Author's Note: Dear much beloved readers, just a quick note to say that this was the hardest, most taxing, most excruciating chapter that I have had to write - thus far. My own writing ability failed me repeatedly throughout this part of the story and for that I can only apologise. If you want to scream at me - for any reason - then please do. I love it when my readers scream, I'm sadistic like that.

And now back to what you all actually want to read:

The cold was making John want to scream. It was clawing its way inside his flesh and taking possession of his brain. The icy wind relentlessly battered him and vindictively crept down the neckline of his jumper and slithered up the space between the fabric of his jeans and his shivering legs. He had never felt so cold before in his entire life, not even last winter when a jewel thief had almost drowned him in a frozen lake. It was painful being this cold. He couldn't move his limbs for fear of losing any more body heat than he already had, and he couldn't breathe too deeply because the icy air stung his lungs and made them feel raw. The snow wasn't even melting on his skin anymore, it just lay on his cheeks and hands in the form of perfectly preserved snowflakes. It was ridiculous. He was being transformed into a walking, human fridge.

People passed him, coat collars turned up, umbrellas fending off the fast falling snow. Most of them walked by without looking at him but a few, more observant, pedestrians cast him a fleeting look of contempt as they took in his sodden trousers and mud smeared jacket. He knew that he looked and smelled like a tramp. His face was boasting the build-up of four days' worth of stubble, the skin around his eyes looked bruised from lack of sleep and his body stank of a mixture of marsh water and stale sweat. He looked hideous and he felt even worse.

When all of this was over, John mused as he pressed his head against the brick wall behind him, he was going to get into their shower back at Baker Street and he wasn't going to come out until the hot water ran cold. After that, he was going to change into his pyjamas, order from the Indian takeaway that Sherlock liked, and then he was going to eat curry while forcibly spooning rice into Sherlock's grumbling mouth. After that, he was going put on the 1984 Miss Marple box-set that he had brought Sherlock for his last birthday and he was going to listen to Sherlock shouting at the TV screen as he deduced who the murderer was from the credits. After that, he was going to bed and he was going to sleep until his body decided that it had had enough and then, in the morning, he was going to work out how he was supposed to date a self-proclaimed sociopath. He assumed that conventional courtship was out, as he supposed were traditional dinner dates, anniversary celebrations and normal gift giving.

John was thinking about the potential horrors that Valentine's Day would hold for the both of them when he heard someone gasp. He turned his head in the direction of the sound and saw a woman standing close to him, her eyes were cast up towards the sky. Instinctively, John's own eyes travelled her gaze to see what she was staring at.

She was not staring at the sky, he soon realised, but rather at the roof of Bart's hospital. More specifically, she was staring at the figure that was standing on the ledge of the roof.

At first he thought that it was just one of the hospital workers who had popped out for a quick smoke between shifts. But then, as his eyes adjusted to the stark, white brightness that surrounded the figure he felt realisation slice its way into his chest_

"Sherlock." The name left his mouth in one sudden, involuntary whoosh of exhaled air.

"Do you know him?" The woman beside him asked, "Do you know what they're doing?"

John hadn't registered that she had spoken because his brain was currently stuttering and choking on thoughts that didn't make sense. Sherlock shouldn't be on a roof, this wasn't part of the plan – not that he actually knew what the plan was – but he was sure that if Sherlock had intended to do something which involved standing on a roof, in the middle of a snow storm, then he would have at least mentioned it_

"Is it for charity, what they're doing? Some sort of endurance thing?"

"I'm sorry what?" John asked as he continued to stare at Sherlock – who he was beginning to think was merely an apparition. Maybe he was hallucinating? That made more sense. He was sleep-deprived and hung over after-all. Or perhaps he was just going completely fucking mad. These were viable options. Maybe he should slap himself to test his theory.

"At first I thought that he was going to jump but then I saw the other one and I assumed that they were doing this for a charity or something… they're not waving any banners though and I'm not entirely sure what charity would raise money by getting men to stand on roofs in the middle of December. Perhaps it's for some degenerative nerve disease, ALS or some similar illness, or perhaps it's something to do with art, an externalised exhibition or some such_"

"Wait," John said as her words finally sunk in. Everything inside his body felt like it was slowing down as he turned his head from the sky and looked at her, "What do you mean by 'the other one'?"

She blinked and stared at him for a second like he was being intentionally difficult before she turned and pointed upwards in the opposite direction of where Sherlock was standing. John followed her finger until his eyes alighted on what she was pointing at. On the roof of the building that John was currently leaning against, stood Moriarty. He was facing Sherlock and smiling.

"Oh what the… what the fucking fuck!?" John choked as all the air left his lungs in one sudden, shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry?" The woman asked, taking a step back from him, obviously frightened by his outburst. But John couldn't speak because his brain was not currently capable of forming words – let alone coherent thoughts. He stared up at Moriarty and then turned his attention back to Sherlock. Two black figures surrounded by snow, separated by an expanse of icy air and a fatal fall.

His brain wasn't talking to him, it wasn't forming words it was just screaming, similar to the way that it used to scream at him when he was in Afghanistan and he was attempting to stitch up the bleeding arteries of dying men while simultaneously trying not to get shot himself. His brain was screaming so loudly that he thought that his skull might split apart and it was screaming because this was not good, this was not fucking good at all because, Sherlock standing on a roof in the middle of a snow storm was bad enough but, Sherlock standing on a roof in the middle of a snow storm facing Moriarty was… it was…

But he couldn't find a word that fit just how bad that was because his brain was too busy screaming inside his skull and he knew that he couldn't make it stop. He had never been able to make it stop no matter how hard he tried. The only person who could make his brain grow quiet was Sherlock – as fucking irony would have it – and he knew this because Sherlock had made the screaming stop before. The screaming that used to happened at night when he dreamed about blood soaked sand and the pleading cries of dying men. Sherlock had made it stop, he'd sucked the poison out of John's blood and had transfused something pure back into him. He made the world grow gorgeously quiet.

But now he was standing on a roof and the screaming had returned and it was deafening because you don't put precious things on high shelves. You don't put precious things on high shelves ever, not even for a minute, a moment, a mere second! You don't, you can't, you mustn't! You mustn't because if they fall they smash. They smash to pieces, thousands of precious little pieces. Smash, smash, SMASH!

The phone in his pocket was ringing and John scrambled for it. His fingers were numb but he still managed to connect the call and place the receiver to his ear.

There was a few seconds of silence before Sherlock said, "John, can you see me?" Sherlock's voice sounded wrong, it was shaking and that couldn't happen because if he shook too hard then he would shake himself off the roof.

John swallowed and tried to remember how to speak, it took him a few attempts but at last he managed to say, "Sherlock… why… what are you doing?"

"Moriarty can see us_"

"What are you doing?"

"He's listening to our conversation too."

"Sherlock_"

"I'm sorry but he insisted on listening to this_"

"Answer me!" John shouted as cold panic starting biting into his throat. Silence ensued and that was wrong, so very wrong because this was the moment where Sherlock was supposed to explain that, although the situation looked bad, everything was actually under control. This was the moment where Sherlock was supposed to say 'Vatican Cameos' and John was supposed to spring into action so that they could save the day and go home.

But Sherlock wasn't doing either of those things, he was just breathing, breathing like he was on the verge of hyperventilating,

"I couldn't have told you before John, you wouldn't have let me do it otherwise, would you?"

"Do what?" John asked against the sudden ache that had taken hold of his throat.

"I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to be normal. This is what normal people do isn't it? They put the people they love before themselves? It's what you would do isn't it? So you can't blame me or hate me for doing something that you would be doing yourself if our positions were reversed, you said so in the car. You said that you'd kill for me. I'm just returning the favour."

There was no blood left in his body now, John was sure of that because his heart felt as if it was contracting around nothing but air.

"Sherlock…" and he had to swallow and take a steady breath because he was sure that if he didn't then he would vomit, "What are you doing?"

"I'm protecting you_"

"No, Sherlock, that is not an answer to my question_"

"He's not going to stop John. He'll kill Mycroft and then he'll kill you_"

"What are you doing?!"

The line went quiet for a second before Sherlock said,

"I'm going to kill for you."

"And who, exactly," he said through gritted teeth, "Are you going to kill?" But he already knew and he had known, instinctively, since he had first seen Sherlock standing on the ledge because there is only ever one reason why anyone, Sherlock Holmes included, stands that close to the edge of a roof in the middle of a snow storm. There's only ever one victim that they have in mind.

"Who are you going to kill?" He asked, softly this time, after Sherlock had been quiet for too long.

Another second of silence passed before Sherlock said, "Myself."

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ," John breathed as he felt his knees finally give out and hit the freezing concrete. Even though he had anticipated his answer the shock of it being confirmed still ripped through him like a hot flame through paper, "No this…" he had no words for this, "No you can't…" he tried to look up at Sherlock but tears where blurring his vision. He couldn't see. He couldn't breathe. White noise filled up the world and for a second John could see nothing but white and could hear nothing but static. The pressure behind his eyes and ears built up to painful levels but just as he thought that he was going to faint, Sherlock's voice brought him back.

"John, please, you need to understand_"

"You can't do this Sherlock." He breathed, keeping his head down because looking up had suddenly become a herculean task.

"John_"

"No, you can't, I refuse to understand or accept anything. You can't do this to me, you can't do this to me, you can't fucking do this to me Sherlock!" He sobbed. It hurt to sob because his throat was raw and his lungs felt like they had been slashed to pieces but he couldn't help it, he couldn't stop himself.

"I'm doing this for you_"

"NO YOU'RE NOT!" He shouted, finally finding the energy to drag himself back onto his feet, "You're not doing this for me. If you do this… if you hurt yourself, in anyway, then you will destroy me. I'd rather die Sherlock, do you understand that? Do you understand that if you fall and break yourself you're going to break me too? You mad, stupid fucking bastard_ what sort of logic is that?! You're going to kill yourself to protect me? To protect me! We need to get you tested, we need to hook your brain up to an electroencephalograph so we can work out how the fuck you managed to convince yourself that any of THIS is for my benefit, you bloody stupid, stupid, stupid prick."

John braced his hands on his knees and breathed deeply. His brain had just haemorrhaged words out of his mouth. He wasn't any making sense but then again why should he? No one else on the planet currently was.

"John," Sherlock said his name so softly that it made John wince, "This is the only way."

"No it isn't." He said, shaking his head over and over again until the world started to spin, "You're Sherlock Holmes. Think of another way because this way isn't even an option. I've taken it off the table. It's not going to happen. And when you climb down off that roof I am going to kick the living shit out of you for even suggesting something so stupid."

"Moriarty is_"

"I don't give a flying fuck what Moriarty has done, will do or is currently doing. Heinrich Himmler, Robespierre and fucking Caligula could be up there with him for all I care, you are not jumping off that roof. You are not going to kill yourself. Walk back the way you came and I'll meet you in the foyer."

He wanted Sherlock in his hands now. He wanted to feel the heat from his skin and the beating of his heart and the expansion and deflation of his lungs. He needed to feel him exerting the basic functions of life. He was too far away standing up there, a black figure starkly contrasted against an opaque white sky and thousands of falling snow flakes. He was a precious thing on a high shelf and John would not allow for him to fall and smash. Not for his sake, not for anyone's.

Sherlock's voice shook when he said, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, you don't need to be, just stop this OK? Just… come on, come down_"

"I can't_"

"Why not?"

"Because you can't out run a bullet John! You of all people should know that." Sherlock finally snapped, "We think that we're impervious to death, that we're invincible, masters of our own little universes and that we alone have the power to decide when we've had enough of living. But we're not and we don't, we're nothing more than carefully woven biological structures of flesh and bone and blood and anything can kill us at any time. But we have to tell ourselves that we're something more than that because otherwise we'd run mad with the grim realisation that the world is indifferent to us and that nothing that we do means anything."

Sherlock's breathing was growing increasingly shallow and fast and John could see that he was pacing up and down the icy ledge – because, apparently, standing on the ledge was no longer reckless enough for his liking.

"You've studied the brain. You've seen its intricacies, the delicate way in which it has been put together. It's beautiful, astounding, it's the only thing that matters because it makes us who and what we are. Without it we're nothing more than a body and what is a body, John? Nothing but transport and yet people still obsess over it, they spend years – decades! – worrying about their bodies, running miles and lifting weights and eating the right foods in order to keep their bodies fit – all while hating the parts that they don't like. It's exhausting! All the effort people put in to growing a body and sculpting a body and hating a body. Why do they do it, John? Don't they realise that the body means nothing? That it is reduced to nothing when the mind leaves it?

"But now we get to the real issue of the matter," Sherlock said, sounding slightly manic, and John watched with his heart in his throat as Sherlock wobbled slightly as he continued to pace, "What does it take to destroy a mind? This beautiful, astonishing, complex thing that makes us who we are? A bullet, a stroke or perhaps just a bad bump to the head? All it takes is a split second and it's all gone, all those memories, all the information that you've spent years collecting and amassing and storing… and so you realise that life has no meaning because if the body doesn't mean anything and the mind can be so easily destroyed then nothing in the world matters. Nothing means anything because nothing that you do or say or think matters because you spend decades building your body and building your brain only to have it all taken away from you in a second. So it doesn't matter if I die today or in forty years from now because the end result is ultimately the same. But… but at least this way, if I die this way, today, then you'll get to live and that means something doesn't it? That matters. I'm not saying that your life means more than mine but your mind is so much more placid so perhaps you'll enjoy it more."

Sherlock sounded so sincere and resolute. He actually believed that by killing himself he would be treating John to some level of cosmic kindness?! And that was the second that John realised that he had been dealing with this situation in completely the wrong way. He had been trying to apply normal, rational, human logic to Sherlock's madness and that was ridiculous because you can't neutralise insanity with rationality. Sherlock was standing on a roof getting ready to jump because he thought that that was a perfectly normal, logical thing to do and he wasn't going to come down just because John told him that he was acting like a mad fucking bastard.

If John wanted to get through to Sherlock then he was going to have to fight fire with fire. He was going to have to act like a mad fucking bastard too. He scanned the area and saw, about ten meters away, a construction site. Beneath a piece of blue tarpaulin there was a pile of stacked bricks. Before he could think about the insanity of what he was about to do, he ran over to the stack of bricks and pried one away from the pile.

"John what are you_" But Sherlock stopped speaking when John took a few steps back and hurled the brick through one of the ground floor windows of the building that Moriarty was currently standing on top of. Glass shattered and covered the pavement, mingling with the settling snow. John approached the window and knocked out a few of the more jagged edges from the frame with his jacket clad elbow before he carefully started to climb inside.

"John! What are you_?"

"Do you think that you could be quiet for a second?" John said through gritted teeth as he tried to guide his leg through the window without lacerating his thigh. The inside of the building stank of stale air and decay. It was freezing and even in the shadowy darkness of the room John could still see his breath fogging out in front of him. He looked around, took in the lewd graffiti on the cracked, white washed walls and the empty bottles of cider that scattered the ground. Mycroft was nowhere in sight but neither was any of Moriarty's henchmen so John decided to count his blessings. He had no weapon and even though he knew how to kill with his hands he knew that he couldn't compete with a loaded gun. But currently he didn't care because he had the choice of either doing what he was about to do, and run the risk of getting killed, or he could watch Sherlock plummet to his death. It wasn't really a choice when he put it like that.

At the far end of the room he saw a set of two doors and he ran towards them,

"John!" Sherlock hissed hysterically down the phone, "Get out of there now."

"Sorry, I can't do that." John said as he reached the doors and threw them open. A line of stairs confronted him and he began to climb,

"You said so yourself Sherlock, you can't outrun a bullet. But I can push you aside and take it myself."

"Don't you dare."

"Are you still standing on the roof."

"Yes."

"Well then, tell Moriarty that I'll be with him in a minute_ oh, but wait, you said that he was listening to this conversation. I suppose I should tell himself shouldn't I, keep him in the loop – which, by the by, was not a luxury that you decided to afford me today – but I shouldn't be angry should I? This is really all my fault isn't it? Because I'm too stupid to understand that it doesn't matter whether you die today or in forty years because apparently your life doesn't have meaning." John said breathlessly as he continued to climb, the air seemed thinner in here and almost colder than it was outside,

"Well fuck you Sherlock, seriously. Your life doesn't have meaning?! I could kill you for saying that but I can't at the moment because I'm too busy trying to stop you from killing yourself you bloody, selfish wanker."

John had to pause for a moment because he had just climbed eleven flights of stairs in less than two minutes and his limbs felt like they were on fire.

"I suppose I can't be angry at you for that either can I because you are, after all, a sociopath – or at least you claim to be one – so why should I expect you to love me or need me or in any way feel like our relationship has given your life some semblance of meaning? I can't blame you for not loving me can I? But I'll tell you something Sherlock, because it's the truth, my life has meaning and that meaning starts and fucking ends with you. I know this because I spent three months wanting to put a bullet in my brain and then I met you and I didn't want to die anymore. You give my life meaning and whether I die today or in forty years that fact will remain the same. So it's counterproductive for you to die to save me because when you're dead and cold and six feet underground, I won't want to be alive because when you're dead my life has no meaning. Now do you understand that you unempathetic twat?"

John had reached the top of the stairs and he braced his hands on his knees in order to get his breath back. He felt like his head was going to explode. He wanted to hit something, he wanted to hit Sherlock and then he wanted to salve the wound better with his tongue and then hit him again.

Sherlock was breathing almost as raggedly as he was when he said," You've got it all wrong."

John snorted, "Yeah, I usually do, but I can't help it. I'm not as smart as you." He ran a hand across his sweating brow before he finally straightened up and faced the door that led onto the roof.

"I'm wrong for you too aren't I, Sherlock?"

"Oh, God, no you_"

"Because I run on sentiment and you run on fucked up logic. But I don't care because I love you and you were right before, about if our positions were reversed. Well guess what my love, I've just reversed them."

And before Sherlock could say anything else, John opened the door and stepped onto the roof.

Freezing wind and snow assaulted him and he had to shield his face against the blast with his hand. It was so bright up here and so much colder due to the lack of shelter. He squinted against the unbearably bright light and, through the slats of his fingers, he saw Moriarty, looking like a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the white sky. Although he was still standing on the ledge he was facing John now. His eyes were glowing and his mouth was curled up into a smile of incandescent joy.

"Oh John," He cooed happily as he jumped down off the ledge and back onto the flat platform of the roof, "That was brilliant. It was… stunning. I have envisioned how this would go so many times and – truth be told – you have out done me, really, gold star for you Johnny boy."

John felt his heart stutter in his chest as Moriarty took a few languid steps closer until he was standing right in front of him. This close John could see just how dark his eyes were. They were like staring into two light-less chasms,

"When our Sherlock first called me up and told me that he was going to jump to his death in front of you, well, not to give him credit – God knows he's a little compliment whore – I was excited. I really was. But then you," Moriarty said as he tugged at the collar of John's jacket, "You stole you show. All that pleading and crying, falling to your knees… that was enough to merit a standing ovation… but then you smashed the window and came charging up here like the good old army doc that you used to be and…" he bit his lip and inclined his face closer to John's, so close that John could smell the acrid cologne rolling off his suit, "Well, honey, this is just breathtaking."

John swallowed, "I'm glad that you approve." He said tightly and Moriarty responded with a dazzling smile.

"That's an understatement. I want to give you a gift." He made a show of patting his pockets, "But I don't think that I have anything suitable on me. Hmm… how about I show you my appreciation?" He said quietly and before John knew what was happening, Moriarty had grabbed him by the hair and was dragging him towards the edge of the roof. John cried out and tried to disentangle himself from Moriarty's grasp but he couldn't quite get purchase of his legs.

His knees smashed into the concrete ledge, and for a few sickening seconds the sight of the distant pavement came into view, before Moriarty had dragging him back onto his feet.

"Sorry about that," He said with a bashful smile, "I would have done it over there but I wanted him to be able to see."

John turned his head and just caught a glimpse of Sherlock standing on the other roof, watching them, before Moriarty grabbed him by the throat and smashed his lips against John's.

John sputtered and tried to wrench his face away but Moriarty's fingers were digging viciously into his throat. His lips were dry and cold, his tongue intrusively invading John's mouth with a force that made him want to gag.

He choked against the squeeze of Moriarty's hand and thought that he was about to pass out from the lack of blood to his brain when, suddenly, Moriarty bit down hard on his lower lip and released him. John staggered back, gasping for air and wiping furiously at his mouth. Moriarty's teeth had pierced the delicate skin of his lip and now blood was flooding across his tongue.

"Oh that was precious," Moriarty purred as his eyes went to the phone in John's hand, "Is that Sherlock on the line? Be a dear and let me have a little chinwag. All I have is this little ear piece, I can hear him but he can't hear me."

John held out the phone, knowing that it was futile to argue.

Moriarty took it and put it to his ear, "Did you like that Sherlock? Because I did, I quite liked using your little toy. He's got a good mouth on him that one, a real keeper if you ask me."

Sherlock said something down the line and Moriarty rolled his eyes, "Don't be dramatic, it was just a kiss and kisses don't count – not when they're on the mouth". He said, throwing a conspiratory wink in John's direction, "No honey, you should be proud, finally your pet is doing something interesting and bless him he's trying his best. I'm not a fan of army doctors but for him I could make an exception."

Moriarty smiled at him in way that made John's flesh crawl, "I could steal him away for a few weeks, lock him in a little white room and see how long it would take to make him scream. But I've done that already – sort of – the whole windmill affair. I don't like repeating myself, I hate it when I'm boring. Although torture isn't boring… and neither is this_ this is exciting! Isn't it exciting? Ask me John, come on, ask me what I find exciting."

John wiped the blood from his lips and spat, "What's exciting_?"

"LOVE!" Moriarty cried, twirling in a circle and kicking up a pile of snow in John's direction, "Isn't it fantastic? God, the way you love him… I was listening, but of course you knew that – there I go repeating myself again. You know if I had emotions then I'm sure I would have cried, I'm sure that I was this close to tearing up. It makes this so much better. Oh," he breathed, looking at John adoringly, "It's going to rip him apart Johnny boy, it's going to be like slitting him from his stomach to his throat, oh… thank you, thank you for this John really, honey, I don't know how to thank you. I couldn't have done it without you. I don't even need Mycroft now. I was going to open up his skull and send Sherlock his frontal lobe in a jar."

Moriarty turned and looked at Sherlock on the opposing roof as he spoke into the phone, "You would have liked that wouldn't you? That way, with your brother's head split into pieces, you would finally be the clever one. I could do that for you anyway if you want, considering how much you've treated me today. But then again I don't want to spoil you, I already have another gift planned and you're going to get that in just a minute."

John took the opportunity, while Moriarty was occupied taunting Sherlock, to push himself away from air vent that he was leaning against. He steadied himself, swallowing against the pain in his throat – which, he was sure, was already turning purple with blooming bruises. He took a few careful steps forward before he lunged and grabbed hold of Moriarty by the lapels of his suit jacket. He ground his feet into the floor and swung Moriarty in his hands until he was teetering over the side of the ledge, the action caused for the phone in his hand to skid across the ground and make its way to the other side of the roof.

Moriarty looked up at him and pursed his lips in annoyance, "Boo. John, really, where did you learn your manners? I was having a conversation with your boyfriend_ or are you two not ready to use that title yet?"

"Shut up!" John hissed as he thrust Moriarty further over the side.

"Or what? You're going to kill me? Don't be obvious, I already knew that, but you can't kill me just yet not until I've given Sherlock his next present."

John's limbs were shaking so violently that he could barely manage to stand straight. The wind howled and blasted another stream of snow into his face. A drop of blood from his lip fell onto Moriarty's chin.

He smiled hideously up at John as he felt the drop of blood trickle from his chin to the hollow of his throat.

"Where is Mycroft?"

Moriarty blinked in surprise before realisation dawned on his face, "Oh, are you worried that I've hidden him somewhere? Boo John, boo to you again. I'm not that sort of man. Tricks are so boring when you're not around to see them unfold. No, dear, he's on the sixth floor, tied to a radiator, perfectly safe and sound."

"How can I be sure that you're telling the truth?"

"Well, you can't, but I am because… well I am. Now shush and look up at Sherlock because his gift is coming up behind him right… this… second."

John's head shot up. He looked across at Sherlock, his eyes frantically searching the surrounding area, trying to see who was about to attack him. But there was nothing. Sherlock was standing alone, now a few meters away from the ledge – thank fucking Christ – and was staring at John wide eyed and shaking.

A second later he watched as Sherlock opened his mouth and cried "JOHN!" but before he could work out why he was being called he felt a strange pressure building in his abdomen. He looked back down and saw that Moriarty was holding onto the handle of a knife and that the blade was currently embedded in John's stomach.

He stared at it dispassionately for a moment. It didn't hurt – not yet at least – but that was to be expected. He was in shock and shock deadened pain. It was merciful like that.

"This is what love does to you John. It rips you apart from your stomach to your throat." Moriarty sang before he yanked the knife upwards and tore a gaping wound through John's body. He felt that and like a spell had been broken the fog of numbing shock smashed apart and was instantly replaced by agonising pain.

John released his hold on Moriarty. He caught a brief glimpse of his smiling face before he fell over the side, taking the knife with him. It took two seconds for him to hit the ground and John knew this because he heard the precise moment that he did.

Blood, bright red and arterial, flooded out of his body and John staggered back, collapsing onto a fast forming pile of snow. He pressed his hand to his stomach and gasped when he felt the size of the wound. It was bad. It was really bad. Abdominal wounds take the longest to kill you but this… this wound was long and deep. It had punctured organs, sliced through flesh – possibly even severed the celiac artery. And he was dying, faster than he had ever felt himself die before. Faster than when he had been shot in the shoulder, faster than when a serial rapist had cornered him in an alleyway last month and had attempted to squeeze the life out of his throat.

He was dying and the realisation of this made tears spring to his eyes because he didn't want to die. Not yet. Not without Sherlock here. But he could hear Sherlock's voice; he could hear him calling his name. He was down below on the street where people were screaming at the sight of Jim Moriarty's – no doubt – impact exploded body.

Sherlock was crying out his name, sounding panicked and that was good because John was panicking so at least they were on the same page – for once.

It was so strange to feel so much of his own blood on his hands. It was hot beneath his fingers and it smelled like iron filings. It smelled of him, of his body and of the dirty ground that he was lying on. The thick layer of snow beneath him bit painfully into his back. He loved that other pain just as much as he loved the pain in his throat and the pain on his head because those pains were not like the one coming from the wound in his stomach, those pains weren't dying pains.

Sherlock's voice was growing closer. John could hear it echoing up the staircase. But John was getting further away because he had already bled too much blood and he was still bleeding more and the heart needs blood to pump to the brain to keep you awake. There wasn't enough blood to do that anymore. And it hurt so badly, this pain in his stomach, this dying pain and he wanted it to stop.

He looked up at the sky and felt the snow falling on his face. He looked up at the bright expanse of dense, opaque whiteness and he watched as it grew whiter and brighter with each passing second. He heard Sherlock calling his name, closer now, so close but still too far away.

The white grew brighter until it was so bright that it hurt to look but John kept his eyes open as he choked on blood that was no longer just coming from the bite mark on his lip. He swallowed it down because he needed all the blood that he could get because too much of it had already leaked out of him and onto the snow.

Sherlock was here now, he could hear his voice next to his ear, he could feel his warm, frantic breath on his cheek, his trembling hands caressing his face, his neck, and shoulders and then joining his own hands on his stomach.

But he couldn't see him because the white had grown so bright now, so bright in fact that it had tipped itself over the spectrum and had turned the world dark.