. "That's our problem, Watson. We don't prioritise."

"Fuck," Greg hissed.

John dragged his gaze away from the edge of the roof, where Moriarty was no longer visible, and turned to see what was bothering Greg.

The press.

A shiver went through him. He could feel Greg's eyes on him, as if to gauge what to do next. Slowly, John did a sweep of the assembled cameras and reporters.

And looked straight into Kitty Reilly's determined eyes.

Drawing a deep breath, John turned to Greg's car and opened the passenger side door.

Greg closed it with a fierce hand.

"I said 'last resort'," Greg hissed.

"What more do you need to make this the 'last resort'?" John snapped.

Greg hesitated, then glanced up at the roof. "Mycroft-"

John pulled the door open again and this time Greg let him do it. He reached in and fumbled with the glove compartment.

"John, I can't do anything if they're here," he said in a heated whisper. "They've got fucking film crews-"

"And?" John fixed him with a look.

Greg stared, looking torn as John drew out the gun.

"You knew," John said, putting it in his jeans carefully. "You knew when I asked you to take it that this would happen. That's my family up there. You think I give a shit about anything else?"

"We didn't factor on the press," Greg said in an effort to talk him out of it. "Put the gun away. We still have other options-"

"You know the bastards think of this as a game of chess. They call me the King?" John asked, feeling an odd sense of calm descend upon him. "Do you know why?" he asked, fixing Greg with a firm look.

"King ends the game," Greg muttered.

John smirked. "For incredibly stupid men, they do miss the obvious sometimes." He glanced over Greg's shoulder. "We need an excuse for being in here. They can't know you brought me the gun."

"You think I give a damn about-"

"I think we don't need to make a bad situation worse."

Greg considered that and then tossed his own onto the seat.

"Thought I'd remove temptation," he said, sounding unhappy about it. "Get it out of your reach."

John nodded and stepped away from the car. "You know Kitty Reilly's here," he said, wanting to give Greg a bit of a heads-up.

Greg sighed behind him. "I saw. Mycroft will do something," he said, trying to sound hopeful.

Across from them Ashcroft was staring up at Ava with worry as he talked into a microphone.

John nervously made his way over to Moran's desk.

"Sir?" He saluted.

"Watson." Moran looked up from the reports he'd been studying. "What is it?"

"You told me to find you when I got to 100% on the range."

Moran smiled. "How many times?"

"Last two weeks, sir."

"Well then. Oh-seven-hundred tomorrow."

"Sir."

"Fuck," Ashcroft hissed, looking suddenly at the building behind them.

Greg turned. "What?"

Ashcroft shot a panicked look over at John.

"Mycroft's plans." John sighed.

"I'm sorry," Ashcroft breathed in horror.

John let out a breath. "I need you to stand in front of me."

Ashcroft moved to obey and then went to say something into the headset.

"Turn it off," John ordered. "Greg, I need you to stand on my right."

"John-"

"If you don't, the reaction of the press will alert him," John said, feeling oddly numb as he watched Sherlock and Ava stand side by side on the edge of the roof.

Greg moved.

"Act as if you're trying to calm me down."

"No fucking acting required," Greg snapped.

"Sir, what-" Ashcroft's voice trailed off as John brought his gun out from underneath his jacket, into the midst of the triangle they were forming, hidden from view by their bodies.

"John..." Greg stared up at Ava and Sherlock. Moriarty's shadow loomed close to them. Too close. "There's no fucking way you'll make that shot. Put it away."

Ashcroft flickered his eyes to John's hand.

"Keep him out of this as much as you can while still giving me cover." John clicked the safety off with one hand.

"Sir."

"I can't make that shot," John muttered as he stared up at the practice dummy. "No one can-"

Moran turned and fired three times.

The dummy convulsed as the bullets hit home.

"Your turn."

John sighed and raised the gun.

"Breathe," Moran hissed. "Relax. You know where it is."

John drew in a calming breath and started to flex his finger in time with the pattern of his exhale.

"Your hands are nearly as steady as mine," Moran approved. "Good."

The first shot missed. But Moran nodded. "Close. Not bad for a first attempt."

"Maybe he'll talk him down," Greg argued. "Sherlock can get out of anything."

"Ava can't," John said, eyes fixed on Moriarty's hand where it clenched around his daughter's. "And Sherlock won't leave her."

"You could have made that shot," Moran snarled as John dumped his gear on the table.

"She wasn't a threat-"

"You didn't know that." Moran grabbed at his uniform and yanked John towards him. "When I tell you to shoot, you shoot. Got it, soldier?"

John jerked himself away. "She wasn't a threat," he repeated.

"I could have you up for insubordination." Moran let John tear himself loose.

"You won't though." John tilted his chin. "Because you know I'm right."

"It's not about being right, Watson. It's about winning."

"And damn the consequences?" John asked, swallowing hard. "That's not what I signed up for."

Moran pulled back. "Then you'll never get what you want."

The look on his face told John it was over. Whatever Moran had been doing with him, this had put a stop to his interest. Their argument had been heard throughout the camp as they'd walked through and Moran would never forgive him for that.

John paused at the exit. "I could," he said, turning. "If I had to, if it was the right thing to do, I'd do whatever it took."

"I know." Moran turned his head to John fractionally. "That's why this pisses me off so much." He turned back to his work. "You could do great things, Watson, but you'll forever be stuck just doing good things."

Ashcroft twisted and looked at John. "They're gonna go," he warned.

"Jesus," Lestrade hissed, looking around. "John-"

They would fall.

That image, that horrific image that had been burned into his brain of Sherlock's body tipping forward, arms outstretched with no one there to catch had been a lie.

He couldn't watch the reality.

Sherlock was holding her hand.

He wouldn't let go.

John had to believe that.

He wouldn't let go.

Standing in that building, opposite Sherlock with the pill-popping cabby, he could have sworn he heard Moran whispering in his ear.

Breathe.

Relax.

Fire.

And when the cabbie toppled over and Sherlock stared in shock for a second, John felt the hint of a smile.

A great shot and a good thing.

Moran had been wrong, he thought, ducking down as Sherlock slid over the table towards the window. And this wasn't the army, where someone told him what to do or he was caught in the heat of battle; this had just been him. Just John.

And just like that the worry, the slight nagging weight he'd carried around for all those years, vanished. The tremulous feeling that had haunted him for the past few months smoothed out and faded.

He could do this.

He would always be able to do this.

Ashcroft yanked Greg down, moving both of them out the way and giving John room.

Breathe.

John curled his finger around the trigger as he swung it up.

Relax.

There was the start of a gasp behind him, even as he allowed his shoulders to fall and his arm to steady against the jolt so as not to upset the sighting.

Fire.

He pulled the trigger as he let his breath out.

Moriarty's head snapped back as the bullet caught him in the neck. His body flashed back towards the roof but the angle slanted his feet and down he went.

Ava's hand still in his.

No.

God, no.

John started forward, but this time both Ashcroft and Greg grabbed at him, hauling him back. He couldn't do anything but watch Moriarty tumble forwards limply, pulling Ava with him.

Until Sherlock tightened his grip, crashing down to the side in a move that must have damaged his ribs, still hanging on to her hand. Moriarty jolted loose and then fell, free from Ava, and slammed into the pavement below.

Mycroft appeared at the edge of the roof, next to Sherlock. John felt his legs give way as both Ava and Sherlock finally disappeared from the edge. Greg sank down with him and Ashcroft finally reattached his headset.

"Jesus Christ, Watson," Greg breathed. "You never said you could shoot like that."

"Who the hell do you think saved that inconsiderate dick the first time we met?" John gasped, feeling sick with relief.

"I didn't hear that," Greg muttered, "I never heard that."

John glanced behind him, feeling as if he'd just sprinted a marathon.

"But bloody good shot."

John nodded. "Yeah, it was." He waited until his breathing was almost back to normal. "Greg-"

"I know." Greg hauled himself up, looking unsteady on his feet and, after a moment's hesitation, held out his hand to John.

They stood opposite each other and, with a last look at the still empty edge, John nodded.

"John Watson, you are under arrest…"

"This is wrong," Donovan said, leaning on the car. "Sir, this is wrong."

Greg's shoulders were firmed. "I can't do anything. The press have the damned thing on film."

Donovan glanced over at John helplessly. The emergency medical services had surrounded the body, hiding it from view as they waited for forensics to arrive.

They needn't have bothered, John thought dully. There were probably already hundreds of photographs and a few film reels circulating among the press behind them.

"It's fine," he said tightly for what felt like the twentieth time. "Just let me see them before we go."

"God, Sherlock's gonna kill us," Donovan muttered, staring at the members of the press who were hanging over the police lines.

"They're coming down," Ashcroft said suddenly.

"Do they know?" Greg asked, standing up.

Ashcroft shook his head. "Mr Holmes went up before the shot went off. And they've ignored everyone on their way down."

John stared down at the handcuffs on his hands. Greg followed his gaze and reached into his pocket for the key.

"Don't." John stared at the exit. "Unless you can think of a way to explain it quicker than these can." He shook his hands.

Greg winced and then turned to Donovan. "You want to do something? Get the press out of here. I'm not having a photo of this in the paper tomorrow."

Donovan vanished and, before long, the press were herded back until the building blocked their view.

John shifted from where he sat on the bonnet of the car. "Thank you."

"For what, arresting you?" Greg muttered.

"This can't be easy for you." John took a deep breath. "And when Sherlock gets himself together he is going to make your life hell."

"Well, at least he'll have a good reason now." Greg pushed away from the car. "I'll go help Sally."

John nodded and swallowed.

And then it was just him and Ashcroft.

He had a split second's warning when Ashcroft suddenly stood a little straighter. And then the door of Bart's was opening and Mycroft Holmes strode out, looking uncharacteristically rumpled and pale, despite the ruddiness at his cheeks.

Behind him was Sherlock. Ava's head was burrowed into his shoulder and his hand was splayed across the back of her head as if he were shielding her from the world.

John glanced behind himself, half to check that the press hadn't snuck round and half to avoid seeing the dawning realisation in Sherlock's eyes when he saw the handcuffs.

It was a testament to how utterly rocked Sherlock was that they didn't even seem to register. Mycroft stopped mid-step, a look of sheer horror dawning, but Sherlock just barrelled on over to John, oblivious for once in his life.

And that, more than anything else, brought the tears to John's eyes.

Sherlock was physically shaking when he got to him. He pressed his forehead to John's; his usual gesture for comfort and what most people would use a bone-crushing hug to convey. Carefully, John raised his bound hands, stroking Sherlock's cheek and pressing a kiss to Ava's hair, breathing them in, alive and warm, flesh and blood, real and in front of him.

Safe.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" Sherlock whispered over and over again.

John shook his head. "Shush," he tried to soothe him. Over Sherlock's shoulder he could see Mycroft snapping rapidly at Greg.

John pulled back to look into Sherlock's eyes.

"Is she okay?"

Sherlock nodded and then shook his head. "I don't know," he confessed. "We…we need to get her home." He sounded a bit steadier already. "You need to check her over and we need to go home."

"Sherlock-"

"I…I don't want a hospital. I can't…they'll take her away-"

"Sherlock-"

"Unless we have to. But you have to stay with her at all times. And text me every five minutes-"

"Sherlock!" John snapped and Sherlock blinked back to him. "Sherlock…who do you think fired the gun?"

Sherlock stared at him for a full ten seconds.

"No…No." Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion. "No…I had your gun."

"Do you honestly think I don't know the signs that you're about to steal my gun?" John asked, trying to smile and aware that the tears streaming down his face meant he was failing miserably. "It was a spare."

Sherlock frowned. "I…"

And then he looked down at John's hands.

"Why?" he breathed.

"Moriarty couldn't go without an audience…" John hated the blank look in Sherlock's eyes. The Sherlock he knew wouldn't have taken more than a fraction of a second to comprehend the import of what John was saying. "He called the press."

If it was possible Sherlock went even whiter. Dawning comprehension bled into his eyes.

"No," he mouthed, stumbling back precariously. "No." His voice cracked on the word.

Helplessly, John watched, tears flowing freely down his cheeks now.

Sherlock pressed against him again, and Ava somehow ended up more in John's grasp than in Sherlock's. And, though he dimly knew what Sherlock was about to do, John couldn't help but grab his little girl, clutch her to him and slide down in relief at having her in his arms again.

Alive.

Shaking with the pounding of his heart, he watched Sherlock launch himself at Greg. Watched Mycroft pull him off and try to talk him down. He heard Sherlock shout and roar at them all without being able to pick the words out from the screaming in his own head.

And saw when Sherlock realised that there was absolutely no way out of this. There was no special fix Mycroft could do, no sneaky twisting of the rules from Greg or even Sherlock's own wickedly intelligent loopholes. Watched Sherlock sag in Mycroft's grip, knees buckling and almost hitting the ground.

It hurt to watch. He didn't have any strength left in him to watch. Instead, he buried his face in Ava's hair, hating how still and quiet she was. He could feel the shaken tension in her, like a scared wild animal that had frozen out of some primordial instinct for self-protection.

And then Sherlock was there, hands gripping at John with frantic urgency.

"Tell them I made you do it," he begged. "Tell them it was me, tell them I-"

John just shook his head. "No. I did it. I killed him. I did it in front of a camera crew. In front of photographers and journalists. I did it."

Sherlock shook his head. "I will never forgive you for this," he whispered fiercely.

Hysterical laughter bubbled out of John's mouth. "Try," he suggested. "'Cause I'm not apologising for saving your life."

Sherlock collapsed onto John and shook as he bunched John's shirt in his hands, tangling all three of them together in a heap. Awkwardly, John clutched at Sherlock's hair, wishing now he'd taken Greg up on the offer to remove the cuffs.

Over Sherlock's curls he saw Greg watching helplessly and Mycroft leaning against the wall with his eyes closed as if to steady himself. Most of Mycroft's team were looking at anything but them and Ashcroft had a hand over his mouth, eyes dark with sorrow.

A sudden hateful image flashed into John's head, an image of just how much worse it could have been. He tightened his grip on the two people in his arms, convinced that he'd have put the gun to his own head if it had happened.

They were alive and damn the consequences.

He would never know how he managed to do it. How he managed to move his mouth to Sherlock's ear and whisper instructions regarding Ava. How he managed to withstand Sherlock's fierce, begging pleas to just say that he had threatened John and made him do it. How he nodded at Greg and tried to shift Sherlock away.

How in the end they had to drag Sherlock off him and how Mycroft, looking so desperately unsettled, took Ava gently, which prompted Sherlock to kick up another storm until Ava was placed back in his arms. How he managed to let Greg walk them around the building and into the onslaught of flashbulbs and shouts from the press as they got in the car.

It was only in the car, driving away, that John started to shake. Greg talked to him in gentle, quiet tones about nothing in particular and Sally offered a soft kindness from the front of the car.

He never knew how he managed to let go.

Author's Note: Given what a blabber mouth I usually am with replies to reviews, you have no idea how hard that has been to not say - especially at the end of PwL!