Chapter 27

At the World's End

"You're bleeding."

He wiped at the blood trailing along the side of his face he hadn't noticed. "Doesn't matter."

There was probably a cut on his head under the hair. Head wounds could bleed loads and be nothing serious. He was fine. Mary might not be. He had to find her.

John couldn't locate an angle to push the heavy portion of roof or wall off from where it pinned Moriarty to the ground. What passed for a new, low ceiling wasn't helping matters. The other man perched on his elbows, caved in ceiling too low to sit up, wincing. He quit trying to tug his leg free and flopped onto his back.

"Doomed."

"That's the spirit," John muttered, seeking room to rotate his body around to lie on his back.

It took longer than he would like, but when he managed, he propped his feet against the slab. "When I push, pull your leg out if you can."

"Yes, doctor."

Gritting his teeth, he jammed his feet into the heavy obstacle, applying all his strength and momentum gathered to knock it away. It worked and the piece shifted away from them. Jim grunted but wasn't free of the object yet. John bunched his knees back upward and kicked at the slab a second time. The trapped leg slipped out and he nearly caused the piece to drop onto his own legs. Yanking the limbs away to curl into himself, the large piece dropped to the ground with an echoing thud.

"You did it."

"Yeah," he exhaled, breathing labored.

He sought Jim's face. He sounded pained. John determined to examine his bad wound first. The smooth fabric of his pant leg was torn and his leg was bloodied, bone protruding. He didn't have anything clean to wrap around the wound. He needed to stop the bleeding and immobilize the area. Realigning the bone could wait. Tibia bone. Fracture. Not like they would be walking out of this collapsed space anyway.

Jim blindly reached for him. "Don't think. Kiss me."

"You're filthy," he replied without thought, busy searching for a path out of here.

The light was poor, air thick, only way out from above and therefore not an option.

"I'm dying. Kiss."

He groaned and met his eyes. "Can you be serious?"

"We're not leaving on our own. We wait for rescue. They're searching for us." A cough. "Kiss?"

"Fine." John gave him a kiss on his chapped lips. "I hope Mary is alright."

Resting his head on Jim's chest, they waited to be unburied.

/

There was no visibility from here. Sebastian strolled past the parking lot, lowering his phone. He couldn't connect to Moriarty's phone. He attempted Watson's number and failed a connection. On the street side of the police station, emergency vehicles blocked traffic. Workers were lifting and transferring debris out of the wreckage.

A corner of the station had come down when the bomb detonated. They knew a bomb was planted at the station and strapped to Constable Hughes's husband in their house. The Professor offered the choice to either have her spouse die or put a bomb in the police building to cause a collapse and help him escape.

He saw the woman hysterical outside her house denying awareness people would be caught in the explosion. The police were arresting her to bring her to the Cardiff Central Police Station after saving her husband and dealing with the bomb. Her threat was neutralized. The Professor did escape and was out there.

His priority should be locating and tracking his boss's enemy. Sebastian stood among a gathering of onlookers, lurking. He wondered if the criminal responsible tired of feigning nobility and a search for strong hearts. It would be easier for everyone to admit he wanted to watch the world burn.

The bomb was set on the third floor where it detonated and destroyed the support in the building's corner. Floor smashing into floor and crushing the visitor's room on the ground floor. Jim was there with the Watsons. His information indicated Mary Watson was the target. The Professor got lucky to catch the two men in the consequence of the blast as well.

Sherlock Holmes was arguing with his London police friends, arms waving. He jerked in his spot. Ah. Their gazes met. He'd been seen. The man was marching toward him. He could slip away and disappear.

Backing up, he stood where they would be less disturbed or overheard, if Holmes could calm himself that is.

"Where's Moriarty?"

Sebastian cracked his neck, adjusting his jacket collar. "With your boyfriend."

His expression changed, shoulders slumping before the posture went ramrod straight. "They found Mary and are taking her to hospital. They shouldn't be far from where she was uncovered."

So she was alive then. Something like this wouldn't kill his boss. He was too stubborn to go out without feeling victorious.

/

He thought he heard water dripping from a pipe somewhere, persistent and taunting. The thirst was terrible. He had no concept of time in this place. Maybe the drip was his imagination because he was desperate for a drink of water.

"I can't understand like an ordinary person. I know what is said when you feel though. I'm sorry."

John rested his head the other way to face Jim's chin. They had laid in silence for a long while now. There were noises not too far, banging and voices. He assumed rescue services were in progress and they were digging. Whether they knew where they were or searched at random, he'd take it.

"Sorry?"

"A woman walking by me on the pavement, I get an urge to slit her throat, see the insides on the outside."

"Jim?"

"I know there's something not right in me. What I did to you at that hotel... I didn't do it to be cruel; I wanted to be with you. It is wrong so I say I'm sorry."

John sought his hand and gripped it. Moriarty turned his hand palm up to grip in return. He didn't know what he was going to do when they got out of this. It wasn't okay to love two people. He would have to choose. His mind instantly picked Sherlock but it felt like his chest was squeezing when he did. Why did it hurt to choose who he wanted with him forever?

"I forgave you a long time ago. You're trying to be better. As far as I know, you don't murder, your crime network consists of crime that keeps the world spinning, and..you care about me."

"I'm fond of you, yes."

A love confession from James Moriarty. His life was unreal.

"There's a void here, a pocket."

"Could be survivors."

Rescue workers? John tried to see through the darkness to his left. "Hello!"

"There's someone-"

"Hello there! We're here to get you out!"

"Stay calm! Don't move!"

"Nowhere to go," John muttered to himself.

Torch lights streamed toward them and he saw a formed tunnel blocked by a few slanted pieces of rubble. It appeared a fairly straight path to their spot. He grinned and squeezed Jim's hand, considering.

"One of us has to be carried out!"

"On it. No worries!"

Satisfied the responding voice could handle it, he relaxed. Eager to get out of here now that he was aware rescue was approaching, of course minutes later nothing had seemingly been done. John heard them moving and talking to one another, more light, more noise.

He only noticed Jim was struggling to fiddle in his pocket after he was removing his right hand from it. He had his mobile. John was an idiot. It never occurred to him to try his own mobile. Where was it?

Shifting to feel the mobile in his back pocket, music started playing in front of him. His jaw fell open a little. The Bee Gees song, "Stayin' Alive" filled the area. Moriarty smiled at him.

"No signal here, but I can play saved files."

"Can you play something else?"

"I have gum. Want some?"

John propped upright the best he could. The noises were closer. He saw a slate dragged and positioned aside, clearing the path to them. A man in a helmet crawling his way to the rescue. Rescue...

He lowered his voice. "You don't have a gun on you, do you?"

"Nah."

He snatched the pack of gum from his fingers. "Jim."

"I speak the truth." Whisper rising to a regular volume he finished, "Johnny."

"No gum until a doctor confirms you're fine."

"You could confirm that for me right now, Doctor Watson."

John spoke through his teeth. "Nah."

"You're in a mood."

"Tired. A building fell on me."

"Worried."

Exasperated, he replied, "Yeah. I'm worried, Jim. For you. For Mary. Is that okay?"

"We've got a medic behind me. You gents okay?"

"Been better," he instantly answered.

Three rescue workers reached them and they prioritized Moriarty in his injured state. Immobilizing the leg, stemming the blood flow, and injecting pain medication, he was lifted and placed on a stretcher. John watched them begin the slow process out of the narrow passage.

A worker stayed with him. He shoved the gum he still grasped in his hand into his pocket. Once the others were no longer in view, the woman told him to follow the path, careful not to bump the sides too much. He looked forward to it to get out of this would-be tomb.

When he literally saw the light at the end of the tunnel, his brain celebrated. Okay, it was a murky, depressing weather kind of day. But the light was metaphorically real.

Hands grabbed him under the arms and set him on his feet. "Are you alright?"

He winced at the touch of fingers grazing the cut on his head. "Ow."

His helper hugged him and he laughed relief. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Sir. Over here, please."

Sherlock accompanied him to the ambulance parked nearby. He sat while a male paramedic treated his laceration. It stopped bleeding during the period they were stuck under the building. A small bandage was sealed over the wound and the blood cleaned from his hair and skin, no stitches required. He was checked for other injuries and the guy changed the patch on his chest.

He considered the nagging worry. "They found Mary, didn't they? Is she alright?"

Sherlock didn't seem to know or he didn't answer. An awkward moment passed. He continued to wait.

The paramedic hesitated and told him, "A woman was recovered shortly after the incident. She was unconscious. I can learn her condition for you?"

"She's my wife, or was my wife. Yes, thank you."

Tugging his t-shirt back on, he left the dirty sweater off. Most of him was also coated in dust but minus the outer layer would be an improvement. The paramedic walked away. He stood and looked to the station.

"Are they allowing people inside? I'd like to wash up."

Lestrade appeared in time to answer. "Through there. They have a tent raised for people to use. How are you doing?"

"Fine, thanks." He actually looked at him now and didn't like how solemn his demeanor was. "What is it?"

"Your ex- Your wife- Mary. She was pulled out of the rubble before you and Mr. Moriarty. She's in surgery to relieve pressure in her brain."

"Will she be okay?"

He just shook his head. He didn't know. Of course he didn't know. John glanced around, uncertain. It's what allowed him to see the two of them were exchanging significant glances. Was there something more concerning Mary they weren't telling?

"Professor Kingston..."

John stared. Mary was badly wounded and the Professor escaped custody. It was in their somber faces. He narrowed his eyes at the detective inspector. None of this was okay. Explosion at the university and now this. Tom Kingston couldn't run forever.

"I'm going to wash up in the tent. See about Mary, would you?"

"I'll go with you."

"No, Sherlock. Mary. If she dies because a nutter befriended me and used her in one of his experiments... It's mental!" He lowered his head and turned to spot the large, white tent in plain sight. "It's my fault."

"It isn't," he heard Lestrade say, but he was already striding over to the tent, sweater tucked beneath an arm.

Upon his arrival, a rescue worker promptly handed him a bottle of water. "Thank you."

He didn't know how he'd forgotten how thirsty he was. Drinking deeply, he sighed appreciatively and wandered to a standing sink. John did what he could to feel better, taking a wet paper towel and wiping at the layer of grime. Patting dry with more towels, he tossed them in the bin.

His mobile vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and frowned at the number he didn't recognize. A text message popped up when he touched the button on the screen.

The world as we think we know it is the great lie. Compassion is weakness. Strength lies in the purity of the heart, which thrives through understanding the truth of the world.

John looked up to see who was around him. A couple workers chatting a couple meters away. He sought a police officer. The mobile vibrated in his palm.

Make a scene and she dies. I'm watching the station as we speak. I cloned your phone at one of our many lunches so don't think you can inform on me through message or call.

Did Kingston mean Mary? He couldn't. She had to be surrounded by medical staff. But then, if he hired someone they could get to her maybe. No, he didn't hire people, only tricked them or made them participate in his experiments. All it would take was a choice they couldn't refuse that had them hurt Mary. Panicking, he swallowed roughly and entered a reply.

Who? What do you want?

A few drawn out moments and a response came.

Where your lovers faked their deaths. Pity they didn't end up together. It would be poetic, or is the term foolish? I'm not an English professor. As it stands, they're more likely to kill each other. Take my word for it. I'm a master at psychology and criminology.

He didn't have time to contemplate why he was saying this as a second message popped.

Tell no one and come alone. Her life depends on your ability to follow instructions, Dr. Watson.

John reread the first sentence of the previous text. He was to go to St. Bart's where Sherlock jumped from the roof and Moriarty shot himself. He really needed to demand explanations on how they both pulled those feats off. They'd probably never reveal it. More mysterious that way. Daft tossers.

Fine.

Message sent, he lowered the phone to hip level. Sweeping his gaze about and not seeing anyone watching him nor anyone he could trust, he read the messages again. He could take a taxi to London. The professor wanted to end this where John's troubles all began, intentional or not. It was fine.

John didn't have his gun but he was an army doctor and a captain during wartime. Tom would regret mucking up his life and hurting Mary, hurting all those innocent people. He was certain, and cautious.

He selected Sherlock's name and typed a message he wouldn't send.

Not safe to use this phone. Professor is at St. Barts.

The mobile he put on top of his sweater next to the sink. Drinking the rest of the water bottle, he hoped his very important partner would come through for him. Sherlock hadn't let him down yet, not really, not ever.