"Ah ah, don't turn around. I've got enough fire power for the two of you, I promise. Hands over your heads. That's good. Keep walking, we're almost there."

They stopped outside a small building at the end of the alleyway. The door was hanging open and they ducked inside. Overhead several small lamps clicked on, bathing parts of the empty white room in a low light. Rough hands spun them around until they were facing their captor. Moriarty looked at his prize with maniacal happiness.

"Cuff 'em," he drawled. But instead of the expected feel of cold metal against their skins there was the binding stiffness of plastic cords.

"Great," John huffed under his breath as he was pushed to his knees. Sherlock fell besides him.

"Now all that's left is one small detail. After all, we need the code word that will make Mycroft come for his baby brother."

Sherlock stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.

"Maybe you need some incentive," Moriarty drawled.

Moriarty's man pointed his revolver to the back of John's head. Moriarty leaned down and fished through Sherlock's pants. John saw his hands slide up and down in a caress before he pulled out Sherlock's phone.

"I would count to three, but there's no point. You know you'll do it to save John. You'd do anything to save John and we both know why."

"Bare King," Sherlock said.

Moriarty paused over the keyboard. He leaned his head to one side as he studied Sherlock. Sherlock raised one eyebrow and looked silently back.

"You're bluffing," Moriarty finally said. John thought he looked uncertain. He certainly hadn't sent a text to Mycroft yet so whatever Sherlock had said, it had an effect.

"What's a bare king?" John asked quietly to Sherlock.

"In chess it means all your pieces have been captured until only the king remains. A lone king can never give check so the best the player can hope for is a stalemate," Sherlock said in a clear voice. Moriarty licked his lips. From the shadows at the back of the room an almost familiar voice replied.

"Send the text."

Sherlock jerked his head, trying to turn around to get a better look at the man giving orders. Two hands roughly shoved his forward again. Moriarty slid the phone into his pocket

.
"Six minutes until brother dear makes an appearance," the man behind them said.

"You always did underestimate me," said a voice from the doorway. Mycroft Holmes was holding his pocket watch and leaning easily into his umbrella, the very picture of calm.

"Oh, you're good. You're both very good," Moriarty said.

"This building is surrounded. The men outside are under orders to move in if gunfire is heard," Mycroft said casually.

"You'd let Sherlock die?" Moriarty sneered.

"I sent him on a suicide mission, didn't I? This isn't about him… or you."

Mycroft walked confidently forward and held his hand out to the captor behind Sherlock. The gun was placed in Mycroft's upturned palm.

"Well that explains a lot," Moriarty said sarcastically. "Could you be any more boring?"

"Better than being obvious," Mycroft replied and Moriarty flushed angrily.

Mycroft pistol whipped him across his head and he fell to the ground, holding his scalp as blood trickled in small rivulets down his face.

"Enough of that. I'd wager you didn't see this coming," said a familiar voice from the darkness.

"Then you would be mistaken. You have seldom managed to surprise me, brother," Mycroft replied.
"Brother, what does he mean brother?"

John said and then a tall man stepped into the light. John blinked rapidly and reeled back. The hair was short and cropped, the clothing simple lines of black on black, but John would recognize those piercing eyes and sharp cheekbones anywhere. It was the same figure he'd seen a dozen times on the streets of London when he thought Sherlock was dead.

"My twin, Sherrington Holmes," Sherlock snarled.

"Some were under the impression you were deceased Sherrington," Mycroft said.

"Funny how the past is always rearing its ugly head," Sherrington replied.

"It was you! I saw you in the street after Sherlock died. And you're the reason that little girl was screaming after she got kidnapped. You're the sick bastard that snatched her!" John said.

Mycroft glanced knowingly at John. John gave a small nod and Sherlock felt something slide quickly between his wrists and the plastic was off. John moved like an incoming storm. His knife found the stomach of his guard in one swift motion. Moriarty crouched on the ground, hair matted to one side of his scalp with blood. He took one look at John's furious face and fled out the door. John followed after him, ignoring both Sherlock and Mycroft as they yelled for him to stop.

Sherlock took a step towards the door and looked back at Mycroft. He was desperate to follow John. His bones were shaking with the need. Mycroft had his gun fixed on Sherrington and his gaze never wavered. Their mole bolted for the door, leaving the three brothers alone.

"I'll handle this. Find him. Find them both," Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned and ran, his greatcoat billowing behind him. The alleyway seemed darker after the light of the room behind him. His eyes caught the movement of two shadows on the roof tops. Sherlock was half way up the fire escape when the sound of a single gunshot split the night sky. The world was falling. The sun was bleeding. Because Sherlock knew who that bullet was intended to hit. He might fool John but he couldn't fool Moriarty. Moriarty had hit him right where his heart was.
Sherlock slipped and slid up the ladder with numb fingers. Panic was setting fire to his veins, the adrenaline coming in wave after wave. From the front the nightclub he could hear the sound of police sirens. Sherlock dropped to his knees at the sight of the still body of John.

"Please forgive me," he whispered, hanging his head. The blood was pooling on the cement and knees were damp with it beneath his jeans. John lifted his head slightly.

"Sherlock, I'll be okay. I'm fine! Just… just help me apply pressure."

John's hands were on top of Sherlock's as they covered the bullet wound in his abdomen. Their warmth did little to still the growing coldness in his heart. He couldn't lose John. He'd never felt anything close to the companionship they shared. Without John the world would be boring and predictable. There would be nothing to keep the darkness at bay. It would consume him. John always followed him into danger, but it was John's light that brought them back.

"John, please. Forgive me," his voice was almost a whisper.

John laughed, his face held quiet disbelief.

"You're an insufferable dick sometimes but yeah, you're my best friend – of course I forgive you."

The police filled the alleyway with lights and uniforms. Lestrade walked calmly down the middle of the unit.

"You two, clear the upper side of these buildings. We've got a few snipers up there. Make sure you don't shoot them," Lestrade ordered.

"Up here!" Sherlock called desperately.

The DI started climbing up after them when Mycroft appeared in the opposite direction. Lestrade paused halfway up the fire escape. Mycroft held up his hands and looked pointedly at Lestrade as the men cocked their weapons his way.

"He's with us. Go! Move!" Lestrade shouted.

John wasn't watching the movement of bodies on either side of them. His head drooped in Sherlock's arms.

"John, stay with me. Don't close your eyes. John!"
Sherlock acted on instinct. He didn't give any thought to the fact that they were in public or that John was married. There was no time to second guess himself or deduce how John would react. His head was bent over John's, their faces a breath apart. John was hurt and he wanted to provide comfort for himself and for John. Sherlock closed the distance and planted soft kisses on John's lips. Then he lost control and his tongue was scraping across John's teeth and thrusting into his mouth. John moaned into his open mouth and it was the most erotic thing he'd ever felt. John's eyes shot open again as Sherlock pulled away. Sherlock was still close to him, feeling John's breath move into and out of his lungs, watching his face move and change.

"Don't stop now, that was just getting good," John teased.

"John Hamish Watson, I believe I am in love with you," Sherlock said solemnly.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw both Lestrade and Mycroft jerk their heads in his direction. He could be arsed to care. John's eyes grew wide with surprise and then the paramedics arrived, pushing Sherlock aside and doing their job. Sherlock gave John one last embrace, slipped his hand beneath the small of his back to reach the gun there. Then he backed away and let the paramedics take John away.

"I would have pulled the trigger," Sherlock said, shoving the gun deep into a coat pocket.

Mycroft held his fingers delicately over his skin, feeling the swelling and abrasions on his face.
"I thought I could. I was mistaken," said Mycroft.

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft moved to his side and pointed across the roof to two dark figures moving quickly together.
"I thought you had men at the perimeter!" Sherlock snarled. "John should have been in no danger."
"It seems we also have a mole among our men," Mycroft replied. "It only takes one sniper to clear an area. That's exactly what occurred. Lestrade has his unit taking up strategic points now."

Sherlock didn't reply.

He moved back then ran towards the edge of the building, taking the leap over easily. Mycroft sighed and placed his umbrella besides him on the ground. He soon followed Sherlock over the chasm. They flew together from one building to the next until they were close behind their quarry.

They were catching up quickly, too quickly. As they rounded a corner it became clear why. Sherrington had his arm wrapped around Moriarty's neck and a gun at the temple of his head.

"I assume you would like him alive," Sherrington said.

Moriarty whimpered like a child. His lip was split and blood trickled down his neck.

"Ideally yes. However I wouldn't be opposed to his immediate demise. He's a poor choice for a hostage," Mycroft replied.

"I'm a little more problematic however. Can't have Parliament knowing your little brother has been pulling at Moriarty's strings. I was counting on being able to pull yours instead. I suppose that won't happen now."

"What do you propose?" Mycroft asked.

"You get princess here. I walk away," Sherrington said.

Sherlock held his teeth together so tightly his jaw was aching. He glowered at Moriarty. His finger had been on the trigger of the gun that had wounded John. Sherrington had always been a master chess player. His moves were calculating and precise. He would sacrifice his own pieces if needed. And take his opponents pieces only when they led to an eventual checkmate. He wasn't sloppy in other words. John's shooting had been sloppy and unnecessary, which meant Moriarty had acted on his own and without orders. Now Sherrington was trussing him up as a peace offering.

How much of the last few years was Moriarty operating on his own, and how much was he following Sherrington's orders? Their last meeting at the pool hadn't been a performance. Moriarty had been serious in his offer. Sherlock's mouth dropped to form a small "o". Moriarty would have done whatever he needed to in order to get Sherrington out of the picture had Sherlock said yes.

"Stupid, stupid!" he whispered. "It always comes back to this. The serial killers, the Bruce-Partington plans, even the puzzles Moriarty left for me to solve. Sentiment! It's always sentiment. Moriarty has been acting on his own because he's completely infatuated," Sherlock said.

Moriarty jerked in Sherrington's arms.

"With you," Mycroft finished.

"We'll take the deal," Sherlock said. Sherrington pushed Moriarty forward and he stumbled away, head hanging low, as if the voiced revelation had drained his spirit. Mycroft kept the gun leveled at his head anyway.

"Just shoot me already," Moriarty whined.

Mycroft hit him swiftly across his head once more and Moriarty fell to the floor, out cold. Sherrington didn't look at him once.

"It's been a pleasure. Bluds."

Sherrington moved his gun to Sherlock's head, taking one step and then another until the night swallowed him. Mycroft sighed and retrieved his cell phone from one of his coat pockets. A helicopter touched down and they were all airlifted the hospital.

"Stalemate," Sherlock whispered.