Chapter Twenty Six
The Conclusion

Running all the way to what seemed like the only pool in London from God-knows-where he was before was not, in hindsight, such a great idea. Even as a cat, his increased stamina was evened out by his small legs.

This meant that, when he eventually reached his destination, he was far too puffed out to burst in dramatically like he was hoping to do (which probably saved both his and John's lives). Instead, he shifted and crept in through the entrance, attempting to control his breathing. The pool was dim, and the seats raised above were completely black. Sherlock squinted up at them, attempting to gauge the threat, but he couldn't see anything, even with enhanced vision. He swallowed nervously and, having walked to the open area beside the pool, turned in a circle.

"Hello?"

He heard the shuffling sounds of someone walking and attempting to not throw up at the same time from behind him and whirled around.

"John?"

It was obvious he'd been subjected to the HOUND gas Henry had told them about. Though it looked like the worst effects had passed, John was shaking and he swallowed repeatedly. He didn't say anything.

Sherlock's eyes roved over him frantically. He didn't seem to be physically injured, but he had no idea what horrors Moriarty had subjected him to in the time Sherlock had taken to figure it out.

Oh, stupid, STUPID!

He zeroed in on the coiled spring of an earpiece protruding from John's ear. His nostrils flared and he felt the hair on his arms raise. If he had fur, it would have been bristling.

"Hello Sherlock."

John's voice was flat, monotone. Despite the lingering panic, he was clearly determined not to let Moriarty control him completely.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it? What would you like me to make him say next?"
"John." It was barely a whisper, and John closed his eyes in sorrow, but snapped them open again, presumably at a command Sherlock couldn't hear. His hand clenched once, stayed in a fist for five seconds, and then relaxed again.
"Gottle o'gear. Gottle o'gear. Gottle o'gear."
"Stop." Sherlock still couldn't do much more than whisper. John stared at him intensely, like he was trying to convey some sort of message telepathically, but Sherlock was too lost in his own confusion and panic to make any deductions.
"It's a nice touch isn't it, Sherlock? The place where little Carl died. He laughed at me, but I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."
"Why- " Sherlock stopped and cleared his throat, turning on the spot to try and see where Moriarty was hiding.

The crisp sounds of walking echoed throughout the cavernous room, bouncing off the walls until Sherlock couldn't tell where it came from. He turned back to John, who was blinking rapidly, and took John's gun out of his pocket, bringing it up to point at the man who had appeared around a pillar at the other end of the pool. He merely smirked and walked forward casually, with his hands in his pockets and looking for all the world as though he were on a peaceful night stroll.

"Did you like my puzzles, Sherlock? I admit, I am a little bit disappointed. I'm surprised it took you that long to work out what book I used, and even then, you had to get a hint from the Help," his voice was lilting and soft, his accent Irish.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock. To you?"
"Oh, let me guess," Sherlock drawled, heart pounding. "I get killed."
"Kill you? Eh, no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway some day, I don't want to rush it, though."

A quiet rumbling sounded and while Sherlock focused all of his willpower on not turning to John, Moriarty's smirk widened.

"He's touchingly loyal. You should have heard him when I first picked him up, going on and on about how I wasn't going to get anything about you out of him, it didn't matter what I did, etcetera, etcetera. Really, it was quite adorable."
"Why are you doing this? People have been injured – you've driven people insane."
"I know. Aren't you flattered."

There was a pause.

"You did all this for me?"
"But of course, dear."
"Well then by all means, let me put down the gun and we can go skipping off into the sunset together," Sherlock snapped out derisively, though the effect was ruined somewhat by the panicked fidgeting of his fingers around the handle of the gun. Moriarty's smirk grew so wide it might have been called a smile, if anything resembling a smile had ever passed over the madman's face.

"Touchingly loyal," he repeated, as though Sherlock hadn't said a word. "But then, pets are, aren't they."

Too close.

Both John and Sherlock stiffened. Sherlock was reminded of Anderson, of the stupid little comments so carelessly tossed around without any knowledge of their impact on other people. The hair on Sherlock's arms rose.

"Oh!" Moriarty exclaimed delightedly. "Well something is obviously going on here. I wonder…"

He tapped his chin in mock thoughtfulness and ambled closer to John.

Too CLOSE.

He gazed over John's body, and then his hand snaked out, under John's collar, and pale fingers lifted up the leather band like it was a prize.

John's eyes widened, and then closed.

Sherlock wished he could do the same, but his whole body was frozen in its position, still pointing the gun, while all his brain could do was shout no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO! over and over again.

Moriarty stepped right up to John (TOO CLOSE!) and peered at the engraving on the metal tag.

"Aw," he cooed. "Isn't that sweet? I've found your little dog, Sherlock," he turned and put his back to John, disregarding him. "Do I get a reward?"

Sherlock's brain found enough strength to shout DO SOMETHING amidst all the 'no's and his fingers flexed around the handle of the gun. Moriarty tssked.

"Now, now, don't be foolish. I understand people get so sentimental about pets, but honestly Sherlock, I'm surprised at you. I thought you were above that. Now I found out you're just as ordinary as everyone else. Just as boring as everyone else."

He shrugged and made a face like he regretted the fact.

"And besides, he's injured – do you know what happens to injured doggies, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed again. The question was so like the one before.

'Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?'
'Oh, let me guess; I get killed.'
'Kill you? Eh, no, don't be obvious.'

But it was obvious now.

"They get put down, Sherlock. They get put out of their misery and they die."
"No."
"That's what animals DO!"

Moriarty, his face savage and inhuman, shouted at him, and behind him, John took a deep breath in and opened his eyes. He looked directly at Sherlock, and he finally understood the message John had been trying to get across.

I love you.

"No," Sherlock repeated, at John this time, and his body found the ability to shake his head.

John bit his lip and mouthed the words this time.

I LOVE YOU.

John erupted.

Sherlock stumbled back, his brain frantically attempting to wrap itself around the situation. John had shifted so fast he seemed to explode and before Moriarty could figure out what was happening, John had lunged forward. Sherlock's eyes flicked wildly over the scene in front of him: Moriarty on the floor, bleeding and broken, face twisted into a mask of surprise and terror; John, shifted, looming over him, muzzle dark and bloody; red dots hovering uncertainly on bodies and walls, the snipers clearly unsure of what to do, their boss never having prepared them for such an eventuality. The lights blinked out, one by one, and when they all finally disappeared, Sherlock breathed in a heady sigh of relief and took one shaky step towards John before-

"John, move!"

The dots had refocused on John's body, his fur burning red with light. The dog's eyes widened and he scrambled towards the pool, straining to reach it before-

The swimming pool exploded.

-/-\-

The force of it threw Sherlock back against the wall and he curled up instinctively, wrapping his hands around his head. When it seemed like the world had stopped shaking, he tentatively looked up. The pool was a wreck. It was filling with smoke even as he watched, and the locker doors on the walls had been blasted off their hinges. He squinted and, in the distance, he thought he saw a flame burning quietly. He trembled as he stood up, and stumbled out into the open air, sucking it deep into his lungs as he vaguely wiped at his stinging eyes. He could barely breathe or see due to the smoke. He clasped his head with his hands, knowing there was something important, something desperately important that he had to think of, but the ringing in his ears just wouldn't stop! John would be able to fix it, he thought desperately, and then had the utterly terrifying and overwhelming feeling of someone setting a cold fire alight all along his spine.

"John? John! John!"

There was no response; no answering shout or echoing bark. Sherlock glanced around wildly, blinking angrily through his tears (that were from more than just the smoke, at this point). John was nowhere to be seen.

"No, goddamit, we did not get this far!"

Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone, which had miraculously not been destroyed in his fall, and held down his second speed dial number. Even holding his phone up to his ear, he barely heard the tone, but when he did, he placed the mobile on the ground and charged back into the building, shifting mid-stride.

Desperate mewls were wrenched out of his body without permission as he sprinted to the pool edge. There was no reply, and the mewling changed into yowling, torn from his throat. John. He reached the water and scanned it frantically.

John.

There!

A flash of gold, brown and black fur caught his eye and he scrambled towards it. John was drifting under the water, unconscious, but still in his Alsatian form. Sherlock practically fell into the water and half waded, half swam towards him, reaching out and grabbing him around the middle. He hauled the dog over his shoulder and pushed his way through the water to the edge. Once there, he laid John on his back and lifted himself out of the pool. Sherlock hovered anxiously over his limp form, not knowing what to do and hating it. He covered John's chest and found the gap between his ribs (he hoped). He folded one hand over the other and started pumping. After three cycles, forgoing mouth to mouth for obvious reasons and just about desperate, John's jaws parted and water flowed from his snout. Sherlock breathed out in a huge sigh of relief and turned John's head to the side gently, then sat back on his heels and waited, biting his lip as he did so.

Eventually, John's lungs ran out of water, and he coughed out a bark (or was it barked out a cough? Sherlock didn't know anymore, his brain had started to feel fuzzy and he was trembling all over) before managing enough willpower and strength to shift back. Once human, he coughed a bit more, and spat once onto the poolside, and then lay on his back with a groan. His right hand found Sherlock's and he latched onto it tightly, still lying down. Sherlock's breathing relaxed the tiniest bit, but he was still shaking. John noticed (of course he did), and smiled softly.

Are you okay? His eyes asked.
No, Sherlock's trembling answered.

John opened his arms in invitation and then wet fur was pressed against his face and there was a weight on his chest, but it was okay, even if it hurt, because it meant that it was there. He held the quivering cat in his arms and started crying. His silent tears coursed down his face and he tightened his arms reflexively.

Thanks, it said.
The rasp of a tongue on his cheek, catching a tear and licking it away said, You're welcome.

They lay there together, not saying a word because it wasn't necessary, until John figured he had just about enough strength to stand up. He managed to get to his feet without too many troubles and, once upright, he hugged Sherlock close again and started to make his way out. Sherlock's head pushed against his jaw, ears laid back flat, and the loudest purring John had ever heard rumbling through his chest and against John's. He smiled.

They made it out. And they would be fine.

-/-\-

"Christ Almighty," Lestrade breathed as he took in the smoking building in front of him. He gazed at it for a couple of seconds, his head tilting to the right, before passing a hand over his eyes and turning to the two shifters on the side of the crime scene. Sherlock had a hand on his ribs, apparently not having realised he'd been injured in the explosion, and an orange shock blanket wrapped snug around his frame, for once not protesting its presence. John passed him a mug of something hot, and kept once for himself, along with a plastic cup that he spat into every couple of minutes. They smiled at each other, but did not speak, as though talking would shatter some fragile illusion they had built up.

(Lestrade was being overly poetical - the truth was that they simply didn't need words to talk to each other, and were comfortable just basking in the warmth and presence of another person.)

Lestrade glanced to the other side, and immediately wished he hadn't. Mycroft Holmes was there, leaning on his umbrella near an ominous looking black car (Greg wasn't sure it wasn't a limousine).

"Christ Almighty," he groaned. Of all the things he didn't want to have to deal with at that very second, Mycroft Holmes was at the top of the list, along with Anderson, Sherlock, and the squad car's CD player. Whoever let the interns pick the music was going to pay. Big time.

Greg sighed, and then walked over, knowing that if this situation warranted Holmes the elder's presence, it was important (probably).

"Good evening, Detective Inspector." Mycroft tilted his head and stared at Greg as thoughts rampaged through his head like elephants on steroids. He blinked a bit at his own thought – what was wrong with him?
"Evening," he replied cautiously, after a too long pause.
"It seems my brother has found trouble once again. It is fortunate, I think, that Doctor Watson is here to…guide him along, now. I think you'll agree when I say that Sherlock has been behaving much better recently."

Lestrade made a vaguely noncommittal noise, eyes darting around.

"No doubt you are wondering why I am here."

It was definitely not a question. Greg licked his lips and remained silent.

"James Moriarty arranged for Doctor Watson to be kidnapped and used as the fifth hostage to add a little extra incentive for Sherlock. He organised this little meeting, picked the spot and set up the trap. No doubt it was all very dramatic. I am quite certain that neither Sherlock nor Doctor Watson were meant to emerge alive from tonight, and yet there they sit, relatively unharmed, while Moriarty lies dead on the floor from a vicious dog attack."

Greg licked his lips again. There didn't really seem to be a point to what Mycroft was saying, though if he knew the Holmes brothers at all, he knew that neither of them did anything without some sort of motive.

"While the spider may be dead, the rest of his web still remains, Detective Inspector, and both Sherlock and Doctor Watson will not rest until they take everyone who has had so much as a phone call with Moriarty down."

Well, that was nice and ominous. He certainly couldn't complain about Sherlock being dramatic in his swishy coat (with his collar and cheekbones) anymore.

"I need you to guarantee their safety. They will, of course, be breaking multiple laws over the course of their adventure, and while their special abilities will for the most part ensure they remain covert, it would be…appreciated, let's say, if you went out of your way a bit to see that they stay out of jail. Jailbreaks are quite tedious, and I have no desire to spend my time slogging through hours of paperwork when I could be doing many other, rather more important things."

Like ruling the world, Greg thought to himself.

"So, basically, you want me to bend the laws to keep them out of trouble long enough for them to go on what sounds pretty much like an international suicide mission?"
"Quite. I would, of course, be happy to offer you a meaningful sum of money for your trouble and the extra hours you'd be putting in. As well as any moral codes you fear you may be breaking."
"No."
"Are you sure, Detective Inspector? I shan't ask again," he warned.

Who on earth uses 'shan't' still?

"I'm quite sure, thank you. I'll do it, but on my own terms, and because I like John and even your brother, on rare occasions, not because of the money."

Mycroft smiled self-satisfactorily, and Greg had a horrible feeling the conversation had somehow gone exactly as Mycroft had planned it.

"Excellent. Well, time for me to be getting back, I think. Good luck cleaning this up, Detective Inspector."

Greg blinked, startled by the abrupt departure. And then, because his parents were good people and his mum raised him to be a gentleman, he said:

"Er, have a good day, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft looked back over his shoulder at Greg with one eyebrow raised, and gave his umbrella a little twirl.

"Call me Mycroft, please," he practically purred, and whatever Greg had planned on saying next died in his throat and lodged itself there, demanding a funeral and cake. Mycroft smiled smugly again and slid into the menacing car. As soon as the door shut, the driver took off and Greg was left standing there with one hand raised halfway in farewell, the other on the back of his neck, and his brain standing there with its hands out while asking what the hell had just happened.

A/N:

Hi! As previously mentioned, this chapter has gone through a huge renovation. I think it's over twice as long now. I've kept quite a lot of the original in there, but changed bits of it and, obviously, added to it a lot.

So, things - Sneaky Mystrade! Mycroft is just waiting to get his hands on Lestrade, you can totally see it. And Greg's all like, "I'm sorry, what now? Don't you, like, rule the world, or something?" And Mycroft's all like, "Hahaha, yeah."

Well, no, neither of them are like that, but if I was writing crack, that's what it would be. Hands down. Or up. Or in front of you, whatever.

Um, other things. I realise that when I thanked people, I was being horibbly rude and only thanking people who had reviewed most recently, so:

THANK YOU ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO REVIEWED AT THE BEGINNING. YOU'RE MY ROCK. YES, ALL OF YOU. YOU ARE TEH AWESOME.

(deliberate spelling mistake, guiz!)

Can't really figure out if I wanted to say anything else or not, apart from, what did you think? I reckon I might have gone a bit over the top there, especially with Sherlock, but we'll see. Don't get me wrong, Sherlock is awesome, and I'm fully aware that he can be an emotionless, cruel bastard at times (many times...), but hey, his person has just been kidnapped, and then drugged, and then forced to say stuff that doesn't come from his own brain. Who wouldn't be all angry and shit at that? No one, that's who. (damn that No One to hell).

...yeah...overtired again...this is pretty much all I did today.

Cheers!
fbt97 :)