Sherlock's anger was intensifying, infuriated that he was unable to tend to his friend. But he knew he had to listen to Moriarty if they stood a chance of surviving this. 'Keep him talking, there has to be a way out, I just need more time.' "I thought you didn't like getting your hands dirty."
As soon as that was said Moriarty stopped prowling round Sherlock and stood behind the taller man, he started running his hands over Sherlock's back. "True, I don't." His hands flitted from Sherlock's neck to the small of his back. Repeating this motion gently applying more pressure. "Usually. But you've got to make an exception for your biggest fans."
"You're insane." Sherlock's body had completely gone rigid. At a loss at how to handle all this. He could feel the criminal laughing into his back, as pale fingers emerged beneath his arms and started playing with his chest.
"Nah, I'm you. But more advanced in every way." Sherlock swallowed hard, his eyes firmly shut and he tried to control his body temperature and pulse. He tried to let out a scoff that sounded more like a groan. "Don't believe me? Oh honey you know it's true." He circled back to stand in front of his plaything, his hands worked his way up to his neck, his thumb stroked the sharp jaw line and he softly tugged his ear before knotting his fingers in his hair and giving the roots a sharp tug forcing Sherlock's body closer to his. They were pressed together and Moriarty raised an eyebrow accompanied by a smug smile. Sherlock cursed his himself when he felt Moriarty's flaccid groin against his stiffened organ. He cursed his body for betraying him. He cursed Moriarty for having so much control and he cursed John for being able to see it. He risked a glance at John who had been looking away, John had been unable to watch that intimacy any longer, it was painful to see Sherlock like that, so helpless and innocent and he was furious at himself at how his body had also reacted. Moriarty turned to follow Sherlock's quick glance. "Well, well, isn't this exciting, my boys standing to attention." He saluted them both and took a seat back on John, languidly spreading himself on his lap like a cat. He tiptoed his fingers up John's thigh. "God I could play with you boys all day but I really am on a schedule, can't keep them waiting forever."
Sherlock tried to get the blood back to his head; 'Everyone and anyone that means something to John and himself compared to the billions of innocent people and the initiation of a world war.'
"No one is truly innocent Sherlock."
He tried to block out the sing-songy voice, he could feel Moriarty dancing in his head, he knew he could see every thought, he felt like he needed to scrub the inside of his skull to get rid of the sickly stench of Jim. 'I cannot be so self absorbed to save just my friends.'
'Yes you can, every decent human being would choose the people they loved. I can see it all Sherlock, I know you. I am you.'
'I have to save the many over the few.' But then he looked at John.
"Ah, just remembered have you. Yep you'll have to be the one to stop his beating heart; you'll watch the disappointment and hatred stare up at you as you smother the wall with his blood written in your name."
'No. I can't.' But John was shouting through the material at Sherlock. He looked into his blue eyes, huge and at a loss. He was almost tearing at what Sherlock was being asked to do, John would never be able to make that decision and watching his friend being forced to do so much, it made him ache, it was overpowering the physical pain he was enduring. Sherlock tried his final card. He turned the gun on himself. Moriarty sighed and stood next to John using the side of his face as a leaning pole.
"Really Sherlock, I considered you much too fond of yourself to so do so. And how incredibly tedious, you could do that I suppose, run away from our John, at least you could tick continuity off, but if you die then they all die. Both sides of the bargain. Now you are not that egotistic. Oh and as you figured out that would also happen if you do anything other than I said."
Sherlock's chest was tight and his stomach was churning. It was minutes before he said anything. "How do I know you're not going to do both anyway?"
"Now Sherlock stop wasting time. I am a man of my word and. I DONT LIKE TO BE KEPT WAITING!"
Sherlock decided. "I have a condition." Moriarty stopped toying with John who let out a sigh of relief but Sherlock wasn't meeting his gaze.
"I...I get to choose how John dies." Sherlock was trembling but he tried to keep it out of his voice.
Moriarty beamed: "Hmm. Such as? Drowning?" The consulting criminal gestured to the pool.
"...Suffocation."
"Sometimes Sherlock you amaze me, fine, this could be entertaining. Obviously he keeps all his ties on." Sherlock nodded, he placed the gun on the floor and cautiously inched towards John. Part of him kept trying to separate himself from his body as to watch the scene play out from above, but Sherlock refused to detach himself; he refused to let John go through this alone.
Moriarty pulled out the knife making John spasm in agony. He threw it to the side and allowed Sherlock to take his place by his friend.
Sherlock stood over the smaller man and stared in to his eyes, he looked at the still hardened bulge in his boxers, then back to John who had turned away ashamed. Sherlock knelt in front of him with a look that said it was ok. He placed a hand on his good knee and studied every inch of the man, the man that deserved to be remembered. The scar of the war hero. The hands of the healer. The legs of his partner. The face of his everything and the heart of everything that could have been. He stood and straddled his friend, trying to avoid his injured leg. He looked into John's eyes, he saw the hero that John had always hoped he would see in Sherlock. The ordinary man that did extraordinary things, he was so much more than anyone he had ever met. And he would be the one to end it. He stroked John's cheek with the back of his hand. John lent in and closed his eyes. Sherlock brushed along John's collar bones and down to his chest. Every memory of him filled his chest, flooding it with warmth. He rested a hand on John's heart and lent in to his ear. "Open your eyes."
John opened wet eyes, tears scattered on his lashes, Sherlock caressed along the lip outline over the gag. Sherlock was saying all that he could to John through his eyes, an apology, words that would never be said and John silently wept, not because he was about to die but because he knew what would be left behind. After John gave a weak nod. Sherlock lent in and placed a kiss on each eyelid, he let his forehead rest against John's as he pulled out the purple silk hankie in his inside pocket, he locked eyes with John as he placed the silk over John's nose. He held it in place as he saw John trying not to struggle; Sherlock held him tight and whispered over and over. "It's ok, John, I've got you." The movements were restraint thrashes now. "John, I've got you, I won't let go, I promise. It's ok." Then the body slumped, there was no fight, no pulse. Sherlock remained there clasping John shaking uncontrollably. But he wouldn't let himself cry, not yet. He stood to face Moriarty with dark, dead eyes. Moriarty was applauding.
"Wow, what a finale, bravissimo my friend. Let's just make sure it wasn't too good." He stepped closer to John but Sherlock stopped him.
"No." Sherlock growled at him.
"Nuh, uh, uh." Moriarty was wagging a finger at him. I can still send off the second signal, now step aside."
Sherlock glared viciously at the man but moved back. Standing in front of John. Moriarty lent in to take a pulse but swiftly pulled out a gun and shot a bullet through the back of John's head. "There, now we're sure."
Sherlock dropped to his knees, covered in John's blood.
"So you chose the worth of the many rather than the few who were worth dying for. Hmm, can't say I'm not a little disappointed but this war isn't over Sherlock. It's been fun." And with that Moriarty had shadowed out of the pool, as were the red dots, though it would have been almost impossible to tell.
There wasn't anything to do but to get a cab back to Baker Street. He paid the cabbie extra to ignore the blood and the body. He carried John in his arms; he stepped over Mrs Hudson's body and carried him over the threshold. He sat John in his armchair, made two cups of tea and placed John's on the armrest. He sat opposite, placed his tea on the coffee table, and sobbed.