Chapter Thirteen

He forced himself to breathe evenly. Someone had yelled "bomb", causing all the doors to open in a sudden rush, people leaving the reading rooms in panic, running towards the exit. The storm lasted a few minutes, but eventually it seemed quiet, at least inside. It was all a blur.

John wondered why there was no security around, no one to check for an actual bomb. The police remained outside, unmoving. He wondered if Moriarty had been the one yelling, or if he had really threatened to blow up the whole library, ripping a large wound into British history. Whatever the reason was, after the doors closed, the great hall was almost silent.

A figure came walking towards him, careful but with purpose. It was the man who had answered him with sarcasm earlier when he had asked him about the time line on the ground. He stood behind the showcase that was to the right of the secret door, and John knew that if he was seen, he could not escape. He could feel the cold gun against his hot skin. He should have gotten a proper holster long ago, but it had ever seemed important and his belt and waistband had done a well enough job.

The man stopped in front of the showcase that should have held the finches. John hoped his heart was not really beating as loudly as he thought it was. Through half closed eyes and distorted through several layers of glass, he watched frozen how the man opened the case with a key and pulled out the manuscript that had amused John so greatly. Moriarty had been right.

A loud thud to his right made him jump. The curse that followed calmed him down again. It had been a good idea to lock that door after all. As far as he could see, everyone, presumably except for Moriarty and his bodyguards, had left the building, and the man, so close to him, was now trying to open the door from the outside.

He heard a muffled voice. "Is he dead?"

"Yes he is."

"Are you sure?"

"He's right here. I told you I was a good shot."

Another muffled noise followed and the man pressed his ear against the door. "What?"

"Thank you." These words were followed by another shot and John saw the man fall down right next to him. Blood was rapidly streaming from a wound in his head. The manuscript seemed to float in midair for a second before it sailed a few feet away.

John darted out of his hiding spot and knelt next to him. He knew that Moriarty might just shoot down the lock and stand behind him within seconds, but if there was any chance of saving the man's life, he would take it.

The man was breathing, but the wound to his head was severe. Closing his eyes, John imagined himself in war. People falling left and right from him. A wounded enemy became a patient on the battle field. He knew it wasn't exactly how politics worked, but it had been the only thing that kept him sane during that time.

Opening his eyes again he pressed his hand against the wound. Relieved he noticed that the bones in the man's face seemed to be intact, but the blood was flowing freely from the wound that covered part of his face and neck. A wild idea entered his head, triggered by the ultimate need to save this man's life. He moved his hands over the floor, fingernails trying to loosen the large plaster of the time line from the ground. Eventually a larger piece came off and he moved back to the man, whose eyes were closed, blood still coming and pressed it against his head. Seconds seemed drawn out into eternities. His knee on one side of the head to stabilise him, John used both hands to cover the wound. He needed something else, something that would apply more pressure. Slowly, life slipped out of the man.

It took him a long time to let go. John was covered in blood, tears blurring his vision. He knew he should hate this man, who had thought that he had shot him, but despite that fact, he had been a smart, young, and living man just minutes ago. He wondered how Moriarty had managed to draw him into his little cruel game.

Moriarty. The thought of the man sobered him up. He tried to wipe his hands, and ended up using the dead man's shirt. Underneath it, he found the weapon which he must have used to shoot the man who looked like him. He carefully covered it with the soiled shirt again and slowly retreated to his hiding place – not a minute to soon. The door to the manuscript room opened, and a woman came out, carrying a large duffle bag. Now he understood the relevance of duffle bags. He wondered how many handwritten treasures and unique prints they had stuffed into those bags. For a second he considered shooting her for the sake of the arts, but he dismissed that thought immediately, pushing it back to the place in his mind where he kept his traumas locked away.

The woman made her way down the stairs and as she saw the two dead figures lying on the ground she dropped the bag to cover her mouth as she cried out. It was clear that she had not expected events to take this turn. Turing to see the lights outside, she realised that there was no easy way out, and picked up the bag with some difficulty, disappearing through the staff entrance. He now recognised her as the woman that had pretended to lock up after the last readers had left the manuscript reading room. He should have known. Again, his conclusions came much too late.

John tried to think straight. Moriarty was still somewhere behind these doors. He had no idea how the rooms within this building were connected, but he was sure that the secret door wasn't the only one. Trying to still his heartbeat he slowly moved away from the wall again and towards the stairs on his left. Ducking below the rail, he started to climb up. He needed to see what was happening, and he needed to see the whole room. The police had still not entered the building, as if they were waiting for his call. Well, that call wouldn't come.

When he had reached the third floor, he had to sit down on the last step. His head was spinning and he was out of breath and energy. The adrenaline rush that had flooded him when he had tried to save the man's life had left a bitter aftertaste of exhaustion.

He heard a noise. A curse, to be exact. Moriarty had figured out that the body wasn't his.

"Oh John, I know you are here. I can smell your fear. You think you outsmarted me." His voice now had the maddening shrill sound it had had back at the pool. "You really are an idiot." Then, to someone, John presumed one of his bodyguards, "bring him out and let him watch."

John's heart almost stopped.

He had Sherlock. He had had him all along and John had been thankful all this time that he wasn't with him. He had assumed that he was safe. What had they done to him? He needed to see if they had hurt him. The thought made his stomach clench and he felt very close to being sick on the stairs.

Breathe, he told himself. Breathe. He kept his head low, trying to listen to the sounds that came from below. Everything seemed strangely loud in the incredibly big hall. It was as if the absence of people magnified the little sounds that were made. He heard heavy footsteps and then more of a sliding sound, a struggle. Sherlock was held and couldn't walk by himself and struggled.

John suppressed a whimper. This was not happening. He would wake up in a few seconds, sweating, his heart racing, but he would know that it had been a nightmare. A nightmare of the war combined with Sherlock's silly ideas of exciting activities. The blood on his hands started drying, he noticed and he wiped them on his jeans. Then he slowly reached for his gun, trying to make no sound.

He was just a little bit too far away to be able to fire, but holding his gun calmed him down. It was something of an automatic focus that set in, blinding out his anxiety. The army had trained him well. He needed to get closer.

"Get the airlift." He ordered one of his bodyguards, who immediately started speaking into a walkie talkie.

"Now, John. Don't you want to come out and play? It will just be me and you, and our friend here." There was no sound from Sherlock. John still had not dared to look. He knew that Moriarty would find him immediately.

A loud groaning noise made him jump. The lift next to the staircase was being operated. The two bodyguards would be making their way up now. Somewhere, through the grinding of the machine in the wall next to him, he could hear the noise of a helicopter. Airlift. Moriarty planned on getting out of here by helicopter.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." Moriarty's voice now had a teasing quality. He tried to unnerve John, make him panic in order to make him give up his hiding place. He slowly crept down the stairs, just half a floor, making sure the two large men would not see him as soon as they stepped out of the lift. It worked. They moved on and made their way towards the back. John caught a glimpse of them. One of the men held the slightly bloodied manuscript in his hand. No duffle bag, though. Maybe Moriarty wanted to carry that himself as soon as he had fulfilled his plan. He doubted that the woman who had disappeared would cause any trouble. She was probably hiding somewhere in the archives deep down under ground where she was safe from the police, but even more importantly, safe from Moriarty.

How cruel could he be? He wanted him to watch how he killed Sherlock Holmes. That was why he did not dare look up. His greatest fear was that as soon as he looked, Moriarty would put a bullet in Sherlock's head and he refused to witness that. He would not watch Sherlock die. Not today, not ever. Knowing he might have a better shot from the second level, he kept on crawling down the stairs. Then he waited, trying to steady his breath.

The silence lasted a few minutes until Moriarty started speaking again. His voice was dangerously low, almost calm.

"You know, it is pathetic, really. I expected more of you, to be honest. The move with Miss Romanov was very good indeed. I did not think she would make it out of here alive. But now I'm waiting for my favourite part of the evening and you are just refusing to come out and play." The last words he screamed, and John could hear the muffled sound of someone – Sherlock - being hit, hard, but refusing to cry out. He wanted to cry at the bravery of his friend. They both knew how to act according to the situation, but the thought that Moriarty had actually managed to get hold of Sherlock and put him into a situation where he could easily kill him and was probably planning on actually doing it, scared the living daylights out of him.

"Move it." He had said those words to Sherlock, John was sure. He used a different tone of voice with him. He could hear them coming down the stairs. This might be his chance. He was one level below them now, by the Darwin exhibition and as they moved down, he sneaked along the showcases, edging closer to where they would end up. He could see the window, and he saw that the police was still standing outside, still waiting for an order. He wondered why it hadn't come yet, and then he realised that they must be watching Sherlock being held hostage. They wouldn't risk coming in now. Blinking away the tears that blurred his vision yet again, he moved even closer. Moriarty expected him to be somewhere above he figured from the way he had yelled, so this might be his one chance to get a shot at him. He kept his head down, still not daring to look.

And then he stood there, right above him, on top of the stairs that led down to his level. Twenty feet away, he pulled his gun and aimed.

Moriarty had a death grip on Sherlock, his eyes wide, tape over his mouth, his arms bound. Something seemed strange about that image, but then he considered the possibility that Sherlock had been drugged. Moriarty used him as a body shield.

He had never hated Moriarty more.

"Now, my friend." He said it into Sherlock's hair. John could see him cringe. "Now you will watch him die."

A hot flash of fear shot through his body. Moriarty had not meant those words for him, he had meant them for Sherlock. And the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

I will burn the heart out of you.Those words had stayed with Sherlock, but he had assured John more often than had been necessary that there was no way that Moriarty could possibly do that. Well, judging by the pained expression on Sherlock's face, he might just have found the one way to do so.

He managed to hold Sherlock with one hand, wrapped around him like he would hold a lover, and pulled a gun. His hand was surprisingly steady, considering the trembling in his voice and behaviour. Were those tears in Sherlock's eyes?

John watched as Sherlock closed his eyes and the simple act, the decision that he had made about not watching his friend die that Sherlock was making right in that moment ripped his heart in two.

"Good bye," he said. "I need to say good bye."

The grin on Moriarty's face was vulgar. But when John pulled the trigger, that smile vanished. He dropped Sherlock, pressing his hand against his side. John shot again, wanting to kill him so badly, but concentrating more on Sherlock than on Moriarty, so he only managed to shoot the gun out of his hand.

It all happened within a second, and he saw Sherlock tip forward and then fall onto the stairs.

Moriarty stared at him, but the noise of crashing glass interrupted him and let him race to the stairs, head down, avoiding the shots that were fired by the police now. John pushed his gun back into his waistband. They couldn't know that it had been him.

Sherlock landed in front of his feet. Somehow he had managed to almost gracefully slide down the stairs after Moriarty's death grip had loosened. John immediately pulled him down from the last step and pressed him flat to the ground, shielding him from any bullets that might be aimed at him.

When he was sure that they were safe, he ripped off the tape from Sherlock's mouth, ignoring the pained grunt and pushed up his shirt. Moriarty had moved, just a tiny bit to stabilise himself. He had put his weight on his left foot so he could get a clear shot. The only way of hitting him and saving his own life and Sherlock's had been a straight shot to his side, half hidden behind Sherlock's.

He was bleeding, but not too badly. The wound was external and a few stitches would do.

"John?" John snapped out of his medical mode and focused on Sherlock's face, carefully pressing his hand against the wound.

"Sherlock." It was neither a question, nor did he really want to say much, all he wanted to do was to say his name while he was still alive to hear him say it.

"You shot me." Sherlock said, and then the pained expression gave way to a smile that brought back the tears that John had been fighting down.

"Yes." He laughed. "I think I did."

A.N. this is dedicated to lionfeathers, cause she was begging ;) x

thanks for the feedback, much appreciated!