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Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

# #

Through a haze of pain, panic, anger and possibly a concussion, Joan heard a door creak and swing outside her cubicle. Idle steps echoed in the building (the pool), and a rich baritone finally spoke out: "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance – all to distract me from this." This bloody idiot!

"Up you get, Johhny. This is your grand entrance." The evil smile was palpable on the line. "Keep your poker face. Hands in your pockets. Keep him hanging. Go."

Feeling desperately helpless, Joan pushed the door and slowly walked out. Sherlock had been facing the other way, showing off something in his hand to an invisible audience (Is that the memory stick?! That lying git!), he was staring at her in shock over his shoulder. "Greet him, girl. Say 'Evening'."

"Evening" she intoned stoically. The range of emotions that played on Sherlock's face was heart-breaking. Confusion, shock, hurt, betrayal. Oh Sherlock, don't, please don't do that, get away, please.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" whispered the devil in her ear.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" she repeated, uncertain how she was able to keep a semblance of calm for so long.

Sherlock lowered his arm, facing her in shock. "John… What the hell…?"

"Bet you never saw this coming" giggled Moriarty.

"Bet you never saw this coming" she almost choked on these words. You're a dead man walking, Jim. Sherlock started to walk towards her, looking so lost and confused, and hurt, she couldn't hold her 'poker face' anymore.

And Jim knew it, of course. "Show him, Johnny. Show him now." Eyes glued to Sherlock's face, trying to intimate him an order to run, she pulled open the jacket, revealing enough Semtex to level the building and feeling sniper's sights zero on her chest.

Jim's voice was bubbling with mirth, while she repeated evenly his words: "What… would you like me… to make her say… next?"

Sherlock missed a step, eyes widening in realization, shock and betrayal replaced with worry and anger. His eyes left her face, where they were trying to find a hint of explanation, and roamed the room, in search of the real enemy.

"Gottle o' geer ... gottle o' geer ... gottle o' geer…" Her throat was dry again. Her bones, her nerves screamed at her to collapse, don't move, don't strain, rest. But she stood unflinchingly through sheer willpower.

"Stop it" Sherlock exclaimed loudly, perhaps with more force than strictly necessary.

Jim hummed in her ear. "Repeat exactly what I say, Johnny. Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." She cringed at the follow-up, making a point not to look at the red dot dancing on her chest. "I can stop Joan Watson too. Stop her heart."

Panic flashed on Sherlock's face as he turned on the spot. "Who are you?"

In the distance, a door opened, and Jim spoke out. "I gave you my number." It was surely a cue for her to stop acting as a mouthpiece. "I thought you might call." Is he ...? Nah, couldn't be.

Unable to move, Joan listened to sluggish steps circle the pool, coming closer. Phantom feeling of nails on her wrists made her shiver slightly. It went unnoticed by Sherlock, but she heard Moran huff gleefully on the line. Meanwhile, the surreal encounter continued.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket ..." What?! "... or are you just pleased to see me?" Sherlock drew her own bloody gun from his pocket, aiming at Moriarty.

"Both." She could guess the amusement of the madman standing somewhere behind her.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" he sing-sang. Sherlock looked utterly unimpressed, which prompted an explanation rant. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" His steps grew closer. "Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point." Sherlock glanced briefly at Joan, clearly considering the merits of shooting the suit-clad man. "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." Jim's voice was mild but threatening. Sherlock's hands didn't tremble despite his lack of habit with the weapon. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see ..." If he had been an actor, his voice would have been a great asset, it was so pliant and could reproduce so much emotions. But in the end, there was nothing underneath, just darkness. "… like you!"

Joan gritted her teeth. Don't compare yourself to Sherlock, you little shit!

Sherlock seemed to come to a certain epiphany, as he started spouting TV quotes: "Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so." He sounded pleased.

"Consulting criminal." Criminal is quite enough of a description, actually. "Brilliant." Sherlock's whisper cut into her daze like a white-hot knife. He had been fascinated with his puzzles, alright, but now is he getting drawn to his methods? Sherlock… Deep-down, she knew that her friend wouldn't go that way, but her very recent face-to-face with Moriarty and his crew left her on the edge of hysteria and well into the territory of paranoia.

"Isn't it? No-one ever gets to me – and no-one ever will." Don't be so sure, you bastard.

"I did" Sherlock stated, cocking the gun.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did." Good grace, what's wrong with these men? "But the flirting's over, Sherlock ..." Oh, so it really was flirting. What the actual hell. "Daddy's had enough now!" The high-pitched tone made Joan wince. Steps came closer again. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

He was just behind. Her shoulder hurt like hell. Trying to stem the pain, she closed her eyes for three seconds. Her vision dimmed a little when she opened them again.

"So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." It was all she could do not to shake from mental and physical strain. She could see Sherlock's worried gaze flicker to her from the corner of her eyes.

"Although I have loved this – this little game of ours." His accents changed in a split second. In another setting, it would have been impressive. "Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

Apparently, enough was enough for the consulting detective. "People have died."

Wrong thing to say. "That's what people DO!" Madness washed over them, and she even heard a sharp intake of breath somewhere in the earpiece.

Visibly shaken, but holding his ground Sherlock replied softly: "I will stop you."

"No, you won't." We will, she swore silently.

"You all right?" Sherlock's voice had been softer, gentler, and the soldier realized he was talking to her. She took too much time to react, to even look at her friend, and Jim was already at her side, breathing down her neck.

"You can talk, Johnny-girl. Go ahead." Oh, you think you can make me dance too? Some part of her acknowledged her behavior as unnecessarily stubborn, but it wasn't in charge for a few hours now. She briefly met Sherlock's eyes and nodded. It didn't seem to calm him though, as worry flared more intensely in those silver eyes.

Abandoning a stable stance for a shot, the detective reached into his pocket and fished out the memory stick he had been showing off earlier. Almost forgot about it. "Take it."

Moriarty expressed limited interest, too busy lurking at John's side. "Huh? Oh, that!" He strolled past her, brushing his shoulder against hers, sending ice-cold goosebumps running down her spine. Snatching the stick from Sherlock's hand, his voice even sounded like a Cheshire grin. "The missile plans!" A crazy scheme started to form in her head. Not something she would ever consider in other circumstances, due to high chances of failure, but there were several factors that played in her favour: all Moriarty's men were loyal to him and listened to his orders to the letter, and they didn't expect her to react in any way at all. Joan's mind was whirling with panic, anger and the need to do something, anything, get him out.

"Boooooring!" Jim chanted, staring hard at Sherlock with a mischievous grin. "I could have gotten them anywhere." The stick made a small splash landing in the water and prompted the soldier into action.

Launching herself at the man with more force than she thought possible at the moment, she clutched Jim tightly against her, surprising both Sherlock and surrounding snipers in the process, judging by unsettled mutters in her headset.

"Sherlock, run! Get away!" she practically growled. The gun wavered a little. Jim laughed in delight.

"Good! Very good." Why doesn't he run? Dammit, dammit, no! Sherlock kept aiming at Moriarty's head, not moving an inch from his position. No, no, no.

"Why don't we go up together, Jim?" she snarled in his ear, hoping foolishly to make him feel uncomfortable at the very least. It didn't seem to work.

"Isn't it sweet?" the devil addressed Sherlock. "I might take a liking in your guard dog too." The implication made her tighten her grip, pulling Jim closer to the bomb. It made him scowl mockingly. Sherlock just looked sickened. "But oops!" That grin didn't bode well. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

In the earpiece, she heard Moran respond to an unheard order "With pleasure" (there was a code word somewhere, must have been, damn), and a red dot appeared on Sherlock's forehead. The freezing dread seized her guts, making her vision tunnel on the little laser point that could become a gaping hole in her friend's head in a matter of seconds. No, no, no, no… Nothing but a litany of denial ran through her mind. Almost on auto-pilot, she released Moriarty, who looked none the worse for wear.

He chuckled lightly, as she stepped back, hands up and powerless, and righted his suit. "Westwood" he informed Sherlock with a knowing glance, unperturbed by the gun still pointed at him. Getting no response, he unexpectedly turned to Joan, who was starting to shake slightly. He ran a deceptively gentle hand on her cheek: "You will learn, right?" The touch made her wince inwardly, gritting her teeth not to show the mortifying disgust she felt at the contact.

Still looking at Joan, he addressed Sherlock over his shoulder: "D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"

Showing off his own actor talents, the consulting detective sounded bored out of his mind: "Oh, let me guess: I get killed."

The idea seemed to bother Jim, as he moved to fully face Sherlock. "Kill you? N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway someday. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you." There was the madness again. "I'll burn the heart out of you." She didn't see his face, but she felt the brunt of the vicious snarl like a stab in her gut.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one" came Holmes's soft answer.

"But we both know that's not quite true" and Joan had never felt so wrong in agreeing with someone.

# #

The mute scene stretched for seconds, but they seemed much longer to him. He had felt elation at finally meeting the man who provided such interesting puzzles. In the back of his mind, he had known that they were dealing with a dangerous criminal, but these twists, so delightful. He had needed to meet him in person, everything else was put on the back-burner.

And then Joan had walked out, clad in explosives, sickly pale and stiff, and it wasn't fun anymore. It was real and close to home. Sherlock had forced himself to focus on Moriarty, on finding a way to get both his friend and himself out of there, but he couldn't stop noticing how spent Joan looked, in striking contrast with her deadly efficiency during Golem's arrest the previous night. How poorly she repressed the unbidden shivers while Moriarty came closer. How worrying (terrifying) was the cruel interest in black eyes when they were directed at his blogger. How he wanted to break the hand that dared to touch his John.

Partly because of this continuous flow of emotional feedback in a corner of his consciousness, he couldn't help but blink in surprise when his nemesis declared with utmost confidence that he, a self-proclaimed sociopath, had a heart. And with all the smarts at his disposal, Sherlock Holmes didn't know how to react.

"Well, I'd better be off" the smaller man finally said lightly.

Still calculating possibilities, but perhaps more in tune with his anger, Sherlock raised the gun higher. "What if I was to shoot you now – right now?"

Unfortunately, the man in front of him was in absolute control of the situation. "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." Confident enough to mock him openly with grimaces and grins. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock; really I would." How come he knows so much about me? About us? Jim was right, Sherlock was not able to shoot with intention to kill. Not even in this life-and-death situation. "And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."

It settled the suspicion that snipers had orders to shoot in case of their boss's untimely demise. A glance at Joan's unnaturally still form refrained him from any reckless decisions.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." With this final salute, full of badly disguised contempt, his newly found nemesis strolled out of the pool.

Following the movement until losing the sight of him, the detective delivered a promise of his own: "Catch… you… later."

The high-pitched sing-song voice echoed shrilly in the chlorine-permeated space: "No, you won't!" It must have been a cue to snipers, as red dots blinked out of existence.

Waiting a few seconds to make sure they weren't about to blow up anymore, he dropped the gun and slid to Joan's side, hands going directly to unfasten the explosive vest. "Alright?" he asked frantically, trembling slightly while almost ripping off a belt. Joan was awfully still, tense, breathing heavily. "Are you alright?!" They had her for six hours, forty-two minutes at the lowest estimation.

"Yeah, yeah… I'm fine" came the unconvincing reply, but it was better than the silence. He sprang up, going to pull off the jacket. His mind unwillingly catalogued all signs of the ordeal his flatmate had been through.

i) Bruise on left cheek, badly concealed with make-up. The foundation's hue doesn't match John's skin color. Had been applied by a man, inexperienced in such endeavors.

ii) Large handprints on the neck, also concealed with the same foundation. Attempted strangulation.

iii) Red-trimmed eyes. Tears. Taking in consideration John's character, only strong stimuli could elicit this kind of response.

iv) Sweaty eyebrow.

v) Paleness.

vi) Tremors.

Conclusion: Residual pain from physical torture.

He hid the horror at this deduction by rounding his friend, and pulling violently the jacket off her.

"I'm fine" she repeated weakly. "Sherlock."

Hyperventilating, he managed to roughly strip the offending article of clothing together with the lethal amount of explosives. The motion jerked Joan's arms back, which must have upset her injured shoulder. "Sh-Sherlock!" Ignoring her protests, ignoring the red haze of delayed panic that clouded most of perceptions, he pushed both items as far away as possible. Eliminating the most direct threat, his next brightest idea was to verify the absence of the second danger on the list – Moriarty himself.

"Oh Christ" he heard behind his back, and a muffled trump indicated that Joan slid to the floor in an undignified heap. The sight made his adrenaline skyrocket again, or is it anger, is it guilt, and to take the edge off, he started pacing, trying to gather his thoughts. "Are you okay?" He couldn't remember anyone else worrying about someone else's well-being after a near-death experience.

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine." Of course, he started blabbering while his main focus was on coming to terms with what just happened. Why is it so difficult to breathe? Deciding to temporarily put aside the topic of his friend getting tortured for hours by a psychopath (something in his mind palace started screaming at the thought), he leapt to another unsettling fact. Joan had tried to save him by sacrificing herself. Am I supposed to say something? What do I say? What can I say? "That, er ... thing that you, er, that you did – that, um ... you offered to do. That was, um ... good."

That was the less eloquent thing he had said since he was a toddler.

"I'm glad no-one saw that" came Joan's matter-of-fact answer. Huh? He felt his hand tremble against his thigh. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk." Is she making a joke? He felt some of the tension drain away.

"People do little else" he offered. A small smile blossomed on Joan's weary face, and Sherlock allowed himself to smile in return. They pulled through this mess.

Joan pushed herself off the wall in a brave attempt to get up, but she had barely had the time to skid to a half-crouch when a laser point came dancing over her chest. They both froze in silent horror.

A door opened loudly on the other end of the pool, and the gleeful voice of Jim Moriarty greeted them again. "Sorry, pals! I'm soooooo changeable!" He wasn't facing Jim, and he didn't want to move, not yet, he had to assess the threat, potential escape routes, how many snipers are there anyway?! "It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." This man has to be put down.

He glanced down at Joan, dreading and hoping for her to understand. Unwavering blue eyes locked with his, making him stagger from the trust he unconditionally received. The madman continued his little speech. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but ... everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!" We need to take him out. John, I'm so sorry… She didn't look away, a steady presence at his side.

So be it.

He turned to coldly glare at Moriarty. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." He likes drama. I can pull that off. He raised the gun, then lowered it to aim at the jacket with deliberate slowness. The jacket with enough Semtex to blow them all into little pieces. Few seconds lapsed before Jim looked back at him, smiling with unconcerned ease.

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A/N: Yeah, it's pretty much close to the original. I tried to put more emotional insight, and hope it turned out ok. It'll get crazier in the next chapter, promise :)

Aaaand there is a new chapter in Alternate plots, if you're interested.