Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns my heart! Enjoy the second half of the case chapters, and I promise more villainy, more love, more drama to come. Please leave a review if you're in the mood. Have fun, I know I did!

Chapter Sixteen

"Deductions and Declarations"

Sherlock stood alone in the one clear spot in the center of the Blackwood compound, ignoring everyone. Well, less ignoring and more dismissive of things irrelevant to his process. He would look in one cardinal direction before moving to the next, eyes soaking up everything, his mind analyzing and weighing all that his senses picked up.

He had completely ignored Lestrade's attempt to explain anything, and instead stormed into the command tent, poked around until he found the dispatch transcripts from the original radio calls from that morning, and then stalked back out. Acting for all the world like he knew exactly where he was going.

Which he most likely does! John thought, following Sherlock through the chaos. Sherlock had ended up beside on of the larger craters, which to John's experienced eye wasn't much. It was about five feet wide and about six inches deep near the point of impact. He'd seen IED's in Afghanistan the size of soda cans that blew a Humvee into shrapnel, so the cops determination of "explosives" and "bombs" were a bit much. I may not know a damn thing about disarming them, but I've seen enough of the damage they do to recognize the types. Looks like an incendiary, really.

John kept watching Sherlock, and casting an eye over his detective's expression, John knew he had time to sit and relax. Sherlock would glance down at the transcript, and then look off into a certain direction, almost as if he was reconstructing the events as the responding officer reported them. John found a short concrete wall, and luckily there was no blood where he sat. Miracle, that. There's blood everywhere. In fact, John saw a very disgusting river of bloody mud oozing next to Sherlock's shoe, and wondered if he should say anything. The detective was ignoring it, like he wasn't fazed by being near the mess. Of course this is the man who whipped corpses with riding crops, so probably not.

Lestrade and his people had followed from the tent, keeping back about twenty feet. Lestrade and Donovan were the closest, watching Sherlock, and then watching John watch Sherlock. John smiled to himself, figuring what was going through their heads. Donovan had most likely seen them holding hands in the car on the ride over, and Lestrade knew he'd been in Sherlock's bed when he'd called. He figured one of them would break down and ask eventually before this day was over. He wondered what he'd say, then figured he didn't have to say anything. Let them think what they wanted; he was happy, so it didn't matter.

The wind was howling through the concrete remnants of walls, funneling in to the open space where Sherlock and John were. The wind whipped at Sherlock's coat and scarf, giving the impression that the detective was wearing a black cape. Very nice look, actually. Sherlock was oblivious to the cold, uncaring that his coat was open, flapping away in the wind. His focus admirable, though John did start to worry the man would get sick one of these days. John had to think hard for a minute, and he realized that he had never seen Sherlock sick. High, yes, but never sick.

Lestrade walked over, and sat next to John on the wall. His coat buttoned all the way up, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He cast a glance at Sherlock before turning to the doctor. He started to say something, then changed his mind and went back to watching Sherlock. Donovan had stayed well back, for which John was thankful. He didn't trust his temper around that letdown of a police officer. She had been one of the driving forces behind getting Scotland Yard to turn its back on Sherlock two years before. And he had never forgiven her for it. Anger and disgust boiled up in him now just looking at her. Her willingness, her smug satisfaction, at being able to say "I told you he was a psychopath" to everyone who would listen made him sick with anger. Though the joke was on her - Moriarty was proven real and a villain; Sherlock exonerated and alive; and Sherlock had quite literally turned off the bomb that was going to destroy Parliament just three days ago.

Dear God, three days ago? Or is it four? Feels like a year! I don't even feel like the same person anymore!

It all came down to Sherlock, really. Everything revolved around him. John smiled at his thoughts, content to watch his detective as he worked. Glad that he could have this experience again. Sherlock was almost meandering now, his movements light as he stepped around unseen clues amidst the destruction that littered the ground. It was if he were searching for a scent, some piece of evidence he knew was there but couldn't pin down.

"John," began Lestrade, being very careful to not attract Sherlock's attention, "There's something here he needs to see, though I don't know how he's gonna take it."

"What is it?" John asked back just as quietly, trying to keep an eye on Sherlock as he started to wander off, dropping the transcript forgotten to the ground.

"I'll show him once he starts talking to us again - HEY! Sherlock! Where's he going?!" Lestrade yelled as the detective took off like someone fired a gun, disappearing into the ruins.

"Here we go!" John took off after Sherlock, catching up to him at a run, dodging the craters and the pools of drying blood. The others were behind John a fair amount, not as used to Sherlock's unpredictability as he was. Sherlock was heading in a distinctly northern direction, watching the ground for a trail of some kind only he could see. He had a deadly, graceful efficiency as he ran. He easily adapted his strides to the difficult terrain. John kept up with him, and he had a disturbing sense of déjà vu. He flashed back to Afghanistan, a memory of his unit scouring the bombed out remains of a village, after the blood trail of a wounded soldier trapped somewhere in the ruins.

They continued north, towards the river. The smell of the Thames reached them long before they caught sight of the water through the buildings. Great, grey rushing waters raced towards the sea, the current deep and fast beneath the wide surface of the river. Sherlock continued all the way to the edge, where he gripped the remnants of a chain link fence and leaned way out over the river. He stared down, unmoving.

"Jesus, Sherlock! That's a twenty-foot drop!" John resisted the urge to snatch him back from the ledge, not wanting to make the detective lose his grip and fall. Sherlock leaned out farther, and John winced.

"Very astute John, it's almost twenty feet exactly." Sherlock took one last look before he slung himself back to the concrete surface. "And it's also point of ingress and egress for this morning's events."

"There's fresh scrapes and disturbances in the algae growth and moss on the rocks and concrete all the way up the side of the wall. Signs that a boat anchored here as well, for several hours or more. The scrapes are indicative of a good-sized boat, enough for several people and equipment. Though not so large as to be noticed for its size. Not to mention there's absolutely no lighting along this section of the river; a boat could be here from sundown to sunrise and no one would see it. Perfect place to come in at, and to escape from. All you need to know is how to climb."

Sherlock moved in away from the ledge, pointing to the ground. His voice had that excited vibe to it; his words spilling out as fast as his mouth could form them. He was in his element. Sherlock was never more alive than when he had a puzzle to solve.

"Here, look - Disregard the fresh debris, the blood, the spent shell casings - ignore it all, and you can see it. The telltale signs of equipment being assembled, and dragged off in different directions. I can see...one, two... five, possibly six separate tread patterns." He knelt quickly, fingertips to the wet concrete, his eyes lifting to follow footprints barely visible on the ground.

"Here at the river, the destruction is minimal compared to the rest of the area. As if they did what they did here last, as an afterthought, to disguise the fact that this is how they came and went." Suddenly Sherlock leaped at John, grabbing him around the shoulders and turning him in the direction of the closest building, about fifteen feet away.

"Look, John. See the marks on the walls? The small white scuff marks, the holes at regular intervals? How it goes all the way up to the top? This building still has most of its walls, a portion of its roof." Sherlock was close behind John, his voice urgent in his ear, one hand on his shoulder, the other pointing along the wall of the building to the roof. "Look past the bullet holes, see a new pattern. Tell me what it looks like to you."

"Yeah, I see the marks..." John started, as a flash of insight bloomed in his mind. His earlier flashback to Afghanistan triggered another memory; he had been an army doctor in a war in one of the most mountainous countries in the world for three years. He drew a sharp breath in as he recognized the marks. Sherlock's hand gripped his shoulder in approval; he was several steps ahead, making sure John caught up.

"Climbing marks! Anchors, bolts, a belay system for climbing the walls!"

"Exactly! Professionals, every one of them. This was no gang incident, no university prank. This was all planned well in advance. My conclusion is that this is where the explosives and blood vessels were launched from. Highest vantage point, closest to the river. All planned, and precisely executed. In a display so grandiose that it could not be ignored, but done in place that no one would be able to stop them before they finished. All of this was a statement, a declaration. Of ability. It speaks of rage, too. They chose three of the most violent symbols of anger known to man - explosions, gunfire, and blood."

Lestrade and the others had arrived as Sherlock was expounding his conclusions, and there was more people with them than they had started out with. Sherlock's chase to the river had drawn a crowd, and over twenty people were listening and watching. Some were nodding in agreement, others looked lost and confused. Most were just enjoying the show. The legend of Sherlock Holmes had been revived, and there was no better place for those legends to grow than in Scotland Yard. John was caught up in the sheer joy of watching Sherlock work; his mind was a beauty to behold, his genius intoxicating.

"Launched? As in missiles?" Someone had the courage to ask from the crowd. "How do you launch blood in missiles?"

"Seriously not an issue I'm concerned with at the moment, I'm more curious about where their leader went while the minions did all the work." Sherlock started walking off again, though he stopped and said, "Most likely plastic containers designed to shatter at impact past a certain velocity."

He was absorbed in what he saw on the ground, ignoring the crunch of shells under his shoes, and he walked straight through the mass of people like he didn't see them. John stuck to his side like glue, and the crowd parted to let them through. Less than an hour on site, and Sherlock had more information than they'd had since before dawn.

The path only he could see wound along the outside of the property, trees bare of leaves to one side, a wasteland of concrete on the other. He was taking them in a roundabout way back to the front entrance. Everyone trailed behind, not wanting to miss a thing. Lestrade sucked in a breath, and jogged to get up next to John, pulling him a back a few steps so that Sherlock was ahead of them.

"That thing I was afraid to show him is exactly where he's going." Lestrade's voice was low, but not low enough. Sherlock whipped his head around, skewered the Inspector with his bright eyes, and then turned back around and began running, leaving everyone behind.

"Shit! Sherlock, Stop! John, this might get really bad." Lestrade's call only spurred the detective faster, and he rounded the wall that held the threat well ahead of the crowd, John and Lestrade struggling to keep up. Sherlock could be remarkably fast when he wanted. They came around the end of the wall, sliding to a stop to avoid running into Sherlock.

He was like a statue; exquisitely drawn from fine white marble, and looked just as cold. The wind moved around him as if it danced, making his hair slash into his eyes, his coat whipping around him like a flag. He stared ahead at the wall, unmoving, uncaring, oblivious to the men standing next to him, the crowd that gathered nearby. John felt shock at the look on Sherlock's face - it was so vacant of life, so void of personality it was if Sherlock wasn't even in his own body anymore.

John moved to Sherlock's side, and turned to see what could affect his detective so deeply. What he saw rocked him like a punch to the jaw.

WE WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF HIM

NO! NOT possible! NO! John didn't realize it, but he was screaming at himself inside his head. Only a handful of people know that phrase, know who said it first...!

One of those people was dead, three stood together before this wall, and the last was a master at keeping secrets. So no one else could know that Moriarty had threatened Sherlock with a variant of those words, the words written in blood before them. John felt like he was back at that pool all over again, strapped down with explosives and waiting to die, taking his best friend with him.

"I will burn the heart out of you!" Moriarty's ghost screamed at him, threatening to pull him back into a nightmare.

Nothing could be heard but the howling of the wind, the trees complaining in the cold. John was filled by a churning mix of anger and panic, and he swallowed back his fear as he turned to Sherlock. He was still immobile, his bright eyes shining like diamonds in the shifting light.

"Sherlock. Moriarty's dead. He's dead." Having meant it to sound reassuring, it came out as more of a questioning plea. "Sherlock? Hey, mate. Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer, didn't even register that John was speaking to him. It was if he couldn't answer, no mind left to respond. John was close enough to him that he could hear Sherlock's mobile begin vibrating in his coat pocket. He didn't move, unaware it was even ringing. It buzzed like an angry bee hive in his pocket before abruptly dying off. The state his lover was in was beginning to alarm him. He was at a loss for what to do, unsure if he was in shock, or if he had stepped away into his mind palace. Lestrade moved towards Sherlock, had outstretched, a look of concern on his face. John stopped him, and gently pushed him back. He was afraid to touch Sherlock while he was in this state, he didn't know how he would react to physical contact. John jumped as his own mobile began chiming loudly from his pocket. Digging it out, he saw it was a restricted number, and he answered.

"Put him on the phone, John." It was Mycroft, of course it was.

"I would, but he isn't really... here... right now." John swallowed, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. "I can't tell if he is in severe shock or if he is so deep in his mind palace he can't hear us. I'm afraid he might be... gone."

Nothing from Mycroft's end, then a loud sigh of exasperation he didn't bother trying to hide. Definitely brothers, the Holmes men.

"Break him free, John. He'll hear you." A pause, then, "Make him call me once he is able." The line went dead. John put his mobile back in his pocket, and took a deep breath. Break him free? How the hell...?

John moved cautiously in front of Sherlock, standing inches away from him. He knew it was dangerous to wake people forcibly from deep mental shocks and fugue states. Many people when awakened prematurely from trances, illness, hypnosis, often emerged instinctively violent. The potential for Sherlock to hurt himself or someone else was there. Sherlock would never hurt me. Not badly, at least. Punches don't count. Stop stalling, do something. Sherlock's gaze was locked on the wall, his gorgeous eyes vacant.

"Sherlock? Come back now. Sherlock." He strived to keep his voice calm, soothing. No response. John swallowed, and became acutely aware that people were staring, wondering what was going on. Many had drifted closer, stopping just behind Lestrade and Donovan. They were whispering together, and John caught something from them about calling for 'medics. That stirred John to action; no one was messing with Sherlock. John would bring him back to himself. He wouldn't let his trepidation stop him.

John stepped those last few inches, so close he could embrace his detective. Instead he lifted his right hand, and laid it gently over Sherlock's heart. It still beat beneath his hand, the only sign of life from the man.

"Sherlock. I love you."

Sometimes simplicity works best. His voice had been soft but clear, and it was as if the heavens had decided to assist, the wind dying off just as he said the words. They traveled far enough for everyone present to hear them, in perfect clarity. The whispering stopped, and he knew he had everyone's attention. John ignored them all, and tried to wake Sherlock with sheer willpower.

It was small spark, a tiny flutter under his fingers. John knew some part of Sherlock had heard his simple declaration of love. He saw a change in Sherlock's eyes, as if a summer sun had broken through winter clouds, awareness glowing in the depths. A subtle change, but powerful. Relief swept through him as Sherlock blinked, his eyes lowering to John's. He moved for the first time in an eternity, his arms drifted up, as if lifted by the returning wind. His gloved hands braced themselves on either side of John's face, and he dropped his forehead to John's. His skin was cold, as if he really was a man of stone.

"I... went looking for what I must have... missed." Sherlock whispered, his voice full of something John couldn't name. "Two years hunting, tearing apart Moriarty's syndicate... Only someone who knew him well could have known those words." His voice regained some of its old strength, but he spoke quietly, his voice only for John's ears. "I missed something, and now, you're in danger." Sherlock's eyes drifted shut, and he whispered his next words across John's mouth.

"The only heart I have to burn belongs to you. They hurt you, John - I am destroyed."

Those words cut him like a knife, and made his blood sing with the beautiful pain of them. John didn't care that they had an audience, that people were staring, or drifting closer to get a better view. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest inside his coat, and whispered back, "No one can hurt us while we're together." He brought his lips to Sherlock's, kissing him like they were alone in the world, and that there was nothing to fear. Lips clinging, he poured every ounce of emotion he could into that one kiss. His heart roared in triumph as Sherlock kissed him back. John gave up all inhibitions, his arms holding Sherlock tight. The detective returned his kiss with equal fervor.

It wasn't until Sherlock's mobile began vibrating again that they realized they were still out in the real world, and couldn't stay like that forever. Sherlock lifted his mouth away, and cursed. He kept John close to his chest with his right arm, kissed him once on the forehead as if apologizing, and blindly answered his mobile with the other.

"Hello, brother dear... yes, obviously... John is an excellent physician, he knew just what to do..." John choked back a laugh at that, burying his face in Sherlock's scarf. "I'll be giving this matter my full attention, it's already almost solved as it is...of course you'll be following along... feel free if you're bored... bye-bye now."

Sherlock promptly hung up, and dropped his mobile back in his pocket. His arm came back up to wrap around John's shoulder, and he rested his chin on John's temple.

"Sorry... about stepping away like that. I went too deep, too fast, trying to find my mistake. I relived two years in those few minutes, and I was determined to find it. I got caught up. I heard you though. I think I'll always hear you." His voice was low, for John only. Sherlock rarely apologized, but when he did, he meant it.

John's reply was muffled by Sherlock's scarf, but it was clear enough. "No worries, just glad you heard me."

"Hmmm. I think I'll always hear those words from you. Oh, and did you know that about thirty people are staring at us, some of them taking pictures? I'm certain at least a dozen or so are filming us as well." Sherlock sounded like he thought the whole idea of people filming them was absurd, and John groaned.

"Why do you think I'm hiding in your scarf?" John gave up, and started to laugh, shoulders shaking in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock started to laugh as well, deep and glorious as it echoed off the concrete walls around them. They pulled away, grinning at each other like fools and dissolving in giggles.

"Crime scene, stop giggling!" John mock whispered, which just set them both off into more giggle fits. John had to wipe tears from his cheeks, and Sherlock couldn't stop laughing every time he looked at John. People were still filming, and John resisted the urge to start waving. Sherlock didn't care a bit that they were being watched, and reached a hand out to wipe away a lone tear John missed. They calmed down enough after a few minutes of hilarity, and Sherlock turned to Lestrade.

"Lestrade, pick your jaw off the ground, I'm perfectly fine now. Back to work." Sherlock winked at the Inspector, threw his arm around John's shoulders, and walked to the wall, and the challenge it presented.