Twenty Four Hours Earlier

Smash!

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

Smash!

The silver lining of the coffin stuck to his hand as he reared back for another hit. His entire life, always hiding behind a wall of impassiveness, building it up brick by brick, each one making him feel more numb than the last.

Smash!

It was not prudent to dwell on emotions. They are the crack in the lens, the fly in the ointment, the virus in the data.

Smash!

He thought he had succeeded. He thought he had finally rid himself of the burden lesser minds called sentiment. He thought he was immune to the weaknesses of his transport.

He was wrong.

The great Sherlock Holmes was wrong.

And it had only taken three words, three simple, ordinary dumb words, to destroy him.

Sherlock slumped down on the cold metal floor, gun in front of him, his throat still tingling from his anguished scream. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted his elder brother, staring down at him with an unreadable expression on his face. It wasn't like Mycroft Holmes to display his thoughts on his face, but Sherlock thought he saw a look of pity etched across his visage.

No. He did not want to be pitied. He had to get up. He had to keep going. If not for himself, for the little girl on the plane, trapped high in the air.

"Sherlock, I know this is torture for you," John's footsteps sounded closer. Sherlock stared at the black shoes in front of him, "but you have got to keep it together."

"This isn't torture, this is vivisection," Sherlock snapped, his racing heart doing little to slow down, "We're experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats." There was a moment of silence, and he regretted his sudden outburst. He took a deep breath.

"Soldiers." John extended his hand and Sherlock took it, grateful to have someone supporting him as he stood up. His legs were still shaking and his head was still pounding, but he made his way to the next room.

"Hey sis, I don't mean to complain, but this one's empty," Sherlock quipped, seething. The hollowness earlier seemed to have been filled with something else: a fiery anger. It didn't feel any better, but at least it cleared his head, if only by a little bit. "What happened, run out of ideas?"

"It's not empty, Sherlock. You've still got the gun, haven't you? I told you you'd need it, because only two can play the next game. Just two of you go on from here; your choice. It's make-your-mind-up time," Eurus's cold voice issued through the speakers. "Whose help do you need the most – John or Mycroft? It's an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other. You have to choose family or friend. Mycroft or John Watson?"

With a click, her face was replaced by Moriarty's. The white lights turned red. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick...Moriarty hissed, the sounds slithering throughout the room like a cage of snakes.

"Eurus, enough!" Mycroft yelled, jerking Sherlock back to reality.

"Not yet, I think," Moriarty's face disappeared, Eurus back on the screen. "But nearly. Remember, there's a plane in the sky, and it's not going to land."

"Well?" Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock looked up at him. "Well, what?"

"We're not actually going to discuss this, are we? I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. You're a fine man in many respects. Make your goodbyes and shoot him." Sherlock glanced uncertainly at John. "Shoot him!" Mycroft said sharply.

"What?" John stepped up, confusion and hurt on his face.

"Shoot Doctor Watson. There's no question who has to continue from here. It's us; you and me," Mycroft continued. "Whatever lies ahead requires brainpower, Sherlock, not sentiment. Don't prolong his agony; shoot him."

"Do I get a say in this?" John protested.

Mycroft turned towards him. "Today, we are soldiers. Soldiers die for their country. I regret, Doctor Watson, that privilege is now yours."

John looked once at Mycroft, then back to Sherlock. He stood up straighter, realization dawning on his face. "Shit. He's right. He is, in fact, right."

"Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with," Mycroft instructed, "and we can get to work."

Sherlock looked helplessly at John. Logically, Mycroft was right. It was just the two of them that had to continue on. But John...

Though Sherlock had never outwardly showed it, he cared deeply for him. John had always been there for him no matter what Sherlock did. Despite grieving his fake death for two years and watching his wife die to save Sherlock, John had never left his side. Sherlock couldn't kill him. He couldn't kill his best friend.

Mycroft scoffed. "God! I should have expected this. Pathetic. You always were the slow one, the idiot. That's why I've always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing." Mycroft tilted his head towards John, his smile gone. "Put this stupid little man out of all our misery. Shoot him."

"Stop it." Sherlock murmured quietly.

"Look at him. What is he? Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another."

"Please, for God's sake, just stop it."

"Why?"

Sherlock finally knew what Mycroft was trying to do. And it upset him, almost even worse than shooting John. In his final moments, his brother was trying to make it easier for Sherlock to kill him by insulting his best friend.

Sherlock sighed and swallowed hard. "Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing." Sherlock turned his head towards John, his voice low. "Ignore everything he just said. He's being kind. He's trying to make it easy for me to kill him." He turned back around to face Mycroft, who had a rueful smile on his lips. "Which is why this is going to be so much harder."

His arm seemed to move of it's own accord, swinging the gun up and directing it at his brother's face. His fingers were white gripping the heavy object, yet his hand still shook.

"You said you liked my Lady Bracknell."

"Sherlock. Don't." John whispered, looking frantically at him, shaking his head.

"It's not your decision, Doctor Watson." Mycroft replied softly, his mouth still twisted in that horrible, grim smile. "Not in the face, though, please. I've promised my brain to the Royal Society."

"Where would you suggest?" Sherlock inquired, unsuccessfully trying to keep the flurry of emotions out of his voice.

"Well ..." Mycroft straightened up, unbuttoning the first button of his shirt and adjusting his tie. "I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me. I don't imagine it's much of a target but ...why don't we try for that?"

Sherlock let out a humorless chuckle, as John took a step closer to the two of them. "I won't allow this."

Mycroft gave a small shake of his head. "This is my fault. Moriarty."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in interest. "Moriarty?"

"Her Christmas treat: five minutes' conversation with Jim Moriarty five years ago."

"What did they discuss?"

"Five minutes' conversation..."

Sherlock already knew what Mycroft was going to say next.

"...unsupervised."

Sherlock steadied the pistol, with an expression of clear anguish. "Goodbye, brother mine. No flowers...my request."

"Jim Moriarty thought you'd make this choice," Eurus piped up. They had almost forgotten she was there. "He was so excited."

"And here we are, at the end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes." Moriarty was back, a tone of excitement in his words. "This is where I get off."

"Five minutes."

Sherlock spoke up. His finger slid onto the trigger. He tried desperately not to feel, not to even think about what he was going to do next.

"It took her just five minutes to do all of this to us."

This was it. They had lost, Eurus had won. Sherlock was about to murder his only brother, the man who had always looked out for him, always protected him, always dragging him out of whatever crack den Sherlock found himself in. And now Sherlock was going to kill him.

There was no other option. John and Mycroft were the only two people in the room. And he had to kill one of them.

But did he?

Sherlock caught sight of himself in the reflection of the gun. Something seemed to fall in place.

They're not the only two people in the room, his subconscious whispered. You are too. You have the gun. You are in control. What are you going to do?

It's not chance, Mr. Holmes. The voice of Jefferson Hope floated back to him. It's chess. Chess with one move.

And suddenly, everything became very clear to him. He lowered the gun.

"Well, not on my watch." Sherlock's voice was tight, barely audible, but seemed deafeningly loud as it shattered the ominous silence.

"What are you doing?" Eurus asked, a hint of urgency in her voice.

Sherlock turned to face John and Mycroft. His hands no longer shook, his mind no longer muddled.

"A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered."

Sherlock pressed the cold muzzle of the gun underneath his chin. Mycroft, horrified, took a step closer, as if to stop him.

"I'm remembering the governor."