A/N: Here it is! The climax has finally arrived. I'm so excited to share this with you all. One reader requested trigger warnings, so in this chapter there's a fair amount of blood, hysteria, and panic. If you would like illustrations of the chess game's progression, they are available on this chapter's posting over on my Wattpad (Miss Holmes of Gondor).
It was the kind of darkness found in underground caves when all the lights are blown out. It was so black he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. Sherlock let the heavy metal door close behind him. The darkness covered him like ink, and he closed his eyes.
The door's loud clang reverberated and echoed off the lonely walls, and Sherlock deduced the room was mostly empty. And enormous.
"I've come. Shall we do this now? I don't have all day," he spoke into the dark. He took a few steps into the blackness. His hands remained at his sides.
"Knew you'd come," Moriarty answered back, his voice making the hair on Sherlock's neck stand aright. He could still see nothing.
"There was never a doubt in your mind. I always come," the detective snapped back.
"True," was the sing-song reply.
Then he heard the sound of a light switch being flicked on, and the center of the enormous room was illuminated by a single spotlight. And then he saw it: a lowly wooden table, upon which sat an ivory chess board. A regulation clock and two spare queens—one white, one black—sat at the board's long edge. There was also a pistol lying on its side beside the black queen. Sherlock inhaled before looking up to meet Moriarty's gaze. He had slithered out of a dark corner and emerged into the light, his slow claps resounding through the emptiness.
"Of course," Sherlock huffed, straightening the collar of his coat.
"Man to man," Moriarty barely whispered, his mouth snaking into a malicious smirk. The mirth with which he had often approached his villainy was long gone, discarded like a cloak full of holes. The monster was laid bare. What he saw now was James Moriarty as he always had been: the devious trickster full of cunning, wit, and a terrifying mind.
Moriarty had not come to play games. He had come to end them.
"Sit down, would you, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice a husky, deep tone.
"An hour between us?"
"An hour to decide," Moriarty replied, setting the game clock, which read 01:00:00 on both sides. Then he gingerly touched the gun. "Winner gets this. Loser . . . loser gets what's coming to him." The criminal's gaze was fierce. His right eyebrow curled cruelly, and his mouth opened in a slight smile, exposing his devilish white teeth.
Sherlock did not break his gaze.
"The phone?" he cut in, his eyes sharpening.
"Right here," Moriarty almost laughed, patting a pocket in his thin jacket. "You get it if you get this," he hissed, once more touching his fingertips to the pistol.
"Who says I won't take it from you now?" Sherlock retorted.
"You won't, because you have to prove you're smarter than I am first. You're not the type to start a brawl. You're predictable. And predictable's got an hour to prove his salt."
Sherlock swallowed. He let his eyes linger on the board. Sixty-four squares. Infinite possibilities. Chess wasn't a game. It was a puzzle. If you were clever enough, it was a puzzle you could work to your advantage.
"So let's begin. I'll play black," the detective declared, rolling up his sleeves and settling in his chair. Moriarty laughed as he took his side on the end of the board with the white pieces.
"Ohh, boy," he chuckled. "Feeling confident, are you? Just remember, Sherlock. If I land checkmate . . . off you pop."
"White has the first move," Sherlock snapped, his gaze unflinching.
Moriarty's eyes never left Sherlock's as he reached out to play the first move of the game.
D4.
Queen's pawn opening, Sherlock thought to himself, his mind turning over the possibilities. You can never go wrong with a King's Indian.
Knight to f6.
Instantly, Moriarty returned with c4. There was little to do in the way of disturbing this man's repertoire. He undoubtedly understood his openings. His knowledge of the King's Indian felt secure. Of that Sherlock was certain.
They carried on listlessly for a few moves.
G6, knight to c3, bishop to g7, e4, d6, knight to f3.
Sherlock castled on the king side, establishing security and stability early in the game. Moriarty scoffed at his convention.
"Playing it safe, are we?" he mocked. "Good principles. Keep your king in the castle, Sherlock. It's a good rule. It's just too bad the queen can't go with him. Usually . . . she does all the work."
Sherlock remained silent. His skill on the board would compensate for his lack of petty banter. He had nothing to say that would not be spoken in his deliverance of checkmate.
They continued.
Bishop to e2, Sherlock returned with e5, and Moriarty likewise castled on the king side. Sherlock brought out his knight to c6. After letting out a bored sigh, Moriarty attacked it with d5. The knight retreated to e7. Moriarty's knight on f3 dropped back to d2. It was all getting just a bit more complex now. The position was still closed, but the possibilities were becoming more interesting.
Sherlock's brow furrowed and he glanced at his side of the clock. 00:57:21. He'd only taken three minutes of his time. His management was good, his position was still neutral, and he had options. He dropped his other knight on f6 back to e8.
"You're knights belong in the center, Sherlock, not stuck on top of each other."
"Ever heard of a knight pair?" he parried, his tone spiking.
"I'm beginning to wonder if you actually know what that is."
He wouldn't be rattled. Not now. He could see the position's potential. It could turn in his favor, even if his pieces were on the more passive side at present. He felt Moriarty looking at him, goading him, but he kept his eyes on the board. The pieces were all that mattered now, not the words. A plan was coming into his mind.
Moriarty's pawns were marching ominously into his territory, but he would break open. After a brief pause, his opponent played a simple pawn move: b4. Sherlock replied with f5.
Let's open up the rook's file, shall we? he thought to himself, knowing that since Moriarty wouldn't take (which would honestly have been a terrible move), he could at least convert it into a passed pawn. Moriarty did in fact choose not to take and replied instead with a pawn push of his own: c5. With b4 defending, there was little Sherlock could do against it. So, he brought his knight on e8 back to where it had been on f6.
"Make up your mind where you want it," Moriarty sneered under his breath as he played his move: f3. Sherlock said nothing in response, knowing his knight pair would be the making of the entire game . . . if he let them be.
The detective locked the pawn structure with f4, having arranged three solid locked pawns for himself down the center of the board. If he didn't do something, it would be the end of his bishop on c8, which would have nowhere to go besides d7.
"Locked pawns either win the game or they just make you look stupid," Moriarty laughed to himself. "We've both got some, haven't we?" he asked, laughing again. This time, a bit of his maniacal enjoyment escaped in his words. It chilled Sherlock to the bone, and he did not laugh. His eyes remained glued to the squares, his hands tapping the wooden table pensively. He glanced at the gun, and his heart almost gave out.
That was it.
This was it.
He had to win this game. There was no alternative.
He thought of John. He thought of Irene. Hamish. Mary. Rosie Watson. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. Everyone.
Everyone.
Everyone depends upon the outcome of this game. And I'm the only one who can give it to them. Oh God help me, I'm the only one.
"My move, then," Moriarty said, to no one in particular. This was stupid, juvenile. Something out of a book. Playing chess to save the end of all things. Sherlock felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. He breathed evenly through his mouth, determined not to let his rising anxiety show. He watched as Moriarty brought his knight on d2 out to c4.
Not terribly aggressive, Sherlock instantly thought. And his knights are on top of each other now. He paused a moment, considered his options. I may as well push a pawn, he considered. This he did, playing g5. Moriarty played a4. Sherlock brought out his other knight on e7 forward to g6.
"They're still next to each other," Moriarty remarked about the black knights, rolling his eyes frustratedly. Sherlock said nothing, but he smirked some . . . just some. This game was far from over, but if his plan was formulating properly, he had more than a chance.
"So are yours," he snapped, noticing Moriarty's knights on c3 and c4. They both went quiet for the next ten moves.
Moriarty played bishop to a3, then Sherlock countered with rook to f7, and so they continued. B5, Sherlock captured the pawn on c5, Moriarty's bishop captured the pawn on c5, and Sherlock calmly played h5. Moriarty pushed his pawn on the a-file to a5.
There was a slight pause between this move and the next. Moriarty looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze as he tapped his end of the clock with an outstretched index finger. The detective worked hard to focus his energies on the board instead of the madman grilling him with a horrific glare across the table.
"Your move."
"I'm allowed a minute."
"You're allowed the amount of time left. Just don't waste it and don't lose. And don't die."
Sweat. Sweat was breaking out everywhere on his head, and he was tempted to dab at it. He felt Moriarty's gaze shift to his brow, which he knew by now was likely displaying minute, shimmering beads of perspiration. He heard a low chuckle from the other end of the table.
He said nothing and played g4, again putting pressure on the f-file.
"You want your rooks open pretty badly, don't you?" Moriarty asked as he casually played b6, completely ignoring Sherlock's previous move.
Now he has a pawn on the sixth rank, Sherlock reasoned. But he's completely forgotten the kingside. It's vulnerable . . . vulnerable and utterly exposed to g3.
He allowed himself the smallest of grins as he played g3, pushing his pawn and blatantly attacking the otherwise unguarded kingside defense. He allowed himself one smug grin.
"Missed something," Sherlock remarked as he pressed the timer gently. His tone was even and careless, but there was triumph in it. His calm grin was communication enough. Moriarty sniffed slightly. He itched an eyebrow.
He's forgotten g3 and then h2. How could he forget the possibility of h2? Sherlock cleared his throat. Moriarty's forgotten to guard against h2. It's Christmas.
Without so much as a second glance, Moriarty evacuated his king to a safer square: h1. It prevented h2, but would not completely stop it. Sherlock brought his fingertips together and studied the board. A simple bishop move should heat things up.
Bishop to f8, offering a trade. He'll decline it of course.
And decline it Moriarty did. With a quick jerk of his hand, he pushed his d-pawn to d6, attacking white's pawn structure.
Sherlock wanted to guffaw. Please, he thought. Hardly an attack. Now the pressure's on.
He took the pawn on b6, hoping to open up his rook on the a-file. Moriarty exhaled through his mouth.
"I'm not trading rooks with you, Sherlock Holmes."
"That's a safe idea."
Refusing to look up from the board, Moriarty brought his bishop all the way back to g1 with a frustrated flourish. At this, Sherlock could no longer restrain himself.
He proclaimed his next move aloud. He'd seen it before Moriarty had even played his bishop move.
"Knight to h4," he almost yelled, restraining himself as he saw an attack formulating in his mind. Possibilities. Puzzles. Work them to your advantage.
"Don't preen yourself. Knight to h4 is decent, not special."
"Take your time on your next move. You'll need it."
"Stop talking."
Sherlock promptly put his fingers together, tapped them lightly, and licked his lips. He was winning. His position was far better. He saw queen sacrifices—possibly a lot of them, if Moriarty wasn't too greedy. Knight sacrifices would break open the kingside, allowing his rook to attack. This was his game. He knew it. This had to be his game.
It was his game.
It was John's game.
Mycroft's game.
London's game.
His son's game.
Irene's game.
When Sherlock thought of her lying in that bed, the breath barely floating in and out of her mouth . . . his fingers began to tap with agitation on the wooden table, and his knowledge of the game expanded. If this move, then here. If here, then here. If trades here, then here. If there, then here. He was calculating. He was winning . . . and he would not let himself stop.
Moriarty finally played rook to e1.
He had not prepared for this move. In all actuality, he had not considered it more than once. He almost laughed as he saw it played, not because of its stupidity, but because of its improbability. Of all the moves Moriarty could have played, why rook e1? It opened up so much—too much—for Sherlock, and the attack was ready. The pieces were set. The time for victory had finally arrived.
"Knight to g2," Sherlock blurted, taking less than a second to make his decision. He'd planned for this.
Moriarty laughed, and for a brief moment Sherlock's stomach lurched.
"You didn't see c7, Sherlock . . ." he sang, attacking the detective's queen with a dedicated lunacy. He also offered a queen trade, which, if accepted, would give him a highly satisfactory position.
Sherlock grinned, a small chuckle escaping his open mouth.
"No . . . you don't understand," he replied, a smile gracing his mouth. "But I did see c7."
He simply captured the rook on e1, leaving his queen to hang defenselessly.
Horrified, Moriarty stared for a long, breath-catching moment. Sherlock Holmes was offering up his queen. Sherlock Holmes just hung his most powerful piece. He sat for a long while, his fingers hovering over the pawn on c7, practically drooling for the free queen.
Sherlock prayed he wouldn't see it. Just take my queen, he pleaded. Take my queen, and it's checkmate. Take my queen . . . and the game is over. Pawn to g2 is checkmate.
He watched as Moriarty studied the board, his eyes never blinking. Don't see it. Don't see it. But it was too obvious. He knew it was too obvious. He wouldn't be that lucky. He wasn't even surprised when Moriarty began to laugh.
"You didn't really think I was going to take that, did you?" Moriarty scoffed, his queen capturing the knight on e1instead. Despite Moriarty's nonchalance, Sherlock could see his frustration at having lost a rook for nothing.
"No, I was hoping you wouldn't, actually," Sherlock countered, proceeding to give the check on g2.
Moriarty's only move was to take the pawn with his king, which clearly irritated him. His kingside was completely open, and his king was being tossed around and dominated by Sherlock's checks. He rubbed his forehead. Sherlock watched as his opponent finally began to sweat.
Another check: rook to g7.
Forced to move his king out of danger, Moriarty begrudgingly brought his king back to h1, clearing his throat as he did so.
His king is in the corner, Sherlock thought to himself. The rest of this ought to be simple. He doesn't want it to be, but it should be.
"So I'm assuming you know all about the Ukrainian then?" Moriarty suddenly asked, the question coming terribly far out of context.
"What kind of question is that?"
"A question."
"Of course, I do."
"Do you?"
Should he say more? That was only half true. He knew about the affair. The parliament member whose adulterous husband had almost made national news and international scandal. He knew of Irene's involvement in it. But that was years ago. That wasn't now.
Beyond that, neither Mycroft nor Irene herself had told him anything.
"Do you know what she did to him in bed? Or that the parliament member was an old rival of hers?"
Sherlock feigned disinterest. The board. The board needs your attention. What's done is done. What's now is the game. Play the damned game. Finish it. Finish him.
"Eliza Munson. Practically tortured your wife throughout her years at an all-girls boarding school. Blackmailed her. Abused her. That was before she was anyone special."
My next move. What's my next move? Don't listen to another word. You're running out of time, and you need to make a move. Your queen is in danger. Leave it there. Sacrifice it again. Get him talking and threaten mate once more.
"Really?" Sherlock asked, casually playing bishop to h3, again threatening mate but also leaving his queen hanging and up for grabs.
"Oh yes," Moriarty went on, reaching for the pawn to capture Sherlock's queen. "But then she—" he stopped. Looking at the position again, his hand immediately recoiled from the board, almost disgusted he was about to fall for another of the detective's queen sacrifices.
"Clever," he admitted, before bringing his light squared bishop to f1.
"So is this," Sherlock countered, bringing his queen right into the line of fire: queen to d3.
"You expect me to take that?" Moriarty laughed, moving his knight to e5 and capturing a pawn. Now he was truly attacking the queen and Sherlock had to answer for it. He rubbed his sweaty forehead. Moriarty's knight and bishop were attacking his queen, and he had to find a way out. Was he trapped?
Figure 6: White (Moriarty) plays Nxe5. Black (Sherlock) to move.
Sherlock sniffed and checked his watch as though nothing of consequence was happening. He studied the board without looking up, and an idea came to him. An irresistible, clever idea. But would it go unnoticed this time?
Before he could spare a moment to execute it, Moriarty started talking.
"Munson went into politics and got herself engaged to the Ukrainian official Dobroshtan," he suddenly said. Sherlock wished he could shoot him now. Moriarty huffed a small laugh. "Dobroshtan . . . the name literally means 'good pants' in Ukrainian. Apparently, your wife thought so, too. You know what she did once she got her reputation?"
"Irrelevant."
"She weaseled her way into Dobroshtan's bed and took pictures of the whole business. Mortified Munson. Sent the country scrambling the way only a good sexy scandal can. I've bet you always wanted to know . . ." he practically sang.
Sherlock felt his opponent's eyes ripping him apart. He had a disconcerting impulse to vomit. His head felt like a bowling ball on his neck. He swallowed, his lips begging to tremble.
"The woman made her old school rival bow," Moriarty continued. "She shredded any hope of a marriage into bits. She snapped whatever career she was hoping for in half. I mean, that's one way to do it," Moriarty said, snickering as Sherlock said nothing, cold sweat breaking out on his brow.
That was then. That was then. That's not now. That's not . . . not . . . not now.
"Still think you ought to take sides?" Moriarty asked, his tone growing dark and husky.
Sherlock's eyes snapped up, not wasting any time in returning the challenge. He played bishop takes on f1 with an alarming speed.
"I've made my choice and it's your damned turn. Make a move," Sherlock hissed, bringing his fist down on the edge of the table with a quiet rage. The pieces on the board shook slightly.
His opponent said nothing, but he raised a precarious eyebrow. Something tugged at the corner of Moriarty's mouth, and he cleared his throat as though he were almost offended.
"And you hung a queen," Moriarty replied, snatching Sherlock's most valuable piece off the board with a delighted flourish. "Didn't mean to get you riled, Sherlock. It's just so easy what with you being married and all. You're all soft—"
"And you've just hung mate," Sherlock replied, playing bishop to g2 before the words were even out of Moriarty's mouth.
"Checkmate."
"Honestly, I don't blame you for being angry," Sherlock conceded, seizing the pistol with his right hand as Moriarty's face melted into an expression of panicked defeat. "Bishop g1 was an obvious mistake at, I believe, move twenty-two. Seeing as it put your king in the corner—a beginner's habit, by the way—you simply took away your own escape squares."
Moriarty inhaled, his eyebrows a puzzled mess on his forehead.
"That's not—"
"No, it is. It is checkmate, which means I've won and you've lost. And, if I've won, then I get this," he exclaimed, seizing the pistol with his right hand as Moriarty continued to stare expressionlessly at the board.
"But that's . . . you're—"
"The honest winner of this contest, and I'm not taking any chances," Sherlock spat, cocking the gun and aiming it between the man's eyes. He squeaked and threw up his hands.
"Now, Sherlock . . . come on, now. Be reasonable."
"The phone. Now," he ordered, never lowering the gun's aim.
"I wish I knew where it was . . ."
Sherlock's mind felt blank. His hands grew wet around the gun.
"You said you had it there!" he yelled, pointing the gun at the pocket Moriarty had gestured to before the game.
"Sometimes lying is useful . . ." Moriarty droned, pausing and acting as though he were deep in thought. "And when have you ever known me to tell the whole truth, Sherlock? I think you've got fifteen minutes, by the way. Maybe less than that. Probably ten. Ish. I don't remember."
"Where is it!?" he demanded, finding that his pulse was accelerating and his temples pounding. He was panicking.
No. This wasn't panic. This was horror.
"Okay, okay!" Moriarty mocked, throwing up his hands and assuming the air of an annoyed adolescent. "I've got it around this sodding hospital somewhere, but I can't really remember, to be honest. I might have it in my jacket someplace, actually, but you know how it is when you forget something so trivial."
"Take off your jacket."
"You've got the gun. Why are you ordering me around? Shoot me and take the nick-knack off my corpse."
"You don't get to die today. You have lives to pay for."
"Ohhhh, come on, really?" he moaned pathetically. "Justice and all that rot? Oh God, Sherlock, it's so boring. I would've thought you'd kill me and get it done with. But that's too much to ask, isn't it? I mean, if I don't go to heaven, I'll be getting my just desserts, won't I?" he asked, and Sherlock felt disgusted at the realization that he was negotiatinghis very existence.
"Shut up and take off your jacket. I won't ask you again."
"Or what?"
"Or I will shoot you."
"I mean, I'm not opposed to that."
Sherlock paused.
"Why?"
"Because I told you this was the day we went to hell. Remember?"
Then Sherlock's mind cleared. In that moment he understood, and he was not prepared to be taken for a fool. The fool Moriarty thought he was. He understood. Understood perfectly. In two strides he was glaring into Moriarty's black, beady eyes and aiming the gun up into his chest. The gun's backside was pointed down into Sherlock's thigh, and he pulled the trigger.
With a bolt of what felt like fire and lightning, Sherlock fell to the floor, Moriarty landing on top of him. The gun fired on both sides. I pull and we're both shot. He heard the sharp clink of a single bullet clattering to the floor. But only one. Two bullets had fired, but only one had gone through. Moriarty's bullet had found its resting place somewhere in his chest. The man was screaming, howling with rage.
"Sherlock! Sherlock! You missed! YOU MISSED!"
"I didn't miss! You're dying, Moriarty! You're dying!"
"I'll make the shot for you, then," Moriarty grunted, grabbing for the gun on the floor where it had landed.
"NO!" Sherlock cried, kneeing him hard in the stomach with his good leg. The pain from that single exertion alone nearly ripped him in half.
Moriarty doubled over, coughing blood. His chest was blooming with red ink, and he held his hand over his chest. In one swift motion, he brought his hand down onto Sherlock's middle, and a sudden sharp pain pierced the detective's stomach.
His mouth shot open in a silent scream.
It was a thin knife, and it was sticking out of his abdomen.
"We're going to hell, Sherlock. We're going to hell, just like I told you! Just like I told you! Are you ready?"
"No . . . NO!" Sherlock grunted, pulling the knife from his stomach with a ghastly cry of indignance and horror. It spun on the ground as he threw it, clattering and throwing blood as it spun, like some grotesque form of painting.
With all his strength, he went to his knees, squinting from the excruciating pain in his leg and stomach, and fell atop Moriarty, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. In a fit of euphoric exultance, his hands wrapped around an object that felt unmistakably like a mobile phone. It was here. It was here!
"No, no, NO!" Moriarty raged. Sherlock saw the light in his eyes was dying. Moriarty's bloody hands gripped Sherlock's in an effort to rend the phone from his grasp.
There was blood spilling from his thigh and his belly, but there was still a fire in his chest. Sherlock was wounded. He wasn't dying today.
"Close your eyes," Moriarty droned, strapping his red hands onto Sherlock's face as the detective struggled on the floor for freedom from Moriarty's writhing, decaying body.
"NO!" Sherlock screamed again, driving his good knee into Moriarty's stomach once. The criminal heaved then, more blood spilling out of his mouth and dribbling onto Sherlock's face.
"You killed me! You don't get to live if I die, Sherlock Holmes! You're dying! Accept it! There's no way to run from this one. Can't you feel it? The fires of hell are already warming your cold bones. Just die!"
Sherlock felt his eyes dimming. His hands grew weaker. The blood he was losing . . . was this really going to kill him? Is this really how he was going to die? He would die . . . and London would die with him?
"You don't get to live if I die, Sherlock Holmes!" Moriarty screamed again, his eyes maniacally wide and looking frantically into Sherlock's.
He knows he's been beaten, Sherlock thought. He inhaled, filling his lungs with a new strength. He clutched the phone in his bloody hands and shoved Moriarty's dying body onto the floor. The man reached drunkenly for Sherlock as he staggered away—clawing, grasping the air.
"SHERLOCK!" he screamed, now clutching the bleeding wound in his chest with both hands. His breath was dying down. His eyes looked like they had gone blind.
Sherlock half-crawled, half wormed his way away from the moribund creature breathing its last wretched gasps of air.
"Devil take you for all you've done," Sherlock whispered under his breath. Watching Moriarty's end was like watching a dragon rasp out its last horrifying, fiery breaths. It was like watching a parasite squirm underneath the boot of its host.
Sherlock felt tears on his face. His bloody hands held his head as he let water quietly drip from his eyes, the source of which he couldn't seem to wrap his mind around. Like the wall of a dam breaking, everything was ending at once. And he wept because of it.
After he had staggered far enough away, he turned with bleary, wet eyes and beheld the lifeless corpse of James Moriarty on the concrete floor. The dragon moved no longer. The parasite ceased to draw breath. It was over and done.
He was dead. He was gone.
There are somethings which are either too holy or too abominable upon which to look with freedom, and James Moriarty's corpse was the latter. Sacred had never been a word Sherlock held with much reverence, but as this new physical revulsion plagued him, he realized he still had a conception of the sacredly disgusting.
Whosoever doeth these things is an abomination.
The detective turned away. Abominations are ghastly things to behold.
Fumbling with the phone he pulled from his pocket, he sucked in his breath as he realized he had only four minutes until detonation. Activating his ear piece, his shaking voice cried out for the reply of his big brother.
"Mycroft? Mycroft are you there?"
"Sherlock! Thank heaven. I thought you dead. Where are you?" Mycroft's words sent a strange flush into Sherlock's cheeks, and for once he didn't mind admitting to himself that hearing his brother's voice and relief gave him pride.
"That doesn't matter now," he replied, getting straight to business. "I have the phone, Moriarty's dead, and we have to finish this quickly. Are you in position?"
"I am. Positioned and prepared. We have four minutes. You certainly know how to cut it close, brother mine."
"I know," Sherlock replied. He rested his head on the floor. He held his breath as he shifted his weight, careful to position himself in a way that didn't completely terrorize his open wounds.
"Were you able to create the diversion?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the dizziness that was beginning to set in. He just wanted to sleep.
"You mean Minos? Yes, I was," Mycroft replied. "We had a couple of professionals engineer the car wreck. The entire city is blocked off around St. Paul's No one's being allowed in, and the immediate blast vicinity is cleared."
"Cleared of everyone except you," Sherlock remarked. "Oh God, now we've three minutes left. Is this how it is to end, Mycroft?"
"What the devil is that supposed to mean? If you mean to say is this how we win, then yes. It is," his brother uttered, and Sherlock heard the smallest hesitation in his voice.
"Mycroft, if things go in an unexpected fashion—"
"Nonsense."
"But if they do—"
"They won't, Sherlock. That's simply out of the question."
"Would you shut up for a single moment and let me say something? We've two and a half minutes left and there's something I will say to you before that allotted time expires."
Mycroft said nothing for a moment, but Sherlock could hear his brother's open mouth. Mycroft wasn't silent with rage. He was silent with fear. Vulnerability.
"Then by all means, say it, Sherlock."
Sherlock breathed through his nose.
"All my life you've loomed over me like a shadow. Always there—always a standard I could never seem to attain. I was afraid of you for years," (here Mycroft laughed softly on his end of the phone) "I hated the idea of being eclipsed by you, which I persistently was. All I ever wanted was to prove to you what I was worth. Do you see that now? Do you see? Truly? It was only ever because I admired you. I wanted to show you what I was capable of. It was only . . . it was only because I held you in such high esteem. Seeing as I might slip into a coma after this is all over, I may as well say that I not only hold you in high esteem, but that I've always truly cared for you, Mycroft. Dare I say it, I've always loved you, brother dear. I still do. Very much."
Unable to be overcome by embarrassment or indignation at himself, Sherlock simply waited through the silence from the other end of the phone. He knew Mycroft had hardly anticipated such words from his little brother, but regardless: he'd spoken them. In something of an agony, he waited for Mycroft to say something.
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something more, but Mycroft was already speaking in a low voice.
"And I you, Sherlock . . . and I you. And believe me, you've demonstrated your remarkable capabilities beyond anything I've ever imagined."
Sherlock's eyes widened a touch and he felt a small rush of something warm through his veins. He cleared his throat, the water again coming to his eyes. His lips formed into a weary smile.
"Thank you, Mycroft. Thank you."
"Not at all, brother mine. Not at all," Mycroft replied.
"How much time do we have?" Sherlock eyed the phone in his hands and switched it on. The detonator read thirty seconds.
"Thirty seconds. Now twenty-nine," Mycroft droned, as though he were not about to diffuse a bomb he was standing directly in front of. If this failed . . . Sherlock couldn't let himself think for once. It wouldn't fail.
"Shall we count down in time?" Sherlock asked, watching the timer tick down. He knew Mycroft could see the timer directly in front of him as well, and they had to diffuse it at the same time. Precisely five seconds before the explosion. They had to be precise.
"Yes, let's," Mycroft said, clearing his throat and leading his brother on. Sherlock felt pearls of sweat budding on his forehead for the nth time that evening. His hands trembled as he held the phone, finger over the cancellation command.
"I'll say now instead of five."
"Yes, my thoughts exactly."
"And then we'll both do it."
"Yes, of course," Sherlock hastily replied.
"Alright then, at ten we'll start counting together."
Sherlock knew Mycroft's scissors were poised on the proper wire, ready to cut when the time was right. Similarly, Sherlock's finger hovered over the deactivator.
"And . . ." Mycroft started, and they both continued:
"Ten."
Oh God, don't let Mycroft die, Sherlock silently prayed, his head hammering and his finger trembling. Would his finger be too sweaty? Would it slip? Would this be the end? Was this detonator a fake?
"Nine"
I've told him. At least I've told him. That's what's mattered, Sherlock continued to think to himself. Mycroft knew. Mycroft knew he loved him.
"Eight."
Eurus will either laugh or cry at the news. Surely, if we're lucky, she'll do both. Oh God, let us be lucky. His mouth went dry, but he continued to count to the rhythm of Mycroft's voice.
"Seven."
Hamish will have a fine uncle, Sherlock's thoughts raged on. He will know him. He will love him. With all his flaws. His heart was pounding into his mouth, and he thought his body might go into convulsions.
"Six."
Oh God, don't take this from us. Let us live. Let us live!
"NOW!"
As he thought his brain was about to burst, Sherlock pressed the button.
"MYCROFT! MYCROFT!" he screamed as he did so. His wet eyes were wide and shone in the dim light from the phone he held, and his mouth lay open in a frenzy of panic. "MYCROFT!"
"It's done," came the broken, withering voice of Mycroft Holmes on the other line. "We did it," he gasped, and Sherlock thought he heard the presence of tears in his voice. "You did it, Sherlock. You've done it. It's over. We've won."
"It worked? Oh my God, it worked?" Sherlock asked, half crying half laughing into the phone. "Oh, Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed, now crying as he said it. He listened as Mycroft did nothing but weep silently into the receiver, the two of them speechless and hearing the other cry.
And Sherlock Holmes lay on the floor, coughing every few seconds. His sweat mixed with his tears on the concrete. The blood on his hands was drying and cracking.
He was lying with his ear to his phone on top a pool of blood when John Watson ran in the room with a team of nurses.
"Sherlock!" he screamed as he burst through the door. "Is it done? Did we win? What's happened? Sherlock! Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, you're bleeding!"
"It's done, John," he whispered, his voice giving out even as he spoke the words. "It's . . . it's done."