Maxine

The pool where Carl Powers drowned seemed like the perfect place to finally meet our bomber. The lights were already on when Sherlock and I arrived and we treaded carefully as we entered the surrounding area of the indoor pool. Sherlock insisted on going first through every door and only after he carefully examined it for traps.

We'd taken off our coats and left them in the locker room due to the heat and humidity in the building. This left Sherlock in his suit while I was in a less formal T-shirt and jeans, though I kept my scarf around my neck.

"I'm not particularly superstitious, but it kind of feels like a good luck charm," I'd told Sherlock when he'd raised his brows at me.

The scent of chlorine filled my nostrils, but I wasn't particularly bothered by it. The pool glistened a cerulean blue to our right. There was an upper gallery toward the shallow end of the pool where people would watch the swimmers, but it was shrouded in darkness. I saw Sherlock's eyes lock onto it for a moment as we walked toward that side of the room. We had to be walking into a trap and Sherlock must know that, but I had confidence in him that he'd figure a way out of it.

After thoroughly looking around the room, Sherlock pulled the memory stick from his pocket and turned toward the pool, holding the prize in the air.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present," he declared loudly, his voice echoing off the tiled walls and the flat surface of the water. "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."

Sherlock gestured with the memory stick and began to turn in a slow circle, waiting for the response. I looked around as well, my heart thrumming in my ears. I was eager to finally see this Moriarty face-to-face—to see what he was capable of.

"Evening."

Startled by the familiar voice, Sherlock and I turned to see that John had walked into the pool area from the other locker room. He was wrapped snugly in a hooded jacket and his hands were tucked into the pockets. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and I couldn't tell if it was from the heat or the obvious turmoil he was in. He stared at us with a tight grimace.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" he said in a very stilted tone, almost robotic.

"John," Sherlock breathed. "What the hell...?"

"Bet you never saw this coming," John said, still in that awkward lilt.

"No..." I rasped, sudden understanding striking me. "Bloody hell, John, no..."

I started to move toward him in slow steps, not quite certain what my body was doing. I saw the coat—I knew what had to be in it—but I couldn't stop from trying to go to my brother. Sherlock was at my side, making the same motions. His face was trapped in one of shock and bewilderment, making him look like he was twelve years old.

Before we could get too far, John took his hands from his pockets and pulled the coat open. Strapped to his chest was a large hunk of black metal covered in wires and a single red LED light: a bomb. From somewhere in the upper gallery, a sniper's laser trained onto it.

"What... would you like me... to make him say... next?" John said tightly, obviously repeated words said to him in an earpiece I just noticed.

We continued to walk toward him, but I noticed Sherlock was now looking everywhere but at my brother; raking the room with his eyes for anyone else.

"Gottle o' geer... gottle o' geer... gottle o' geer..." John said, his voice nearly breaking.

"Stop it," Sherlock ordered, looking at John again, his eyes wide and horrified.

This wasn't okay. I was fine with my life being on the line—with my life being the one in danger. It was what made me feel like I was real; that I existed. But John... John was the only constant in my entire life. The only one who ever unyieldingly cared about me and tried to help me. I wanted to run to John—to hug him and let my body be between the sniper's bullet and that bomb on his chest.

But that bullet would go straight through me even if I managed to get to my brother before the shot was fired.

"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died," John narrated. "I stopped him..." My brother's face cringed slightly and he looked down at the laser dancing over the bomb. "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

"Shut up," I snapped, heat rising in my face.

"What's wrong, Maxine?" John asked tightly, looking up at me with pained eyes. "Only care when it's... your brother?"

I gritted my teeth as my body shook. There was so much anger inside me with nowhere to go.

Sherlock was glaring around the room. "Who are you?" he demanded.

A door opened at the end of the pool and a soft male voice with an Irish accent spoke out.

"I gave you my number."

I turned to face the new arrival, my hand already itching for the hilt of my dagger. Striding casually toward us was a familiar man. It was Jim—Molly's boyfriend—but this wasn't the fumble-fingered casually-dressed Londoner who did indeed leave his number for Sherlock at Bart's. His hair was immaculately kept, he was sharply-dressed in a suit and tie that could rival Sherlock's, and he carried a murderous look on his face.

"I though you would've called," Jim said in an Irish accent as he strode toward us from the deep end of the pool, hands in his pockets.

I wanted nothing more than to crouch down and take my dagger from my boot to throw it at him. He'd been so close to us—right there at Bart's and we didn't even realize it. His acting had been so flawless that even Sherlock didn't notice.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket..." Jim said as Sherlock took out the pistol from his pocket, "...or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock raised the pistol to aim it at Jim's head. "Both," he said flatly.

"Jim Moriarty," the man introduced, completely fearless of Sherlock's gun. "Hi!"

Sherlock tilted his head to peer more closely at the man while I narrowed my eyes at him. Moriarty smiled between both of us.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital?" he said teasingly. "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."

I wanted to charge at the man and tackle him into the pool. The arrogance that permeated off of him was suffocating. He rounded the corner of the pool as Sherlock glanced toward the dancing laser still on John's chest.

As if sensing an unspoken question from the detective, Moriarty said, "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

"Of course not," I snarled.

Moriarty looked toward me now, a giddy smile catching his lips. "Ah, she can bark. Can she bite, too?" He pointed at me as his gaze went to Sherlock again. "She was my first choice, you know. For this." He nodded toward John. "Would've been far more interesting, I think, but you two just never leave each other's sides, do you? Getting to see her all puffed up is entertaining as well, I suppose."

Moriarty reached the corner of the pool and stopped. I had to contain the rising rage inside me. Anger wasn't something I often felt—or perhaps it was that the anger I'd felt in the past was simply minuscule compared to this. It wasn't a comfortable feeling; I was so used to being in control of my feelings and my actions but right then I was trembling.

I wanted to kill something.

"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," Moriarty said after casting me a smug smirk. "I'm a specialist, you see..." He suddenly looked surprised, as if he only just realized the connection. "Like you!"

Sherlock glanced at me warily before fixating his gaze on Moriarty. "Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?"

Moriarty grinned as he began to walk forward again. His dark eyes were lit with something akin to mischief, but whatever it was... it was far, far more lethal.

"Dear Jim," Sherlock went on. "Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

Now only a few meters away from John, Moriarty stopped again. "Just so."

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock breathed. "Brilliant."

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

Sherlock cocked the pistol in his hand. "I did."

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

"Thank you," Sherlock replied coolly.

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

Sherlock's face remained unchanged, unmoved. "Yes you did."

Moriarty shrugged. His actions seemed overly childish to me, like he was putting up this coy, quirky front when there was something absolutely horrific beneath, absolutely the opposite of the innocence of a child.

"Yeah, okay, I did," he confessed. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock..." His voice suddenly went high-pitched and sing-song. "Daddy's had enough now!"

Once again he started to walk closer. I darted my eyes over to John who remained silent and stiff. I had a feeling that Moriarty told him that if he said anything he'd be blown to bits. What could I do? Could I try and throw my dagger up into the shadowed gallery overhead and hope it hit the sniper? Even if it did, the shot would go off first. I could try and tackle my brother into the water, but even then Moriarty was starting to position himself between John and the edge of the pool.

"I've shown you what I can do," Moriarty said, back to his normal tone. "I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

"Could've phoned him," I muttered, remembering John's quip to Mycroft the first time we met him.

Moriarty snorted and his eyes went to me. "Cute. Didn't take you for a joker, Max."

"Don't call me that," I breathed.

Moriarty laughed now and clapped his hands a few times. "She is spunky!" he said to Sherlock. "I do enjoy redheads."

John closed his eyes briefly. I couldn't tell if it was out of momentary anger or desperation due to his situation. Sherlock glanced between Moriarty and John, his own expression showing a hint of strain.

"Anyway!" Moriarty sang before his voice grew low and stern. "Take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." He smiled. "Although I have loved this—this little game of ours." He put on his London accent for a brief moment. "Playing Jim from I.T." He swapped seamlessly back to his Irish lilt. "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died," Sherlock said, clearly unamused with Moriarty's antics.

"That's what people DO!"

Moriarty screamed the last word furiously, his personality changing in an instant. His eyes went manically wide and he took a stomping step forward, leaning his whole torso into it. John winced slightly, the only sign of him being startled while I blinked in surprise. Sherlock, meanwhile, remained calm, unmoved.

"I will stop you," he promised softly.

Moriarty was calm again. It took him less than two seconds to return to his previous demeanor. "No you won't," he replied simply.

Sherlock looked over at John deliberately now. "You all right?" he asked.

John kept his gaze away. My previous suspicions of him being given instructions not to speak to us seemed to be true.

Moriarty finally reached his side. "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

John briefly met Sherlock's eyes, then mine, and he nodded once. I loosed a small breath. My patience was starting to run thin. This was not the accelerated heartbeat I'd come to long for, this was not the rush I wanted. This was pure anxiety—nothing but the feeling of... well, the feeling of an actual bomb being nearby threatening to blow up my brother.

Sherlock took one hand off the gun and held out the memory stick to Moriarty.

"Take it," he insisted.

"Huh?" Moriarty looked at the offer in surprise. "Oh! That!" Casually, he strolled past John and reached for the stick with a grin. "The missile plans!" Taking the stick from Sherlock's fingers, he brought it to his lips and kissed it.

Behind him, I spied John murmured to himself. His eyes were downcast and I couldn't quite read his expression, but I did see his thumb run over his fingers. He was trying to think of what to do next. He should just stand there—just stand there and make certain no-one had an excuse to shoot the bomb strapped to his chest. Yet clearly he was thinking about doing something else.

I focused my eyes back on Moriarty, not wanting to give my brother away. I wanted to shake my head at John and shout at him to just be still for goodness' sake.

But I was never one to convince him to do anything.

Moriarty lowered the memory stick to stare at it for a moment. Then, in a sudden sing-song voice, he yelled, "Boring!" He shook his head disappointedly. "I could have got them anywhere."

Nonchalantly, he tossed the stick into the pool. Sherlock and I only had a moment to be surprised before John suddenly jolted forward. He slammed himself against Moriarty's back and wrapped one arm around his neck while the other went around his chest.

"Maddie! Sherlock! Run!" John ordered tightly.

"Are you mental?" I breathed.

"Good!" Moriarty exclaimed. "Very good."

Sherlock didn't move, still aiming his gun at Moriarty's head. He shot a quick glance at me and I could see the nervousness in his eyes. He wasn't sure what the hidden sniper might do and neither did I, but I did take the opportunity to take out the dagger from my boot.

"For God's sake, Maxine, no!" John scolded me. He gripped Moriarty tighter and then spoke to him savagely. "If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."

Moriarty remained perfectly calm. He looked at Sherlock. "Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. Him and the redhead." He smiled toward me briefly. "But then, people do get sentimental about their pets."

John grimaced angrily and only tightened his hold. Moriarty scowled at him for the discomfort.

"They're so touchingly loyal. But, oops!" He grinned at John before looking back toward Sherlock and me. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

Moriarty chuckled as John looked at the both of us. His expression went from anger, to shock, to anguish quite quickly. I swallowed and looked over toward Sherlock. There was a laser pointed directly at his forehead. When I turned, the light of yet another laser glinted in my eye and I had to blink a few times.

There were two more snipers in the opposite gallery, and they were aiming and Sherlock and me.

"Gotcha!" Moriarty sang.

He chuckled again as John released him and stepped back. My brother raised his hands up to signal to the snipers that he wasn't going to try anything else and the third laser resumed its position on the bomb strapped to him.

I wanted to scream. Moriarty had been several steps ahead of us. He had a whole team at his disposal while Sherlock had two Watsons. Moriarty straightened his suit and gestured to it indignantly.

"Westwood!" he said irritably, naming the brand of his clothing.

Gathering his composure, he stood calmly in front of Sherlock, who was still aiming the pistol at his head. I kept the grip on my dagger white-knuckle tight and was trying not to feel more and more hopeless as time went by.

"D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?" Moriarty asked.

"Oh, let me guess: I get killed," Sherlock said in a bored tone.

"Kill you?" Moriarty grimaced as if the thought insulted him. "N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway some day. 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."

He ran his eyes over Sherlock's body before locking his gaze back on the detective's. Again, his personality altered; his voice became untamed and vicious, his eyes were wide and holding the promise of nothing but calamity.

"I'll burn the heart out of you." His face was a snarl when he said the word 'heart' but at the end of the sentence, he almost looked regretful. Like a school kid telling an old playmate that if he didn't start playing nice, they couldn't be friends anymore.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock replied coolly.

"But we both know that's not quite true," Moriarty said.

Oddly, I felt a stutter in my chest. I couldn't help but glance at Sherlock in time to see the detective blink involuntarily.

Moriarty looked down, smiling, then shrugged. "Well, I'd better be off." He causally looked around, perhaps checking his exit route before turning back to Sherlock. "So nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock readjusted his aim at Moriarty's head. "What if I was to shoot you now—right now?" he asked.

Moriarty didn't seem remotely perturbed by the notion. "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." He opened his eyes and mouth wide in feign shock before grinning. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock; I really 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." Slowly, he began to turn away. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

He glanced back at Sherlock with slight distaste before walking calmly toward the side door through which John had come earlier. Sherlock carefully stepped forward to keep him in view.

"Catch... you... later," he said slowly.

The door opened and Moriarty's voice echoed back to us, once again high-pitched and sing-song. "No you won't!"

The door closed.

For a brief moment, none of us moved. I darted my eyes around to see all the lasers were gone. I took two breaths: one to make sure I could still breathe and the second to try and calm my thrashing heart. Then I darted to my brother and started helping him take off the over-sized jacket while Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of him to start unfastening the vest with the bomb. In my haste, my dagger fell to the floor in a clatter, but I didn't pay it any mind.

"All right?" Sherlock asked.

John tilted his head back, breathing heavily through his nose. His limbs were like noodles and I couldn't get the jacket off of him without his cooperation.

"John," I said urgently.

He still didn't respond. His eyes were closed.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock pressed.

"Yeah-yeah, I'm fine," John finally managed. "I'm fine."

All of us were breathing like we'd ran a marathon. I managed to get the jacket off John and tossed it aside as Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran around to get the vest. He pulled at it without avail for a moment, making John nearly fall over.

"Sherlock," John said, either out of discomfort or concern for the bomb being triggered.

Sherlock, clearly too intent on getting the deadly device away from his friend, practically ripped it off John's arms.

"Sh-Sherlock!" John exclaimed.

The detective bent and skimmed the bomb across the tile as far away as he could. John staggered and I caught him.

"Jesus," John breathed. He reached up and pulled the earpiece from his ear as his breathing began to accelerate.

Sherlock stared at us for a moment before scrambling to pick up the pistol and running the the door Moriarty left through. John's knees began to buckle and I instantly wrapped an arm around his waist while using the other to pull his arm over my shoulders.

"Oh, Christ," he rasped.

"John, John, it's all right," I assured, hoping I was doing this right. I could certainly relate to this much more than when Sarah had nearly been killed. Seeing John in a situation like that... that his life could be taken from the pull of a finger... "I'm here—we're here."

John turned and pulled me into a hug. I hugged him back fiercely, supporting his weight so he wouldn't collapse. I felt him tremble for a moment before letting out a long breath through his lips as he tried to calm himself. He tightened his arms around me one more time before releasing me, but I still kept an arm around his waist.

Sherlock came back toward us, apparently not finding any sign of Moriarty outside. His eyes were wide and he began to pace nearby, so hyper and distracted that he didn't seem to realize he was scratching his head with the barrel of a cocked pistol.

"Are you okay?" John asked him breathlessly.

The detective continued to pace while scratching his head with the gun. "Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine." His words came out fast and tight. He finally stopped and turned toward us, wide-eyed and seemingly winded. "That er... thing that you, er, that you did—that, um..." He cleared his throat. "...you offered to do. That was, um... good."

John stared blankly ahead of himself for a moment. "I'm glad no-one saw that."

Sherlock had temporarily lowered his hand long enough not to risk accidentally shooting himself in the head, although he had terrible jitters as he held the gun down by his side. He then lifted the gin again and rubbed his chin while looking down at John in confusion.

"Hmm?"

John adverted his gaze. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

Sherlock shrugged. "People do little else. And Max helped."

John and I instantly darted apart.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John groaned.

"People would really talk then," Sherlock muttered.

The detective smiled at us and John snorted in laughter while I rolled my eyes. I gestured to the gun Sherlock still had by his chin.

"Will you—Sherlock, you're going to give me a heart attack," I said in exasperation.

"Hm? Oh." Sherlock lowered the pistol. "I know not to pull the trigger."

"You're shaking," I pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged sheepishly.

I laughed breathlessly. "Only you would fiddle with a cocked gun," I rasped.

John had gone back to lean on the far wall. He chuckled and looked down to brace himself to get up again. All of us seemed to be high off the adrenaline at the moment; giddy and wired. However, despite that, when I saw the laser reappear on my brother's chest, all sense of euphoria was ripped away.

"Oh..." John breathed in anguish.

A door near the deep end of the pool burst open and Moriarty came striding in, clapping his hands and turning to face us.

"Sorry, boys! And girl, I suppose. I'm soooooo changeable!" he said cheerfully.

John grimaced in disbelief as I contemplated darting for my dagger. Sherlock kept his back to Moriarty, staring up into the gallery where the sniper was hidden. Had only one come back? Or were all three hiding up there? Could there be even more than that? Looking back at John, I realized it had to be at least two, because another was dancing on his chest next to the first.

Then I saw one on my side and could see the glare of another near my head. Sherlock had at least three roving over him. How many did he have? Had Moriarty seriously let us believe we were going to get out of this just to come back to tear it away? I stared down at the gleaming blade of my dagger on the floor near my foot.

Moriarty spread his arms wide and laughed. "It is a weakness with me but, to be fair with myself, it is my only weakness."

He lowered his hands and put them in his pockets. Sherlock turned his head to look at John and me. Something was going on in his head; his pale green eyes were sharp and calculating.

Please tell me you have a plan, Sherlock, I thought desperately.

"You can't be allowed to continue," Moriarty said. "You just can't. I would try to convince you but..." he laughed and his voice grew higher again, "...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Sherlock stared between John and me. His face gave no emotion, but his eyes were so fiercely intent that I knew they had to be asking for something. I didn't have a complete idea of what Sherlock might have in mind—I didn't even know if it would get us out alive—but what I did know is that no matter what the detective did, it was going to at least piss off Moriarty and at our current predicament, that's all I could hope for.

John seemed to be on the same page, for when I gave a small nod of consent, he did as well, giving Sherlock permission to do whatever he deemed necessary.

Sherlock turned to face Moriarty, his expression still unreadable. "Probably my answer has crossed yours," he said.

The detective aimed the pistol at Moriarty. His only response was to smile confidently at Sherlock, unafraid; unflinching. Slowly, Sherlock lowered the pistol downward until it was pointing directly at the bomb vest. All four sets of eyes in the room gravitated to it, realization spreading across us.

John's breathing grew heavy again while I gripped my yellow scarf and swallowed as I thought about how blowing to bits could be either a very fast way to die or a very horrific way if someone somehow survived the initial blast. Sherlock was calm, focused. It wasn't surprising, but I felt like that might be comforting. He'd been too wound up earlier when someone was aiming a sniper at John. It could mean that he had a plan to get us out of this with all our limbs intact.

Moriarty, meanwhile, darted his eyes down to the bomb and for the first time, he actually looked anxious. It gave me a thrill of triumph to see it; a sense of victory. Even if we died, at least we could take this bastard with us.

Sherlock's aim was steady and he lifted his eyes to lock with Moriarty's. For a moment, they merely stared at one another. Moriarty, who had lost his previous grin of confidence seemed to recover from the shock of Sherlock's move and began to smile again. Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly; a man accepting a bet. A bet that was going to probably kill all of us.

I closed my eyes.