It ended where it began.
Just before opening the door, Sherlock turned back to John. He quirked an eyebrow.
Are you ready?
John nodded in return, his eyes steely and focused, jaw set, a look of absolute determination etched onto his features. He raised his hand to the gun that had been safely hidden away under his jacket. Sherlock had made see that absolutely no-one could tell it was there. They'd even managed to slip it past Mycroft. They had gone over the plan again and again until Sherlock felt completely sure that John knew what to do, where and when to do it. This was going to be difficult and if it went wrong, could end up in one or both of their deaths. Sherlock shivered at the sudden wave of cold that passed through him at that thought. He needed to focus. Thinking about John, bleeding out, slowing dying in his arms...
Focus.
He nodded silently at John, before opening the door and walking out into the familiar setting.
Three Days Earlier
"So now we've been left with two options."
They were sat at the dining room table, opposing each other. It was easier to talk when they were face to face. Sherlock had waited for a few days after the visit to Mary's grave to approach the subject of Moriarty. Despite popular belief, Sherlock was not tactless. John needed the time before jumping back into the game. Sherlock had talked over breakfast, explaining everything he knew or could guess about Moriarty's goals as John read his newspaper and finished his toast.
"And they are?"
John had not looked up from his newspaper, but Sherlock knew that he was still listening intensely.
"One, I face Moriarty alone. It's most likely that he will be expecting me to do this if the last time we faced off was anything to go by-"
There was a crumpling sound as John clenched his fists around the delicate paper. His eyes snapped up to Sherlock as he instantly put the paper on the table, turning his full attention to Sherlock,.
"No. Absolutely not. Out of the question."
"John-"
John smacked his fist down on the dark wood. He was not just angry, he was seething, his fury seeping from the very prose of his body. Sherlock flinched instinctively. Last time he had seen John in this state had been when Mary was diagnosed, and Sherlock had earned himself a punch to the face.
"No, Sherlock. I'm not going to let you do that." John's voice was shaking in poorly hidden rage, and Sherlock flinched again at the harsh tone. He needed to get over weaknesses like this. He was in 221B, he was with John, he was safe, nothing was going to hurt him, but that didn't stop his mind flashing back to his time spent away, to the endless violence he'd endured at the hand of a faceless crony or soldier. He had not been like this immediately after he'd returned. Sherlock blamed the accident. He was sure he'd received some sort if damage that left him emotionally compromised like this.
He was home. He was safe.
"It would be infinitely safer for you if-"
"No, it really wouldn't." John pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. Sherlock watched John's external sign of an internal struggle, and waited patiently for him to continue. "Sherlock, it nearly killed me to lose you last time. I was so convinced it was my fault, that there was something I could have done but hadn't. I'm not letting you go alone. If I can help in any way at all, even if it's jumping in front of bullet-"
A wave of pain flooded Sherlock's mind, ice froze his veins and the air was knocked out of his lungs.
"John, no!"
That was not a viable option. It never had been, and never will be, ever since the moment they met. Sherlock took the falls, not John - infinitely kind, selfless, brave John Watson.
"-then I'm bloody well going to do it. I am not losing you again, Sherlock Holmes. Because if I do I'll... I'll..."
Sherlock's heart broke at the pain in his friend's voice. He could not allow that to happen.
"John, I-"
"Option two?" John continued, ignoring Sherlock's continued attempts at interrupting him, and choosing to ignore his own emotional outburst like a true Englishman, choosing to turn from feelings in favour of a cup of tea as he got up to switch the kettle on.
Sherlock was frozen in his chair, unable to comprehend. The sacrifice John had just offered. It hurt. Picturing a scenario where that was necessary hurt. And it was in this moment that Sherlock glimpsed a tiny fraction of what John had experienced when he had faked his fall.
"John-"
"For someone who hates repetition, you've said my name an awful lot during this conversation. Now, what is option two?"
John had not turned from the kettle, which he was clinging to as if it help all of the answers to life's questions, which was ridiculous. It was a kettle. It boiled water and nothing more. Sherlock took a deep breath.
"You come with me."
John let out a huff of laughter, and finally turned back to Sherlock. A small, yet genuine smile was teasing the edges of John's mouth, and his eyes seemed to regain some of the life that had been missing from them since Mary's death.
"Well, let's get started. Let's finish this game once and for all."
He went through the process of masking tea, a routine he was alarmingly familiar with. He watched as the tea leaves dyes the boiling water, the swirling patterns in the cup closely resembling the patterns of the steam that was rising from the hot liquid. He made two cups, a subconscious decision, but probably a good one. He splashed milk in both and added sugar to Sherlock's. Sherlock had a secret sweet-tooth but he would never admit it, not even on his death bed. The teasing from Mycroft would be relentless. With a mug in each hand, and using the warmth that permeated throughout his body from the objects in his palms, he returned from the kitchen counter to the table. It was only when he leaned over to place Sherlock's mug in front of him that he noticed the state the detective was in.
"Sherlock?"
The man's eyes were staring at nothing, and John could have sworn he saw the beginnings of tears in the blue-grey eyes of his best friend. When Sherlock didn't respond, John moved swiftly, yet gracelessly, around the table until he reached Sherlock's side. He place a cautious hand on Sherlock's upper arm, where John could feel the faint trembling that's indistinguishable to the eye, but impossible to miss by touch.
"Sherlock, you're scaring me."
This, combined with the tightening of fingers around his arms seemed to snap Sherlock back from the confines of his mind palace, or wherever it was that his mind had wondered off to. His eyes were wide and scared. His hand covered John's where it sat on his arm, and his white, bony fingers wrapped themselves around John's shorter, more tanned ones.
This was not even close to Sherlock's normal behaviour, and even further from okay.
"You can't get hurt, John. I forbid it. And you can't leave."
John looked puzzled.
"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. What brought this on?"
"When you said you'd jump in front of a bullet. John, I can't- You can't- I wouldn't let you. I need you here, alive, breathing, I just-"
Sherlock closed his eyes to cope with the onslaught of fear, panic and desperate, relentless sadness at the idea of John placing himself between a bullet and Sherlock. There were no tears, just quick, shallow breaths as he tried to maintain on the right side of hysteria.
"I'm sorry, John."
Sherlock let John assume that he was apologising for the meltdown. He never told him that he was actually apologising for the hurt and agony that he knew John must have experienced when Sherlock jumped. But Sherlock left John to his assumptions. After all, there was a dangerous game to win.
Present
As the cold, frigid air hit Sherlock's face, and the wind blew his coat around in a swirling motion, a familiar song played out over the rooftop. Sherlock was familiar with the phenomenon of déjà vu, but had never experienced it with such an intensity. We're it not for the presence of John beside him, Sherlock would have assumed that - impossible though it may be - he had returned to nearly four years previous.
"Tut tut, Sherlock. I thought it'd just be you and me again." Moriarty stopped the song as he spoke, just before Sherlock began to rip his hair out. Since their encounter in the cab, 'Staying Alive' made his skin crawl and his head swim. Moriarty let out a long, dramatic sigh before standing up to face the consulting detective and the army doctor, the two contrasting extremely as they stood next to each other, shoulder to shoulder. Well, nearly - height difference was a bitch sometimes, especially when trying to present as a united front, but there was nothing that could be done. "Ah well. Shall we begin, boys? A game with three players was always more interesting than a game with two."
