And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Revelation 6:8

Sherlock's cry of stop! was drowned by the roar of the pistol. John staggered, as if he'd been punched, and a patch of scarlet bloomed on his shirt.

Then he buckled and fell.

Sherlock darted forward. Another shot exploded from Moran's pistol, but this one hit the ceiling, sending powdered plaster raining down on them. Sherlock stopped dead and Lestrade threw himself onto the floor, holding the back of his head. Then, coughing in the cloud of white dust, he crawled over to John.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath. John, despite the widening patch of dark blood on his shirt and the flecks at his grey lips, was conscious and trying to sit up. "No, stay down—" Lestrade gave him a brief and ungentle push. "Down. Now. And don't try to talk." He pulled off his scarf and wrapped it around his hand.

Sherlock, at gunpoint and in check, snarled at Moran like a trapped animal.

"No, I don't think so." Moran shook his head. "You can watch him die from over here. Inspector Lestrade, if you so much as think about calling for an ambulance, you'd better order two. And it won't be a torso shot this time—"

Sherlock lunged for Moran, but the distance between them was too great; Moran stepped backwards and re-aimed.

Sherlock spat at him.

"Charming," Moran said. He was smiling. "Learn that in finishing school, did we?"

"I swear I will cause you more pain and suffering than you could ever—"

Sherlock was cut off by a small sound in the dark doorway behind him. Small, but significant; a short, sharp click. And then a voice spoke from the shadows: "Sherlock, do get out of my line of fire."

Mycroft's hawk-like eyes glinted in the half-light, and the hand that held the pistol was still. "Four steps to your right should do it."

"Mycroft—"

"Move, Sherlock."

Moran shifted his own weapon and smiled, baring his teeth in a savage, wolfish way. Sherlock, staggering to his right until he felt the cool stone wall under his hot palms, thought it a smile that had revealed itself for what it truly was: a grimace of fear.

Moran feared no man but Mycroft Holmes. It was a fear he'd learned from James Moriarty, just as some wild creature learns to fear man from observing the fear of a parent. "Isn't a pen or a phone your usual choice of weapon, Mr Holmes?" he asked.

Mycroft shrugged, looking for all the world as if he was being bored to death in a Cabinet meeting. "There are always situations where a gun is mightier than a pen. Sherlock, go to John and render what assistance you can. Captain Moran, put your weapon on the floor."

Sherlock stumbled over to where John lay, with Lestrade still working over him. He saw how much blood Lestrade was kneeling in; how much was on the sopping scarf he was using to staunch the wound, and how much was still dribbling over his hands.

"John—no-no-no-no-no… John! He's dying, Lestrade…"

"He's not dying; calm down," Lestrade said. "I have no idea how in God's name you're here, but you need to help me, right?"

"What do I do.. what…"

"I need to get to my phone. Put your hands where mine are—press down—" Lestrade forced Sherlock's hands down onto the warm, soaked scarf. Blood oozed up through the webs of his fingers. He felt the irregular surge beneath his palms as John struggled to breathe. "Do not let up, no matter what. And keep talking."

"What do I talk about?"

"I couldn't care less—talk about the weather. Just keep talking, let him hear you."

John had his eyes closed; he made a monumental effort to open them, but Sherlock could tell by his unfocused pupils that he couldn't really see him. He swallowed. "John, I never intended for this to—"

"Not like that, you idiot! Keep it light—yes, hi, ambulance, please—" Lestrade got up and stood a few paces away, the better to hear the dispatcher. Sherlock tried again.

"So I can see from Lestrade's shoes that he's got a lady friend, and…" he was looking at the thick gold band on the third finger of John's left hand, now gummed over with blood. "And you and Molly… I suspected you might be stupid enough to marry her at some point, but—"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade interrupted him again. "I said, keep it light!"

"So I've written a little paper on cicadas that I thought you might be interested in having a look at," Sherlock continued, as if he hadn't heard Lestrade. "They have turquoise ones in Australia, and I've never seen those anywhere else—at least, not alive—they call them Blue Moon, and Mycroft hates them. Mycroft hated everything about Australia, which I'm sure you can appreciate was one of the things I liked best about living there…"

"Sherlock," Lestrade pulled the receiver away from his ear slightly. "Is he still responsive?"

"I don't know…" John had opened his eyes briefly on hearing his wife's name, but that had been all. Sherlock tapped down twice, gently, with his thumb. "John, how many taps?"

John curled back the far three fingers of his left hand.

"Responsive," Sherlock called across to Lestrade.

"Good. Just keep talking!"

"Put the gun down, Moran."

"Why?"

Mycroft sighed heavily. "If by that you mean, 'what is a good, logical reason for me to put the gun in my hand on the floor?', the answer is, 'because you've done what you came to do, and now the best thing to do to protect yourself would be to give yourself up peacefully.' If, on the other hand, you mean, 'what will be the consequence if I don't put the gun in my hand on the floor?', then the answer is, 'I'm going to shoot you.'"

Moran frowned. He'd long lost Mycroft's train of argument, and the only thing that really registered with him was I'm going to shoot you. He shifted the gun in his hand. "You really want to take the risk that I won't shoot you first?"

"I can determine everything that a man will do at least five seconds before he does it. Given that, I rather think that there's far more risk in this for you."

"I'm one of the world's best shots." There was a little shake in Moran's voice. "You do know that, don't you? Can pick the eye off a sparrow at fifty yards."

"Not without a sight, you can't," Mycroft reminded him. "And certainly not with a pistol. You were a sniper; I suspect that with a handgun you're no better a shot than any average gunman. And with a rifle, well..." He smiled. "You're one of the world's best. You would have served Moriarty far better if you hadn't been foolish enough to let that be known. When military intelligence finds out we have a rogue ex-soldier who's rather a good shot, we train up people to balance that."

"I'm good."

"I'm better. Put the gun down. Now."

Moran flinched, but he shook his head. Mycroft clicked his tongue and sighed. "Moran, I very much doubt you'll go to prison for this, given the state of your mental health," he said, in tones that were as close to 'gentle' as he was capable of using. "You aren't feeling well. And you haven't really felt well since Kosovo, have you?"

Moran flinched again. Mycroft knew that expression well. It was the same that he'd seen on the face of John Watson, the first time he'd said the words "post-traumatic stress disorder" to him.

"You've been in torment for a very long time, I think," he continued softly. "Since well before James Moriarty took advantage of you."

"He didn't take advant—"

"Oh, I rather think he did." Mycroft smiled ruefully, as though he and Moran had a charming secret between them. "And there's more than one meaning to that expression, isn't there, now?"

Moran took a step back, blinking in confusion. "What's that mean?" he wanted to know. "Are you—are you calling me gay or something?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I can assure you, we don't want you in the club, either," he said. "You're horrified at being identified as James Moriarty's lover, when there's a man on the floor who might die because you shot him—carry on, Sherlock…" This as he perceived his brother had overheard that comment, in between a non-stop stream of telling John all about how aggressive Funnel-Web Spiders were, and how much he'd have loved Mycroft's reaction on finding one in his bathroom. I don't know what all the complaining was about, John, it was in a jar...

"Oh for God's sake!" Lestrade suddenly snapped down the line. "It's Battersea bloody Power Station, I've told you that twice, get the bloody ambulance here now…"

Mycroft took a deep breath and a step toward Moran, who did not back away. "Come on, Sebastian," he said kindly. "It's over. Put the gun down."

"And then what?"

"And then I promise—on my mother's grave—that I'll do everything necessary to get you the help that you so clearly need. Counselling. Medication. There are options for you."

"If I go to prison—"

Mycroft shook his head. "You won't go to prison. I promise you won't. Not with a clear case of PTSD… they don't put people in prison for being ill. You'll be helped, not punished. But I can only guarantee that if you put the gun on the floor now."

For a few moments the only sound was Sherlock, behind Moran, still dutifully regaling John with the long and involved tale of his two nights with the God-Botherers of Southwark, and what he thought of that fool, Tait, the verger. Moran relaxed his right hand. The gun clattered to the floor and skittered a yard or two.

Mycroft sighed. "I said put, not drop," he said. "You're about as useful at following detailed instructions as my brother is. Take four steps to your left, please."

Hands raised in submission, Moran did so.

And this time, both Sherlock and Lestrade hit the floor as the kill-shot rang out. Sebastian Moran crashed to the floor with a sickening thud.

"Jesus!" Lestrade exclaimed. He was still on the phone, clutching it like a lifeline between white-knuckled fingers. "Oh, Christ… no, I'm fine, I'm not hurt…"

Mycroft put his own gun on the floor. Then he stalked over to where Moran lay in his own blood and turned the body over with one foot, inspecting the mince where the man's face had once been.

Torso shots were not Mycroft Holmes' forte.

"Quite dead," he said, as if Lestrade had asked him. "Tell them."

Lestrade was now relaying that a second person had been shot and was dead when, hands still pressed against the gushing wound to John's chest, Sherlock gave a cry of alarm: "He's not breathing!"

Lestrade put the phone down on the floor and dropped down beside John again. "Keep your hands there, Sherlock, don't move them…" He took John's pulse at the neck, then tilted his head back slightly. "Shit," he muttered. "Mycroft, I need some help over here, since your brother is a bloody idiot who doesn't know basic first aid…"

It was another eight minutes before the EMTs arrived and took stock of who was dead and who was not. Mycroft got up from the floor with stiff difficulty and went over to one corner, hands held where they could be seen; he knew the police were sure to be right behind to arrest him. Sherlock did not get up so readily.

"Let these guys do their jobs," Lestrade told him, pulling him to his unsteady feet. "Great work from you, but let them take over. They know what they're doing."

"Have you got any idea how many stupid people are out there?" Sherlock put one bloodstained hand to his temple, as if to run it through his hair. "How many people don't know what they're doing?"

"These guys do. They're better at CPR than me and Mycroft are, anyway…" Lestrade was watching 'these guys' anxiously as they crowded in.

"Are you sure nobody else is bleeding?" one asked him.

Lestrade nodded, still dazed. It was only when he and Sherlock were being transported back to the hospital, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the ambulance rear-vision mirror, that the full horror of the question, and what it meant, came home to him.