A few hours later, Sherlock had headed out of the flat for some reason that he refused to tell Max or John, leaving the two of them alone in the flat. Max had helped herself to some vanilla ice cream- hopefully Sherlock wouldn't notice- as John typed on his laptop, probably writing up their last case. The windows were still blown out, so they were both bundled up in their coats to keep warm, sitting across from each other at the dining table.

"I can't believe you're eating ice cream when it's this cold," John grumbled.

Max shrugged. "I like ice cream," she said simply.

It seemed like John was going to say something else, but he decided not to and turned back to his computer instead...

... only to slam the laptop closed and push it away.

"We need to talk," he stated.

Max looked at him in surprise. "Uh... okay," she agreed. "About what?"

John sighed wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Out of all the people in London... you choose Sherlock?" he demanded. "Sherlock Holmes?"

She groaned, hiding her head in her hands. "John-" she started.

He held up a hand, gesturing for silence. "No, listen to me," he interrupted. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You... you're good for him, that much is obvious, and in an odd way he's good for you too. The way he acts around you... it's different than anything I've seen, and that's coming from his bloody flatmate. And I think he makes you happy too... even though I honestly don't get how, but-"

Max gave him a look. "John, this is literally the most awkward conversation I've ever had," she interrupted. "Please, just... get to the point?"

John sighed. "Just... be careful, will you?" he requested. "Sherlock... you know how he gets."

She nodded. "I know," she replied.

He frowned. "I don't want you to get hurt, Max," he said. "Sherlock isn't the easiest person to get along with." He hesitated, gathering his thoughts. "Do you know what he said to me yesterday, before the gallery? Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

Max was silent for a few seconds as she took that in, but then she nodded. "I know what I'm getting into, John," she told him. "Don't worry." She smirked at him. "For the record, you suck at this."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up."

000

Some time later, Sherlock had returned to the flat and was sitting in his armchair, watching a TV show. John was still at the dining room table, but Max had joined Sherlock in front of the television, sitting next to him in John's armchair.

"No, no, no!" Sherlock shouted at the television. "Of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

John sighed. "Knew it was dangerous, getting you into crap telly," he grumbled.

Sherlock scoffed. "Not a patch on Connie Prince," he replied.

John cleared his throat, changing the subject. "Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yep," he answered. "He was over the moon. Threatened me with knighthood... again."

Max grinned. "Only you would be threatened by knighthood, Sherlock," she said. Sherlock scoffed.

Nobody spoke for a few seconds, but then John cleared his throat. "Y'know, Sherlock, I'm still waiting," he said.

Sherlock glanced over at him. "Hmm?" he asked.

John gave him a look. "For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker," he explained.

Max snorted in amusement, and Sherlock glared at her before turning his attention back to John. "Didn't do you any good, did it?" he retorted.

John grinned. "No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective," he pointed out.

Sherlock smiled back. "True," he conceded.

Max scoffed. "Thank God for that," she teased.

John rolled his eyes and stood up, closing his laptop as he did. "I won't be in for tea," he told them. "I'm going to Sarah's, there's still some of that risotto left in the fridge."

Max gave him a look. "You don't like risotto," she stated.

Sherlock scoffed. "It's because Sarah cooked it," he said.

John glared at him. "Hey-" he started, but he sighed when he realized that he couldn't argue with that. "Just, uh... we need milk."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll get some," he offered.

Both Max and John looked at him oddly. "Really?" John asked in surprise.

Sherlock nodded again. "Really," he answered.

John still looked dumbstruck. "And some beans, then?" he attempted.

Sherlock turned back to the TV. "Mm," he agreed.

It seemed like John was in shock- Max was too- but he nodded and began to head out the door, only to hesitate at the last moment. "Uh... y'know, after you two go to the store, maybe you can grab a bite to eat," he suggested.

Oh God...

Max glared at him, trying to get her message across to him with her eyes. "John, it's fine, really," she protested. I can do this myself, she was saying silently.

John looked from her to Sherlock- who hadn't turned away from the TV since the conversation began- then sighed. "Alright, alright," he said. "See you." He turned and headed out of the flat.

As soon as the door downstairs closed, Sherlock reached for his laptop and opened it, typing into his website. "We're not going grocery shopping, are we?" Max asked.

Sherlock nodded. "We're not," he agreed.

Max frowned. "So where are we going?' she asked.

In answer, Sherlock held out his laptop to her.

Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect.

The Pool. Midnight.

"... you didn't give the plans to Mycroft," Max stated.

Sherlock smirked. "Right again," he agreed. He closed his laptop and stood up, heading for the door. "Let's go, Max. We have an appointment to keep." With that, he walked out of the flat.

Max groaned, banging her head back against the chair. "Sherlock!" she shouted angrily, but she got to her feet and followed him out.

000

"This is a bad idea," Max grumbled.

She followed Sherlock as he opened a door leading into the area surrounding an indoor swimming pool. They had taken a cab over, and now they had reached their meeting place.

"Sherlock, there's still time to back out of this," she said.

He scoffed as they approached the shallow end of the pool. "And why would I want to?" he replied. He glanced up at the viewing gallery, but it didn't seem like anybody was there.

Max scowled at him. "Because people can die, Sherlock!" she hissed. "And it's government property!"

Completely ignoring her, Sherlock turned back to the pool, holding up the Bruce-Partington memory stick. "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present!" he called. "That's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance... all to distract me from this." He brandished the memory stick again, turning in a slow circle while waiting for a response.

Max sighed. "No going back now," she muttered.

A door halfway down the room opened when Sherlock's back was turned to the pool, and Max's eyes widened when she saw who stepped out. "Sherlock," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "Turn around."

He did as she said...

... and froze in place.

"Evening," John said.

He was wrapped snugly in a jacket, hands tucked securely into his pockets. He didn't move to walk closer to them, just stood tensely by the pool. Something was off.

Max frowned. "John, what are you doing here?" she asked. "I was joking about the risotto-"

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John interrupted, speaking tensely.

Sherlock scowled. "John, what the hell...?" he trailed off.

"Bet you never saw this coming," John continued.

Max gave him a look. "John, what's wrong?" she demanded.

Sherlock began walking closer to John, caution in his every step. Max knew exactly what he was thinking, because she was thinking it too; what was John doing? He was supposed to be at Sarah's, so why was he here?

She figured it out as soon as John pulled open his jacket, revealing the bomb strapped to his chest. From somewhere in the upper gallery, the red point from a sniper's laser began to dance over the bomb.

"No," Max breathed.

John stubbornly avoided meeting her gaze, or Sherlock's for that matter. "What... would you like me... to make him say... next?" he asked, narrating the words that were being fed to him from an earpiece. Sherlock continued approaching, looking around as he tried to see who else was in the area; Max, on the other hand, was frozen in shock, staring at John in horror. "Gottle o' geer, gottle o'geer, gottle o'geer..." His voice trembled.

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped.

John grimaced. "Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died," he told them. "I stopped him." He cringed. "I can stop John Watson too... Stop his heart."

And that was when Max had enough.

"That's it!" Max shouted angrily, breaking out of her shock. "If you're so smart, you don't need all these games and the secrecy! I'm getting John, right now!"

She stormed towards John, fully intent on ripping the bomb off of him, and that was enough for John to break his stoic facade. "Max, stop!" he shouted. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock grabbed her as she stormed past him, wrapping his arms around her to hold her back. "NO!" Max yelled, struggling against his arms. In any other situation she would have been able to enjoy Sherlock's embrace, but not when John was strapped to a bomb mere meters away from them. "Let me GO!"

But the sniper fired off a shot, and Max flinched as the bullet hit the concrete by John's feet; it was a warning, reminding them that John's life was in the hands of the mysterious man who had been stringing them along ever since that first explosion.

Max slumped, realizing that anything she did would just make it worse. Sherlock pulled her closer, his arms comforting now instead of restraining her. "Shh," he said quietly, close enough that she could feel his cheek against hers. "I know, it hurts. But please, follow my lead. Let me do the talking." Max hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you."

He pulled away, turning back to face John. "Who are you?" he called. "Show yourself!"

In answer, a door opened at the far end of the pool. "I gave you my number," a soft male voice said. Max caught a glimpse of a man wearing a suit and tie, but before she could make out any defining features, he was obscured by a column. "I thought you might call."

The man stepped out into the light, and Max recognized him instantly: Jim, Molly's boyfriend. But the man in front of them wasn't the clumsy, possibly-gay man who they had met in the lab; this was an immaculately-dressed man with carefully-arranged hair and cold, bottomless eyes.

"You've got to be kidding me," Max muttered.

He strolled towards them alongside the deep end of the pool, as if he were walking in the park. Max was torn between punching him in the face or hurling in the nearest garbage can. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" he asked casually.

Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out said pistol, aiming it at Jim. "Both," he answered coldly.

Jim stopped walking and looked at him, completely unafraid. "Jim Moriarty," he said, his voice cheerful. "Hi!"

So Sherlock had been right; the person behind all of this had been Moriarty. But he seemed far from pleased as he stared down his nemesis.

"Jim?" Moriarty questioned, as if he needed to remind Sherlock who he is. "From the hospital?" He began to walk closer to them again, looking at him in disappointment. "Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose that was rather the point."

Max glared at him. "Trust me, we remember you," she snapped.

Moriarty smiled. "Ah, of course, Max," he said. She flinched as his eyes focused on her. "The artist. You have the eyes of a painter; naturally you would recall the small details. Too bad you're not smart enough to put the puzzle pieces together."

Sherlock scowled and stepped in front of her, protecting her from Moriarty's gaze. "Leave her alone," he snapped. "She has nothing to do with this."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "Oh, but are you sure?" he asked. "Then why are you trying to protect her? Her and this one here." He nodded towards John, who was clenching his fists angrily, fighting the urge to jump into this. Sherlock looked at the bomb on John's chest questioningly, and Moriarty scoffed. "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

By this point he had reached the corner of the pool. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock," he told him. "Just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see..." He blinked in surprise, as if he had only just realized the connection. "... like you!"

Max scowled. "Sherlock is nothing like you, you basta-" she started.

"Oh, but is he?" Moriarty interrupted. "Sherlock knows I'm right. I'm always right."

Sherlock scoffed. ""Dear Jim,'" he said mockingly. "'Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?'" Moriarty kept walking, grinning as Sherlock made the connection. "'Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?'"

"Just so," Moriarty agreed happily.

Sherlock looked at him with a look that he had only ever given Max: respect. "Consulting criminal," he realized. "Brilliant."

Moriarty smiled proudly. "Isn't it?" he asked. "No one ever gets to me... and no one ever will."

In response, Sherlock cocked his pistol. "I did," he said.

Moriarty nodded indulgently. "You've come the closest," he admitted. "Now you're in my way."

Sherlock smirked. "Thank you," he replied.

Moriarty scoffed. "Didn't mean it as a compliment," he said.

Sherlock just gave him a look. "Yes you did," he told him.

Moriarty hesitated, then shrugged. "Yeah, okay, I did," he agreed. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock... Daddy's had enough now!"

He was getting closer now, even though he still hadn't reached where John was standing. Sherlock glanced back at Max to make sure that she was okay, then returned his attention to Moriarty. "I've shown you what I can do," Moriarty said. "I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty-million quid just to get you to come out and play." John closed his eyes, trembling slightly. Max looked at him in concern, resisting the urge to run up to him and get him far away from here; but that wasn't possible, and they all knew it. "So take this as a friendly warning, my dear: back off."

Moriarty smiled at them, sickeningly sweet. "Although I have loved this little game of ours," he continued. "Playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

Sherlock glared at him. "People have died," he stated.

And suddenly Moriarty's features distorted as he sneered at them, his eyes shining angrily. "That's what people DO!" he shouted, the last word echoing throughout the empty room.

Max flinched, but Sherlock just stared right back at him. "I will stop you," he said softly.

Moriarty gave him a small smile. "No, you won't," he replied.

Sherlock turned his attention to John, looking at him in concern. "You alright?" he asked.

John grimaced, clearly not allowed to talk, but Moriarty smirked at him as he reached his side. "You can talk, Johnny-boy," he said. "Go ahead."

Max felt a sour taste in her throat as Moriarty used her nickname for John, but John didn't react to it, making eye contact with Sherlock instead. He gave him a barely-perceptible nod, and Sherlock nodded back. Without a word, Sherlock took one hand off of the pistol and held out the memory stick to Moriarty. "Take it," he told him.

Moriarty blinked. "Huh?" he asked. "Oh! That!" He strolled past John and took the stick from Sherlock's fingers. "The missile plans!... Boring! I could've gotten them anywhere."

He tossed it into the pool.

Without hesitating, John rushed forward and slammed himself against Moriarty's back, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest. "Max, Sherlock, run!" he shouted.

Moriarty just laughed, clearly not concerned about this change of events. "Good!" he exclaimed happily. "Very good!"

Sherlock didn't move, still aiming his gun at Moriarty, but he glanced up anxiously, as if wondering what the hidden sniper would do. Max scowled at John. "We're not leaving without you, John!" she snapped.

John pulled Moriarty closer onto the bomb. "If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," he snarled.

Moriarty just laughed. "Isn't he sweet?" he said to Sherlock. "I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal." His expression darkened. "But, oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson." He chuckled, and John's eyes widened in horror. It took Max and Sherlock a second longer to realize what had just happened; the two of them had laser points on their foreheads now.

"Great," Max grumbled.

Moriarty grinned. "Gotcha!" he exclaimed.

Grudgingly, John stepped back, releasing Moriarty from his grasp. The consulting criminal smoothed out his suit. "Westwood!" he grumbled.

Max glared at him. "Maybe you shouldn't wear your good suits when you threaten someone's life," she snapped.

Moriarty scowled at her. "Sherlock, keep your pets under control," he said.

She bristled. "I'm nobody's pet-" she started.

"Hush now," Moriarty interrupted. He turned to Sherlock, completely ignoring her and John. "D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, let me guess: I get killed," he said flatly.

Moriarty grimaced. "Kill you?" he repeated in disgust. "N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no. If you don't stop prying... I'll burn you." He sneered at Sherlock viciously. "I'll burn the heart out of you."

Instead of getting unnerved, Sherlock just scoffed. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," he retorted.

But Moriarty simply smiled at him, as if he knew something that Sherlock didn't. "We both know that's not quite true," he said. Sherlock blinked in surprise, and Moriarty just shrugged. "Well, I'd better be off." He grinned at Sherlock. "So nice to have had a proper chat."

Max grimaced. "Can't say the same," she muttered.

Without warning, Sherlock raised his pistol higher, bringing it closer to Moriarty's head. "What if I was to shoot you now?" he asked coldly. "Right now?"

Moriarty grinned. "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," he answered. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock; really, I would." He screwed up his nose. "And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." He gave them a mock salute. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

With that, he started heading off.

Sherlock watched him go, his eyes trained on him. "Catch you later," he called.

Moriarty grinned as he walked through the door that he had come through. "No you won't!" he exclaimed. And then he was gone.

Instantly Max was rushing towards John, pulling him into a bone-breaking hug. "Oh my God, John, what the hell?!" she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

"Max-" John started.

"I'm never letting you out of my sight again!" she told him.

"Max-" John attempted.

"You could have died!" she interrupted. "Oh God, I think I'm gonna cry-"

Suddenly there was a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Max," Sherlock said calmly. "I need to get the bomb off."

Max sniffled. "Right," she agreed. "Sorry." She stepped back, wiping tears from her eyes.

Sherlock turned to John and dropped to his knees, urgently unfastening the vest to which the bomb was attached. "Alright?" he asked. John took a shuddering breath, trying to compose himself. "Are you alright?"

John blinked, bringing himself back to reality. "Y-yeah, I'm fine," he answered.

Something out of the corner of Max's eyes caught her attention, and she glanced at the ground to see that Sherlock had dropped his pistol. Trembling slightly, she bent down and picked it up, feeling her fingers close around the cold metal.

When she turned her attention back to the others, Sherlock had managed to get the vest off, and as she watched he threw it as far away along the floor as he can. "Jesus," John muttered, obviously still recovering.

Sherlock glanced at Max, and she wordlessly held out the pistol. He grabbed it from her and ran out the door that Moriarty had left... but she knew that he was long gone.

Suddenly John's knees buckled, but he caught himself at the last minute before he could fall. "Oh, John," Max said. She helped him over to the nearest support, which happened to be the edge of one of the changing cubicles.

"Christ," he muttered. "Jesus. Max, are you oka-"

Max pulled him into a hug again, and this time he returned it, pulling her close. "Don't you dare ask if I'm okay, John Watson," she said sharply. "I'm not the one who was just strapped to a bomb."

Before John could reply, Sherlock came back into the pool, shaking his head in disappointment. He started pacing, so distracted that he didn't even realize he was scratching his head with the wrong end of a cocked and loaded pistol.

"Sherlock!" Max exclaimed. He jumped, looking at her in surprise. "The gun?"

He lowered the gun. "Right," he agreed.

John looked at him in concern. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't even look at him, still pacing anxiously. "Me?" he repeated. "Yeah, I'm fine." He finally stopped pacing and turned to John, still breathless. "That... er... thing that you, er, that you did- that, um...you offered to do. That was, um... good."

Nobody spoke for a few seconds, but then John chuckled. "I'm glad no one saw that," he commented. Max and Sherlock looked at him oddly, and John nodded to Sherlock. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

Sherlock grinned, seeming to have returned to his senses. "People do little else," he replied.

They shared a look for a moment, taking a few seconds to comprehend that it was over. Then John burst out laughing, followed by Max, and Sherlock smiled indulgently.

But then the beam from a sniper's laser was back, pointing at John's chest. The smiles slid from their faces as they looked at it... and watched helplessly as the points began to multiply, two on John and Max each and at least three travelling on Sherlock's body. "Oh," John muttered.

The door at the deep end of the pool opened again, and Moriarty strode through, clapping his hands together gleefully. "Sorry boys!" he exclaimed. He nodded at Max. "And lady. I'm soooooo changeable!"

Max scowled. "Great," she grumbled. She saw Sherlock glance up into the gallery to try and judge how many snipers were there, but it was too dark to see anything.

Moriarty grinned. "It's a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it's my only weakness," he continued. He shrugged. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but..." He laughed. "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Sherlock looked at John, who met his gaze evenly. Without a word, John nodded.

And then he turned to Max, his face expressionless but his eyes saying it all. She knew what he was asking; he wanted permission to do what he had to. Max hesitated, then nodded. He gave her a small smile, then turned to face Moriarty.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock said.

He raised the pistol and aimed it at Moriarty, who just smiled confidently.

Slowly, he lowered the pistol downwards... aiming it right at the bomb jacket.

"Oh no," Max muttered.

All four sets of eyes locked onto the jacket. John pushed Max behind him, but she elbowed him out of the way, standing evenly between him and Sherlock. Moriarty eyed Sherlock carefully, looking anxious for the first time.

But then he lifted his gaze to Sherlock, locking eyes with him. Sherlock gazed back at him evenly, and Moriarty smiled, his eyes bright with the challenge.

The game was on.