Sherlock kept John's jacket close to his chest as the cab took him to the crime scene. It was a reminder for him that everything would be fine in the end and Jim wasn't going to win, just like the last time. It would be all right in the end.

As he paid the taxi driver and got out with John's jacket in his hand, one of the first people he spotted was Lestrade talking to Sally. He swiftly approached them, and Sally was the first one to spot him. She simply raised her eyebrow and greeted him in the same way she always did – "Hello, freak."
"Ah, Sherlock," Lestrade turned his attention from Sally to Sherlock, and expected John to appear by his side. When he didn't, this surprised him. "Where's your boyfriend?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, but instead scowled and held up John's jacket to show that he was missing. He thought of mentioning Moriarty, but he wasn't that stupid.

"Anything of interest?" Sherlock asked.

"Not really," Sally replied. "I don't use the science of deduction as you happen to."

Sherlock couldn't help smile at Sally's comment. As he listened to their drabbles he pickpocketed Lestrade as he usually did and wandered off into the core of it all. As he ducked underneath the barriers, he bumped straight into Anderson, who didn't look too pleased by his presence.

"Oh, shut up Anderson," Sherlock said before Anderson could even utter a word, and dodged past him and into the remaining's of the underground station. He passed a lot of dead and injured people, which didn't bother him too much, considering he had seen a lot of death's during the time of his consulting detective employment. He asked an officer where exactly the bomb had set off, and when he was told he bent down and examined the spot with his magnifying glass.

"Definitely Jim," he murmured. "Anything to do with bombs is usually a guarantee to Jim. Hmm. The bomb blew up at a slightly odd angle, possible implying that Jim planted it in a hurry. Oh… but what's this?"

It was another piece of paper that hadn't been destroyed in the explosion. Sherlock grinned, grabbing it and opening it up.

You're pretty close, aren't you?

As he read it, Sherlock frowned. John didn't write this. It wasn't the sort of tone he would use, and plus it wasn't the same handwriting – it was messier. John's was more sophisticated. Sherlock tucked the note in his pocket, confused, and walked out of the crime scene, snapping at Anderson to shut up again just as he was about to open his mouth to claim something stupid.

Sherlock thrust his hands into his jacket pocket, walking off in a different direction. His walk was quite a long one until he reached his destination, and while he was strolling he realised he still had John's jacket. Thinking of John upset him. He was his only friend and person who he could fully trust, and he didn't want to lose somebody like that – Sherlock realised John meant a lot to him and he was really dreading the feeling he was going to get again, facing Moriarty – that horrible feeling, what if he doesn't live?

Oh, shut up, Sherlock, he thought. He always lives in the end. Good always beats bad.

About ten minutes later he had arrived at the Oval cricket ground, which was unoccupied. As to be expected. Sherlock slipped in, still feeling a bit empty, and looked around, studying the cricket ground for any sign of life. It was as silent, apart from the occasional blows of wind, and the green started to hurt his eyes.

"John?" He called, and his voice echoed. John, John, John, John…

He waited for a couple of minutes before he called, "Moriarty?"

Two hands clasped on Sherlock's shoulders and he jumped, but he wasn't hurt. "Peek-a-boo!" Jim said in his ear. "Lovely place, isn't it?"

Sherlock spun around, revealing a gun from his pocket and pointing it straight at Jim. Jim only laughed.

"Seriously?" He asked. "Is that all you can think of? A gun? Come on, have some creativity. The great Sherlock Holmes, there must be some of it in you!"

"What have you done with John?" Sherlock demanded to know, wrapping his finger around the trigger threateningly. Jim rolled his eyes, not impressed by his performance.

"You're boring," he complained like a small child, extending the word boring. "I thought you were smarter than this."

Sherlock was getting seriously impatient now, and a portion of his brain was yelling at him to pull that trigger. He wasn't that ignorant, however, and knew Jim would probably blow him up if he got shot. And he certainly didn't want to be blown up my Jim without placing John into safety. "Tell me now."

"Pfffft," Jim said, "no chance. I'm surprised you haven't asked why I've chosen a meeting place so close to a police investigation, however."
Now that Jim had mentioned it, it did confuse Sherlock. Why did he choose a place so close to the police, where they could easily find Jim and arrest him? Sherlock was almost disappointed in himself for not being smarter – where had his brain gone today? Was it just the idea that John was in danger that made him completely oblivious to all the obvious things? Or what?

"You see," Jim said, a smile plastered across his face, "I want them all to see the great Sherlock Holmes die."

okay I finally have an idea that I'm satisfied with. :D I'm not too sure about the writing style in this chapter, however, but yeah. Thanks to all my reviews, by the way. I really appreciate them. If you have any critique, please step up, I love that stuff as much as I love praise :3