A/N: This chapter was fun to write; hope y'all enjoy reading it as well! :)

Forever Avenge

a Star Trek/Sherlock crossover

III

[Stardate 2015,7: London]

Upon checking his dampened watch, John saw that it was nearing seven in the evening as he rode a cab back to Baker Street from work. The day had been rather busy, as a normal day in London's rainy season often was, for it seemed that rain and foul weather almost always did bring out the worst in a city as far as accidents and illnesses occurred. Admittedly, it was a wake-up call for John, having been out and about for the past two days now on a very particular case with Sherlock. Sarah was a much more understanding boss than most, but there was very little John could do during this trying time in the city's overall health to take off from his medical work. Not that he really wanted to take any time off, despite the case, for John always took his personal work very seriously as well. Thankfully his eccentric consulting detective of a flatmate at least somewhat pretended to understand this as well and had begrudgingly let him go that morning…Let me go, John scoffed inwardly. I would love to see him just try to control me…Before leaving Sherlock alone that day, however, John had chastised him, informing him as he nearly always did that three days (for it was going to be the third day on the case today) without eating anything or having an ounce of sleep was extremely bad for any human body, even Sherlock's. "If I come back and find you wide awake, walking around this damned flat like a zombie without having had a second of sleep, you're going to get an earful from me!" he had forcefully scolded the detective, meaning every word of the threat and hoping that at least a semblance of the message had sunken into Sherlock's thick head.

It was immediately apparent to the doctor that nothing he said had computed upon reaching 221B Baker Streetand seeing Sherlock standing in the window overhead. John shot him a nasty look upon emerging from his cab, breaking eye contact to hurriedly pay the cabbie and grab his bag from the backseat. Already he could think of about ten things to use in his subjugated scolding, frowning as he inserted his key into the door and hurriedly took to the stairs. Upon finding himself in the untidy room of the living room, though, John noticeably paused when he saw Sherlock curled up on the couch with his hands folded lightly beneath his chin, wearing nothing but a bed sheet. When he heard John step through the doorway, the detective had cracked open one eye.

"Traffic was particularly abhorred due to the rain, I presume?"

John set his bag down against the couch and nodded as he made to take off his dampened coat. "Yeah, sorry I woke you."

"I wasn't asleep."

He knew it. "Sherlock—"

"Save it, John, I slept for a half-hour or so earlier," Sherlock amended in dismissal, sitting up and nodding over towards a very baggy parasol which leaned against the sofa next to him. "I had important matters to attend to, couldn't waste time with napping."

John touched his thumb and pointer finger to the bridge of his nose.

"Do I even want to know?"

"An old woman," Sherlock briefly stated, the explanation of the fact that the piece of feminine accessory was used for a disguise already well understood.

"First you were an unemployed workman and now today an old woman?" John said in disbelief, wondering upon where Sherlock got all of his ridiculous costumes from anyway. "Were you trailing the same guy?"

"Yes, of course."

"Figures that he didn't recognize you today…"

"I make a very convincing woman when I try," Sherlock stated smugly. John pointedly raised an eyebrow at Sherlock but decided against commenting, instead choosing to gesture towards the window he had certainly just seen Sherlock standing in. "Why's he back?"

'He' referred to the only possible way that Sherlock Holmes could be sitting upon the sofa wearing nothing but a sheet when John had definitely just seen him wearing lounge clothes in the window from outside not five minutes previous. Sherlock had brought back the convincing wax figure of himself he had used to trick Sebastian Moran into his inevitable arrest in the case of the murder of Ronald Adair for his current case. It did not surprise John to see the odd thing return out of the blue—god only knew where Sherlock kept the figure—but what did concern him was why he saw fit to utilize the resource once more, especially in a case like this.

The case was simple enough to follow: on the trail of a missing jewel, a Crown diamond no less, worth about £100,000. The stone in question was the Koh-i-Noor, a 105.6 metric carats diamond, weighing 21.6 grammes in the most recent cut state, and once the largest known diamond. The Koh-i-Noor—according to what he and Sherlock had been told and to what Sherlock himself just so happened to know of the stone—is believed to have originated in the state of Andhra Pradesh in India together with its double, the Darya-ye Noor—or the "Sea of Light". In 1850, the diamond was confiscated from Duleep Singh by the British East India Company and became part of the British Crown Jewels when Queen Victoria was proclaimed Empress of India in 1877. The diamond was traditionally known as Syamantaka-mani and later Madnayak or the "King of Jewels", before being renamed "Kuh-e nur" in the 18th century by Nādir Shāh after his conquest of India. The diamond is currently set into the Crown of Queen Khushi and is on display at the Tower of London.

Or it was, that is, until Detective Inspector Lestrade got the call that once again while he and his men were on duty the Tower had been broken into, and this time, somebody was unfortunately successful in making off with one of the Crown Jewels. Immediately the case had become of National importance, inadvertedly making Sherlock more or less disgruntled to accept it, but through some powerful persuasion not just on Lestrade and Mycroft's parts. The Prime Minister himself and the Home Secretary had been to see Holmes, along with a Lord Cantlemere, who is apparently no great fan of Sherlock Holmes and no believer in his deductive powers. John wholeheartedly believed that the fact that this one man could possibly be opposed to engaging Holmes to recover the precious gem due to disbelief had struck an arrogant chord within his flatmate, making the case suddenly more interesting solely by the wish to, if nothing else show off his esteemed intellectual prowess.

"I'm expecting to be murdered tonight." Sherlock nonchalantly informed his flatmate, rising from the couch to adjust his eerily realistic figurine.

John regarded him in disbelief. "How you manage to say something like that in a joking manner I will never know, but seriously?"

"Even my limited sense of humor could devise a better joke than that," Sherlock said, turning to face John, the long sheet whipping around him like a cloak. "Tea? Oh, what the heck, something a bit stronger if you've got it."

"How about food?"

"Don't start," Sherlock as exasperatedly as he flopped lazily into his chair and stretching, making the sheet slide slightly off of his bare chest and shoulders. "The facilities become refined when you starve them, I—"

"Save it," John said, waving him off mid-plunder as he begrudgingly turned to go put the kettle on. "Dare I ask who you think is going to try to kill you this evening?" he asked as he reached up to grab two mugs out of the cupboard. Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow at John.

"Why, so you can shoot them before they try?"

"Perhaps, if it should come to that," John said, gritting his teeth together in slight anxiety. Why must his idiotic flatmate continuously and purposefully throw himself into these life-threatening situations? He knew only too well the immense risks taken by Sherlock and was well aware that what he said was more likely to be an under-statement than an exaggeration. John was always a man of action, and he sure as Hell was going to rise to this occasion whether the detective wanted him to or not.

"Negretto Sylvius," Sherlock finally stated, after taking in the distinct moment of silent tension between the two of them following John's verbal vow to observe the man's overall demeanor with curiosity. He thought he had noticed something a bit off-kilter in his voice for a second there, but now as he watched John rustle around the cabinet for his package of tea, he could pinpoint nothing in particular. "…In fact, you should probably put his address in your memory, just in case things should come off not according to plan tonight. Write this down—"

"Hold on, hold on," John said, hurriedly placing the teabags in his grasp into two separate, steaming mugs of water before quickly exiting the kitchen to his bag and extracting the small notebook and pen he used to quickly jot down case notes. He paused: "Wait, if you have his address, why haven't you called the police and given it to them?"

"Because I don't know where the diamond is—are you ready to write yet?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Yes I am, go."

"136 Moorside Gardens, N.W. Give it to the Yard if I don't survive the night, with my love and a parting blessing," he added with great sarcasm at the end of his statement, rolling his eyes. John shut his eyes.

"Must you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Devalue your life." John shook his head: "If I were a psychologist I'd peg you as a manic depressive."

"I don't do that," Sherlock said, furrowing his brow in confusion. John cocked his head to the side.

"Yes you do. You're doing it right now."

"Well, I'm not actually going to be killed, am I?" Sherlock pointed out, turning to nod at the dummy in the window. "This—giving you Sylvius' address for the Yard to arrest him—is simply a back-up plan, in case things go screwy, which I highly doubt they will."

"And if it does?" John had to inquire, crossing his arms at Sherlock. "What then?"

"I was hoping you would ask," Sherlock said with a grin, dramatically wrapping his sheet up around himself as he leapt from his chair and walked back towards the couch, lifting up one of the cushions he had previously been laying upon. John raised him eyebrows in slight alarm when he extracted his revolver from the crude hiding spot. "I've made a few alterations to my gun today that you may be interested in making to yours as well. You know certainly enough about the fingerprint matching in the new special police force weapons, of course?"

John scoffed. "Hardly new, and haven't you heard from Lestrade? The CID is expecting to receive newly developed phasers within the next fortnight. Their fingerprint-memory guns will be old hat when those come in."

"I didn't know about that," Sherlock said in a low voice. "The very same kind that Sebastian Moran owned?"

"The same," John said gravely, making Sherlock curse under his breath. It was bad enough that the higher-ups involved in the government and thereby inadvertedly in the know of secret government experiments and advancements were immersed in new, classified photon tech, but now members of the public were going to get their hands upon it before Sherlock could? In the consulting detective's eyes, this was very bad news for future cases—very bad news, indeed. If there was anything Sherlock hated more than stupidity, it was not being in the immediate and invigorative know of anything and everything to do with the Work.

"I know what I'm stealing from Lestrade next," Sherlock muttered. John frowned deeply at the thought of having any sort of photon weaponry in the flat.

"Sherlock—"

"Anyhow, back to this," Sherlock barreled through John's warning, holding up his gun. "I've input scans of my fingerprints into the internal microchip, making it so that the only way for a person to be able to fire this weapon is for his fingerprints to match those on file. If anyone else other than me tries to fire this revolver, it won't shoot at all."

Sherlock glanced over at the desk against the back wall of the living room, where John's gun was sitting idly as he placed his own upon the arm of the couch. "I'm willing to upgrade your gun as well should you choose to—"

"Uhm, no," John said firmly, marching across the room to retrieve his weapon. "And I thought I told you not to touch my gun?"

"I was merely trying to help," Sherlock stated with a slight shrug of his sheet. "Could be useful."

"There's a reason the military never amended to have fingerprint matching in their weaponry," John explained, clicking the safety on his pistol. "If there was ever a point in battle when you for some reason or another lost the weapon you were originally assigned while you were under siege, you're going to want to be able to pick up another weapon to defend yourself and your fellow men with it. I'll take the risk and leave my weapon the way it is, thank you."

Once again, another shrug from beneath the sheet as John sighed and placed his gun upon the arm of the sofa next to Sherlock's. Before either of them could speak again, the doorbell rang sharply. Sherlock and John immediately looked towards the staircase, listening intently as Mrs. Hudson opened the door and spoke with whoever was downstairs. As John continued to listen carefully, though, Sherlock turned away and frowned, knowing exactly who it was and who they were here for.

"I wasn't expecting this," he admitted, and then his frown turned up into something more of an amused smile. "A man of nerve—he knew I was stalking him closely. Perhaps I may have gotten a little too close at some point or another. No matter!"

John turned and looked at him in slight alarm towards his flippantness just as Mrs. Hudson emerged from the stairwell.

"Woo-hoo!" she said, knocking upon the doorframe. "There's a Mister Sylvius here to see you Sherlock—oh my, and you're not even dressed!"

"I will be momentarily," Sherlock said in dismissal. "If you'll just be so kind as to request three minutes from him to do so that would be greatly appreciated."

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson agreed, smiling kindly once at John before turning to relay Sherlock's message to his would-be murderer. John watched to make sure she was out of ear-shot before looking pointedly at Sherlock.

"Can I call the police now?"

"In a moment, wait until he's in here first," he said, hurrying over to the window. "You see? He's brought that fatuous companion of his, Sam Merton along."

"Will he be armed?" John asked, concernedly peering through the curtains next to Sherlock.

"Most likely," Sherlock said, glancing over at John. "Phone Lestrade from Mrs. Hudson's phone, not your mobile; Merton will be able to track a smartphone, but not a landline. Oh, and by the way, we're out of milk again."

"What?" John said, staring at Sherlock as if he had lost his mind, mentioning milk at a time like this. Instead, the man shot him one last long, pointed look in the eye before sweeping off towards the bedroom and loudly shutting the door behind him. We're out of milk again…it was a code, John realized. More or less, Sherlock was giving him an unquestioning excuse to get him away from Baker Street, away from the line of fire just in case. If anything happened to him, Sherlock had basically told him by doing this, it was imperative by his last dying wish that no harm should come to John. He scoffed at the thought, picking up his coat and shrugging it back on, still a bit damp from the evening's previous downpour; stay away and allow his best friend to be shot at whilst he did a bit of grocery shopping? No way in Hell that was going to happen.

With a façade of nonchalance carefully painted across his face, John exited the flat, treading down the stairs and making towards the door. "Oh, buggar," he muttered, making a scene of checking his coat pockets as he approached where Mrs. Hudson stood keeping the unknown jewel thief company. "Mrs. Hudson, may I borrow your phone? I seem to have left my mobile back up in the flat…"

"Of course, dearie," Mrs. Hudson said, excusing herself from where she casually stood next to Negretto Sylvius. "You know where it is, right? On the wall in the kitchen?"

"Yes, ma'am, thank you," John said politely as she left him in her quaint little kitchen. Taking the phone off of its hook and—after making sure Mrs. Hudson or Sylvius could not see him—extracted his mobile momentarily from his pocket in order to recall the DI's number.

"This is Lestrade."

"Greg, it's John," he spoke quietly but urgently, poking his head around the corner just in time to see Sylvius tread up the stairs towards his and Sherlock's flat.

"John, what is it?" Lestrade said from the other line, utilizing his professional tone of voice upon hearing the urgency in John's.

"We're going to need back up here, at 221B," John informed the DI. "There's been a threat made on Sherlock's life by a man that is currently in our flat with him right now."

"Why the bloody Hell—"

"It's Sherlock, Greg," John said, rolling his eyes. "And as usual, he's put himself into an unnecessarily dangerous situation over a bloody case."

"We'll be right over, alright?"

"Bring back up; I don't know this guy, so God only knows how dangerous he really is."

"Got it."

John hung up, trying to both visibly and mentally relax as he tried to quickly figure out an efficient next step since he was adamantly against following Sherlock's orders to run away.

"…You mean to tell me I just mindlessly chatted with a murderer?" Mrs. Hudson spoke from the other room, her voice shaking ever-so-slightly in unease. John sighed; he had been hoping to keep well enough a secret from her.

"Pretty much," he muttered out of earshot before turning to face his landlady. "Everything is going to be just fine, Mrs. Hudson, alright? You heard me; the police are on their way right now."

"But Sherlock's up there with him!" she said, looking up as if she could see straight through the ceiling into the men's living room from where she stood. "I hope he knows what he's doing."

"You and me both," John agreed, also briefly looking up.

Meanwhile, in the near breathtakingly intense air of 221B…

"Mister Sylvius, I presume?" Sherlock said with a false pretense of utter politeness. Immediately upon hearing the man enter the flat, he had stood from his chair, his violin discarded upon the coffee table in haste. "Do come in, kettle's just boiled."

"How amusing…Mister Sherlock Holmes."

The man sauntered into the room, hands folded neatly before him in an air of elegance and grace that was sharply muffled by the inert scowl he had placed upon his face. Sherlock met the man's look evenly, not bothering to move towards the kitchen to fetch his rather unwelcome guest one of the fantastically prepared mugs of tea left abandoned by his flatmate in his ordered haste to leave. Negretto Sylvius appeared as a big, swarthy fellow, with a formidable dark moustache shading a cruel, thin-lipped mouth, and surmounted by a long, curved nose like the beak of an eagle. He was well dressed, Sherlock observed rapidly, but his brilliant accessories proved to be more flamboyant than polished in their overall effect. As the door closed behind him he looked around with fierce, startled eyes overshadowing his pointed grimace, like one who expects a trap at every turn. Then he gave a violent start as he saw the shadow of the faux-Sherlock standing erect in the window. At first his expression was one of pure amazement—as it should be, Sherlock thought haughtily. Then the light of a horrible hope gleamed in his dark, murderous eyes. He took one more glance round to see that there were no witnesses, and then re-faced the detective.

"Have a seat, Mister Sylvius," Sherlock said, his tone of voice decidedly echoing the dark look upon his antagonist's face.

Sylvius remained right where he was, scowling with heavy, threatening eyebrows.

"You want to talk," Sylvius minutely observed. "That is fine, I suppose; I too have some words with you, Holmes…though I won't deny that I intended to assault you just now."

"It would be utterly pointless to deny such a thing since I obviously already knew that," Sherlock retorted, gesturing towards his wax figure in the window. "Do you like it? An acquaintance of mine crafted it for a previous case of mine. Tavernier, his name is; a French modeller of sorts, owed me a favor."

Sherlock smirked at the astounded look on Sylvius' face. Certainly the man was not expecting this degree of uncanny aloofness from the detective, especially after admitting his intentions of homicide directly to him. He turned and walked past the criminal, sitting himself down upon the sofa and swinging his legs over on the edge of the coffee table before him.

"I knew you were particularly suspicious, of course, but may I ask what killing me would serve to you? Why dirty your hands with the likes of me?"

"An eye for an eye," Sylvius replied ominously, crossing his arms as he stared down at Sherlock. "You have gone out of your way to annoy me with those creatures of yours you had put on my track."

"My creatures?" Sherlock asked amusedly in clarification. "I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about."

"I'm sure you do!" the man barked back sharply, hoping to break Sherlock's cool mask but coming back from his efforts fruitless. "I have had them followed. Two can play at this game, Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock said, containing a snarky laugh at the infuriated redness of Sylvius' expression. "And I've sent no one but myself after you; I wouldn't dare trust anyone else with that level of investigative work…"

This made Sylvius pointedly pause, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock after a moment of contemplation.

"It—it was you, yourself?"

Sherlock shrugged, gesturing towards the parasol he had used just that morning in his disguise still settled against the couch. "Look familiar?"

Sylvius gritted his teeth together: "If I had known, you might never—!"

"Have seen this flat again? I was well aware of it," Sherlock said, waving off Sylvius' belated threat. "As it happens, you did not know nor did you catch on in time, so here we are."

The criminal's knotted brows gathered more heavily over his menacing eyes. "What you say only makes the matter worse. You admit you dodged me, however…why?"

"Don't be so stupid, Sylvius, especially being the experienced gamesman you are."

"Well?"

"Why?"

"Why?" Sylvius said incredulously, wondering why the answer was not already so obvious to the supposed mastermind sitting before him. "The sport, of course—the excitement—the danger!"

"My reasons exactly!" Sherlock said, loudly clasping his hands together. In startlement, Sylvius' hand shot to his pocket, where the distinct shape of a gun pointedly existed. Sherlock rolled his eyes:

"Oh sit down, will you? You'll get your chance—we're not done talking just yet."

"Don't you try to fool around with me, Holmes," Sylvius snarled, remaining right where he was though he did pull his hand away from the gun.

"Oh fine," Sherlock said in dismissal. "I suppose I trailed you for the diamond as well. But you knew that much already didn't you?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about," Sylvius stated, though his face betrayed him with the evil smile that had wrapped itself around his features like a serpent preparing to strike.

"Oh, spare me the act of stupidity, Negretto; it gets utterly tiresome after the first ten seconds," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as he clasped his hands together. "You knew all along that I was after you for that. The real reason you are here tonight is to find out how much I know about the matter and how far my removal is absolutely essential. Well, I should say that, from your point of view, it is absolutely essential, for I know all about it, save only one thing, which you are about to tell me."

"Oh, am I?" Sylvius spoke in chastisement. "Do tell me what you want to know, Holmes."

"Where the Crown diamond now is."

Sylvius looked sharply at Sherlock.

"How do you know I should be able to tell you where it is?"

"You can and you will."

"Indeed!"

"You can't lie to me, Negretto Sylvius." Sherlock's eyes, as he gazed calculatingly at him, contracted and lightened until they were like two menacing points of steel. "You're practically made of glass; I can see straight through to the very back of your mind."

"Then, of course, you see where the diamond is!"

Sherlock's expression turned to one of pristine amusement as he pointed a derisive finger. "Then you do know where it is; you've admitted it!"

"I admit nothing."

"If you will be reasonable, Sylvius, then we can do business," Sherlock informed him sharply. "If not, you will get hurt."

Sylvius threw his eyes up to the ceiling. "And you talk about lying…"

Sherlock regarded him thoughtfully like a master chess-player who meditates his crowning move.

"…Then let's delve into the subject of blackmail, now, shall we, Mister Sylvius?"

The smooth, devilishly dark tone of Sherlock's voice made Sylvius second-guess his firm stance as Holmes grabbed a notebook from the top of the coffee table in front of him and whipped through it in disheveling nonchalance.

Back downstairs, John just so happened to catch out of the corner of his eye movement from just outside of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen window. He narrowed his eyes, slowly making to rise from his chair at the table with his landlady and double-checking his pants for his pistol.

"I'll just be one moment, Mrs. Hudson…the police will be here soon," he said as he quickly exited her presence and walked straight out the door of the flat. Sam Merton was turned away from him when he approached, digging through the contents of the backseat of his and Negretto Sylvius' car. "A moment, if you will, please," the stout man called in a muffled voice from within the cab upon certainly hearing John approach. With an eyebrow raised, John acquiesced the accomplice's minor request, standing back upon his heels and crossing his arms as he carefully watched Merton's meticulous movements. It looked as if he was assembling something of a medium-smallish size. Before John could catch a decent look at what exactly it was, however, Merton had stowed it securely within his coat. Despite a minor bulge in the fabric, there was no way for John to tell what exactly Merton had put together, though he would have been willing to bet money that it was a weapon.

"Going to assist you friend, hmm?" John said, avoiding the whole beating-around-the-bush part of their conversation altogether. He uncrossed his arms and re-folded his hands together behind his back, patting lightly at the bulge of his gun at the back of his coat for security. If this all went shady out here, he needed to know he would be able to rapidly whip out the weapon and lay a straight shot right in between the man's eyes before he did so to him.

"If methinks it necessary, yes," Sam replied casually, folding his hands in front of himself. "Fer right now, though, I'm only lookin' to join in his and Sherlock Holmes' 'chat.'"

"Oh, why do that when we could have such a lovely chat out here?" John said, his voice laced with thick sarcasm as he gestured up into the light rain that continued to persist to fall upon London. Sam Merton grinned a dark, berating grin at John.

"You would like that, wouldn't ya?" the stout man spoke, "Keeping me down here…defending yer boyfriend."

"We're not together," John corrected him with a stern frown of sheer pique. Merton laughed out loud in John's face.

"I've seen you two around, y'know," he continued despite John's interjection. "You keep close tails on that one, whether you know it or not. Bloody disgusting, your relationship."

"Come off it," John protested. "We're not in a relationship!"

"Hurm," Sam Merton said, pleased by the reactions he was eliciting from Sherlock Holmes' irritable flatmate. "But you wish you was in one wit' him, don't you?"

"I could say the same to you," John turned the tables on Merton in an effort to ignore his stupid words, nodding his head up to 221B. "You and Negretto Sylvius, right? Just mates, or is there something more there as well…?"

Sam's eyebrow twitched. "Shut yer mouth."

"Not so fun when you're on the receiving end, is it?" John spoke freely. "'Bloody disgusting,' isn't it, Merton?"

"I swear, John Watson, I'll—"

But the man froze upon seeing the stream of easily identifiable blue and red lights rapidly approaching down the street. John licked his lips and glanced indifferently down the street towards the incoming CID forces, silently relieved at Detective Inspector Lestrade's timeliness.

"What was that, now?" John casually asked Merton, but just as he turned to reface the accomplice he found himself to be violently pushed out of the way whilst the burly man bolted for the door and rapidly entered the flat. John stumbled but caught himself quickly before he completely tumbled onto the damp concrete below him. Dammit!

"John!" Lestrade's voice quickly approached, his shoes slapping onto the pavement. Immediately he was by the doctor's side. "You alright?"

"Upstairs," John barked, brushing off Lestrade's concern as he charged for the door, yanking his pistol out from his pants. "They're armed, come on!"

"Right," Lestrade said, hot at John's heels with his gun extracted, cocked and ready to fire at a split second's notice. John cursed again when he tried the knob, for it did not budge a bit as it very well should have. "It's locked," he informed Lestrade over his shoulder before banging loudly upon the wood.

"MRS. HUDSON!"

"What are you going to do now?" Sylvius asked of Sherlock back upstairs in 221B. Sherlock ignored the man's unvoiced threat and glanced out the window to the right of him just in time to see John and Lestrade running back into the flat. He did not have much time, and the jewel thief before him was being tiresomely unreasonable; despite Sherlock's penetrating blackmail, he had yet to divulge the whereabouts of the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

Sherlock returned his attention to his unwanted guest upon hearing the click of his gun.

"You won't die in your bed, Holmes," the man informed Sherlock, slowly and threateningly pulling his weapon out from within his pocket and pointing it straight at Sherlock's head.

"Never thought I would," Sherlock was inclined to agree with Sylvius. "That being said, does it really matter very much? The anticipations of the future are morbid. Why give up the enjoyment of the present to ponder the inevitable?"

A sudden, wild-beast light sprang up in the dark, menacing eyes of the criminal. Sherlock's figure tensed ever so slightly as he scooted a bit closer towards the cushion beneath which his own revolver was hidden.

"It's no use in pointing that gun," he spoke in a quiet, dangerous tone of voice. "You know perfectly well that you dare not use it, even if I gave you time to pull the trigger. Besides, I think I hear the fairy footsteps of your 'estimable' partner," he piped up suddenly and sarcastically, turning his head just in time to see Sam Merton launch into the flat and shut and bolt the door locked behind him, his carbine revolver extracted and lifted heavily up into his grasp.

"Mister Merton," Sherlock stiffly greeted Negretto Sylvius' companion, ignoring the banging on the door behind him. "Won't you come in and sit down? Your employer and I were having such an engaging conversation just before you arrived…"

The fighter, a heavily built young cockney man with a stupid, obstinate, slab-sided face, stood awkwardly into the room, looking about him with a slightly puzzled expression. Sherlock's debonair manner was a new experience—especially in comparison with the tussle he had just verbally engaged with John Watson outside—and though he vaguely felt that it was hostile, he did not know how to counter it. He lowered his weapon slightly and turned to his more astute comrade for help.

"You won't allow our arrest if you can get the stone from us," Sylvius observed as the knocking upon the flat's door came to a sudden halt. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Really, it would be much simpler if you just handed it over and went on your way with the police, now, wouldn't it?" Sherlock said. "I've grown bored of our tirade, Mister Sylvius."

"Or I could just shoot you now and be done with your smart arse," Sylvius stated, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"That would be rather stupid of you," Sherlock replied. "You would certainly get less time for theft and attempted murder than first-degree murder."

"There's someone else in the room," Merton spoke urgently, raising his gun and cocking it back to fire at the figure in the window.

"You fool, that's only a dummy!" Sylvius yelled at his idiotic companion just before he was about to shoot. Upon further squinting, the man finally realized his stupid move.

"Oh…"

"For god's sake…" Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. "At this point I'd rather you hurry up and shoot me after all rather than force me to listen to the utterings of this moron."

Sylvius and his companion started upon hearing the vicious knocking upon the door once again, the lights from the police cars outside casting color splashes of broad red and blue tints across the darkened room. Sherlock sighed and quickly snatched his gun from beneath the pillow of the couch, rising from the piece of furniture and pointing the weapon straight at Sylvius' head. The consulting detective had finally lost his patience.

"Here's the thing, Negretto Sylvius," Sherlock began, speaking quickly but clearly:

"You have three options, none of which end in your favor whatsoever. One, you hand over the stone and turn yourself in like the good government official that you are—or, I suppose at this point, once were—and then everyone goes home, the stone gets returned, case closed. Done.

"Two, you can hand over the stone and make a feeble attempt to run. I will even allow you to do so, just for the sheer amusement of watching you try and get past the line of police cars and the officers that now have this flat all but completely surrounded. In the end, the result will be the same as the first.

"Three, you can go ahead and shoot me, just as you had planned to do so. Once again, you are surrounded, however; if you try to make off with the stone and with a murder charge on your head you most certainly won't get very far. So, take your pick, though I daresay you won't have much time to do so."

"You planned this whole scheme out, didn't you?" Merton said. "Chasing us aroun' London, making us suspicious—how did you even figure out Sylvius had the stone on him anyway?"

There was a long, silent pause, in which Sylvius' expression quickly dropped from one of defeat to one of anger. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a grin.

"I didn't figure it out," he admitted. "It was a long shot, but apparently a good one since now I know I am correct."

" .buffoon," Sylvius growled at Merton, to which the stubby man could only gulp and bow his head in idiotic shame. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Sylvius, looking him in the eye without so much as lowering his weapon by a mere centimeter.

"So…which will it be?" he prompted the criminal impatiently.

"No need to shout, dearie," John's landlady reprimanded him gently. "I was just in the other room dusting, had to stop what I was doing first, sorry. Oh good, the police have arrived!"

"Excuse us, ma'am," Lestrade spoke gruffly to the old woman, following John rapidly up the stairs. They could here talking and could begin to make out more and more words from the three men's conversation as they approached the landing…

"…If I'm going down, Sherlock Holmes," Negretto Sylvius decided aloud, raising his gun back up and pointing the barrel straight up into Sherlock's head, "I'm taking you down with me."

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at Sylvius before turning in the direction from which John and Lestrade came running into the room. The idiotic Sam Merton, fool that he was, quickly took action against them and flung his gun around, firing off two shots in their general direction. John's militant instinct took hold of him immediately upon seeing the gun move and he roughly grabbed at Lestrade's midsection, yanking him none-too-gently to the ground with him, narrowly ducking beneath the line of fire, feeling the heat from the ricocheted bullets sweep clear over the top of his head before making loud contact with the wall behind them. Sherlock turned to shoot at Merton just as John lifted his pistol back up and precisely attempted to shoot Sylvius straight in the hand…but the gun simply clicked in his grasp. John's expression of seriousness immediately turned to one of annoyance as he looked closer at the weapon in his hands.

"This is your gun, Sherlock!" he yelled in sore panic; thankfully his minor fit was enough to distract Sylvius long enough for Sherlock to fire John's pistol, catching the sports shooter unexpectedly. The poisoned breath John had been holding released immediately upon watching the man drop the weapon he had pointed at Sherlock and scream out in agony. Blood spewed from the circular wound in his palm, and he fell to his knees before the consulting detective, who still had his bright, focused eyes fixated upon Merton. The bleeding man's companion had his previous dumbfounded expression re-plastered across his stupid face as his trigger hand began to quake in realization that he had ultimately failed at his duty to protect his criminal employer. With one last, fleeting look at Sherlock, he gripped his weapon against his chest and sprinted out of the room; John tried to make a lunge at him but Lestrade held him back, pressingly calling for his back-up officers to be ready to receive the escaping shooter at the front door on his radio.

John rose and picked up Sylvius' gun from the ground where he had dropped it in pain as Lestrade forced the injured man onto his feet and made to cuff him.

"Wait," Sherlock said, holding a hand up to Lestrade before looking his attempted murderer in the eye.

"The diamond. Hand it over."

Negretto Sylvius looked at Sherlock with the most hateful, hideous expression a man could possibly fixate upon his face before furiously thrusting his uninjured fist into his pocket. From within the depths of his trousers he pulled out the most supremely-cut diamond John had ever seen, its many facets managing to reflect light even in the dimness of their living room. With no attention to care towards the Crown jewel whatsoever, Sylvius shoved it into Sherlock's waiting hand.

"Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes," the man snarled, glowering atrociously at the consulting detective as Lestrade finally cuffed and secured him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him as he was led out of the room and down the stairs by the DI and called after him: "No, thank you!"

John closed his eyes in utter mirth and clenched his jaw; he clicked the safety on Sylvius' gun and set it down on the edge of the sofa before doing the same to Sherlock's in turn while the man made to quickly shrug on his coat. He cleared his throat and Sherlock turned; after a moment's pause a look of understanding crossed his face and he crossed the room to where John stood and handed him his gun, trading the pistol for his own revolver. Slowly the doctor could already feel his adrenaline begin to wind down while he descended the stairs behind Sherlock, his own gun now stashed in the back of his pants. In the open doorway, chilled because of the cold, rainy wind blowing into the entryway stood a worried-looking Mrs. Hudson.

"I heard gunshots," she explained, visibly calming down significantly upon seeing her boys alive and well before her eyes. John patted her on the arm, offering her a grateful though still slightly-shaken smile.

"Thanks again for letting me use your phone," he mentioned, bringing a small smile to the old woman's lips.

Quickly he caught up with Sherlock, who was looking around the chaotic mass of police officers and blinking car lights to be expected at any half-decent crime scene.

"You got lucky," John muttered to his flatmate as he handed over Sylvius' handgun to a member of the investigative crew. Sherlock didn't even glance in John's direction as he replied.

"Luck neither exists nor had anything to do with the events of tonight. Despite my plan admittedly beginning to fall apart at that last minute before you and Lestrade arrived, I had it all under control."

"You call that control—?"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called, hastily swooping over to the DI just as he secured Negretto Sylvius in the back of a police cab. "Where is Merton?"

"He got away," Lestrade said with a deep, pissed-off frown. "I don't know how, but he successfully slipped off. Apparently we didn't have the place as closed-off as I intended for it to be."

"For god's sakes, can't you imbeciles do your jobs right for once?" Sherlock fulminated, earning an almighty scowl from the dampened DI. "There was no reason for that moron to have been allowed to escape!"

"I agree," Lestrade said. "That most certainly wouldn't have happened if I'd been out here!"

"Nobody asked for you to play the hero, Lestrade!"

"You ought to be glad I did, or else it would've been your blood spilled out onto that carpet, especially with him without a properly armed weapon at hand," Lestrade said pointedly, nodding toward John who also scowled. Usually at this point of a heated argument between the two detectives he would have intervened to try to both keep the peace and a professional demeanor on the job, but Sherlock most definitely had it coming this time around. Lestrade was right, he would have died without him interfering; he had no right to be ungrateful towards the man who just about saved his life. But of course, Sherlock being Sherlock would never acknowledge nor attest to that fact, though both John and Lestrade could tell by his darkened demeanor that he knew they were right, that he needed their back-up in this particular instance.

"Now, are you going to help us track Sam Merton down and close this case up or are you going to just continue to blame my men for this all going screwy, Sherlock?" Lestrade prompted the man. After a moment's worth of a pause Sherlock huffed, pulling the Crown diamond out of his pocket and observing it with slight interest as its many cuts and facets shown not only the reflection of the cop car lights and headlights, but many colors in between, creating an abstract, mixed-up rainbow out of an otherwise normal, rainy London scene.

"…Give me an hour or so to track Merton down," Sherlock finally acquiesced, handing the jewel over to the DI for him to return it to its proper place in the Tower of London.

"Text me the address when you have it," Lestrade said, looking up at Sherlock from the large, shimmering diamond in his hand.

-•-• •-•-

Sherlock was still musing about Sam Merton's escape when he and John re-entered their disheveled flat.

"I can't believe he got away!" Sherlock said loudly in frustration, hastily hanging his coat back up and unwinding his scarf from around his neck. "We had the place surrounded, were both there—right there, John—and then he pulls out and runs, ruining everything like the coward he is!"

"Mmm," was all John could say in response. The doctor knew better; whenever Sherlock got frustrated over a certain class of criminal it was always better to just ignore him and let the wave of unease pass. He took his jacket off and tossed it upon the back of one of the lounge chairs, watching with interest as Sherlock paced the perimeter of the sitting room, trying to figure out the best step to take next in catching this man they were now hunting. At last the detective clasped his hands together loudly, running over to where his laptop was currently situated upon the desk and quickly powering it up.

"What, what are you looking at?" John asked curiously.

"Local train schedules," Sherlock explained bluntly, typing in his password. John almost asked the detective to explain further but decided against it, knowing that it will all be explained within the next five minutes most likely.

"Then while you do that," John said, walking to the other side of the room where Sherlock sat, "Can I see your revolver?"

"Sure," Sherlock said, waving John off in the general direction of his coat.

"Thanks," John said, taking the gun out of the inner pocket it was stored within and examining the exterior, looking for where the microchip was stored in the handle. "Where do you input fingerprint memory into this thing?"

At that question Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking at John through his peripheral vision.

"What do you need to know that for?" he questioned the doctor.

"Because," John said, his voice rising ever so slightly as he looked back towards Sherlock, "If something like what happened tonight happens again in the future I want to be able to shoot the bastard, regardless of whose gun I pick up."

"What does that have to do with—"

"Don't play dumb, Sherlock, it doesn't suit you at all," John growled, voice still raised. "I want to input my fingerprint scans into your revolver so that I can use it, too. It can hold multiple scans, right?"

Sherlock turned around and beheld John's obviously unsettled and rather peeved demeanor with slight bewilderment; what was the point about getting angry over fingerprint scans? Unless something outside of the subject of fingerprints is what set him off. Could he possibly still be agitated from their near-death encounter? No, surely not, they have had many of those, and he was in the army, after all. A man like John should be more than used to that sort of high-stress situation. What made this time different though? Ah…it was because this time, John was completely useless, unable to help Sherlock, unable to do anything about the threat to his and his friend's lives. John was not used to being so vulnerable, though he had been put through that kind of thing before; but seeing Sherlock being put through that and knowing that there was nothing he could do to stop it, that was what made him angered. That and, of course, the fact that Sherlock had purposely allowed himself to be put into the line of fire in order to solve a case—a habit more than frowned upon by John.

"…Yes," Sherlock finally answered him, breaking away from the hard gaze he held locked with John's eyes and holding out his hand to the doctor. John handed it over, observing as Sherlock removed one of the grip panels and popped open the bottom of the handle, extracting a small, thin square of metal that folded out to be approximately two centimeters by two centimeters in size. John watched with intrigue as Sherlock pressed his left thumb against the metal and the corner of it briefly flashed first yellow, and then green.

"When the light's yellow, press your finger down," Sherlock explained, passing John the metallic square as he did so. "When it turns green, switch fingers; do it in the order of thumb, pointer, middle, ring and pinky. Make sure you start with your dominant hand first and then just slip it back into the gun when you're done and replace the panel. If it ever blinks red that means it did not get a complete scan and that you will have to scan that finger again before moving onto the next one."

"Right," John said, switching his right thumb out for his pointer finger, concentrating momentarily on getting the cleanest scans recorded as he turned away from Sherlock, who had immediately returned to his computer upon assisting his flatmate. Previous to the night's events, Sherlock had made sure to secure not only Negretto Sylvius' address, but also his colleague, Sam Merton's, just in case something like this had happened. Recently Merton had been staying with Sylvius, of course, to play out the entirety of their theft and plans to sell the diamond with the utmost security and efficiency. Merton expected Sherlock to know his employer's address, so instead he would flee to his own home, which was located outside of London, in a small town near Cardiff. After checking the current time—just past nine—he returned his attention to the online train schedule. There were no spots in the next train from London to Cardiff, which was due to leave at fifteen minutes on the hour. The next one was not until after ten, which meant if Lestrade and his men were to leave now they had a high chance of beating Merton home. Sherlock rapidly typed out the address and added a note of urgency at the end of his text: You have Sylvius' car confiscated, Merton's not going anywhere until ten. You have an hour. Don't let your men mess up this time! SH

"Everything all taken care of, then?" John inquired, setting the revolver down next to Sherlock's phone upon the table. Sherlock merely glanced at it while replying:

"Nearly. I've sent Lestrade Merton's runaway address; now all that's left is to wait to hear back from the police upon capture."

"So, essentially, this case is closed, then?"

"It would appear so," Sherlock said dully as he lazily tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Nothing left to do, after all. The diamond's back where it belongs."

"Good," John said emphatically. "That's a relief after tonight."

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John with a small frown. It was clear even to him that his flatmate was still rather upset. "It truly disturbed you that much?"

"Yes, Sherlock, it did," John said, flopping into his armchair with a heavy sigh. "I was bloody terrified I was going to…" his voice drifted. John looked away from Sherlock and cleared his throat roughly before finishing: "…going to have to watch you die again. And this time for real."

Another stroke of realization hit Sherlock. John was a soldier, barely back from action for just over three and a half years and frequently suffering from nightmares caused by post-traumatic stress disorder. Of course this would have bothered him. That was one thing that had honestly not occurred to Sherlock while he was away from John, that the doctor's habitual night terrors could have possibly returned upon having to be forced to watch his best friend leap off of a building towards an impending, overtly dramatic death. This event tonight probably served as a bit of a flashback, per se, to John, especially when he could do nothing to stop the oncoming death blow, just as with the Reichenbach Fall.

"…John—"

"How long, Sherlock."

The consulting detective furrowed his brow. "How long, what?"

"How long," John said in a slightly shaking voice, "is it going to take you to realize just how much it would kill me if you died? How many more times will you feel the need to throw yourself into fatal situations to know that, hmm?"

"I do not feel the need to throw myself into dangerous situations—"

"Yes, you do," John said. "Quite often, in fact, for the sake of a case. Sorry, Sherlock, but your job is not worth your life."

"Perhaps to you it isn't," Sherlock pointed out, his frown only deepening.

"Well of course to me, it isn't!" John exclaimed in exasperation. "Obviously I value your life more than you do!"

"I don't understand why that is."

"Because you're my best friend, Sherlock!" John said, rising from his chair and harshly staring down the detective. "You're my best friend and I care too damn much about you, alright? That's why."

"Caring is not an advantage, John, you should not let it pull you down like this," Sherlock began to protest, but was interrupted:

"Yeah, I've heard you little speech about the great disadvantage of emotional attachment, but you know what? I don't have a choice on the matter. I'm not you, I don't have the ability to turn it all off, and quite frankly I don't want to learn that trait, either, or else risk losing you for good."

Sherlock did not trust himself to speak after that last statement. He stared at John with slightly widened eyes, practically feeling the tension thicken with every passing second of silence between the two of them. It was an unfamiliar tenseness, this one between them. Of course being flatmates they have battled it out before, but something in this argument seemed to be particularly unnerving to both parties. This entire conversation, the passionate admonition from John was not what Sherlock anticipated would come of the night's events. Once again, he had managed to severely emotionally wound the one person that had ever tried to care for him.

"I'm really your best friend?"

"Yes," John said, wincing outwardly upon hearing his voice crack. "You know you are."

Sherlock took this in, pondering over the strong sentiment and realizing with regret that his actions had only hurt the man even worse because of it.

"…I'm sorry, John," the consulting detective finally spoke, in a much quieter voice. John huffed, shaking his head and smiling thinly at his flatmate.

"You say that," the doctor informed him, "But I don't think you even know what the words mean. If you're sorry about something, Sherlock, it means that you have recognized that your actions were wrong and are sincerely going to make an effort not to do them again."

"No," Sherlock said, carefully formulating his words. "That's not what an apology means to me."

"Oh," John said sourly. "Then what exactly does an apology mean to you?"

"To me, an apology means that you recognize that what you have done was wrong and has hurt someone you…you care about. That being said, you cannot promise that you won't do them again simply because it was a necessary offense at the time. Instead, you apologize to show the person you are apologizing to that your relationship with them means far too much to allow it to be ruined by your…inconsiderate actions, and that your intentions were only ever good."

"Good intentions," John scoffed. "What do you know about good intentions?"

"More than you would imagine, John."

John opened his mouth to speak again but paused, his mind flashing back to the conversation he and Sherlock had upon being reunited after the fall. Once again, Sherlock risked his life for a case—but this was not the same, surely? This could not be equal to risking one's life for their friend's, could it? This stupid stunt of Sherlock's was merely for the confiscation of a diamond. Yet even as he thought that, though, John knew that Sherlock was reading into it just as much as he was. It was him who was comparing the shoot out to Sherlock's fake suicide, not the consulting detective himself. Damn, when did he become so paranoid; when will this fear finally alleviate. Sherlock was anything but stupid, certainly he would know there was a way out if he was putting himself in unnecessary danger.

Either that, or he just trusted that John would always be there when he needed him to be. Even after telling him to get out of the flat, Sherlock definitely knew for a fact that John was going to stay no matter what.

"You believe your intentions today were good, Sherlock?" John inquired, to which Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow before pointing out to his flatmate:

"I got the diamond back, didn't I?"

John nodded, looking away. "And the fall…?" he asked before he could stop himself, his frown deepening with disapproval now aimed towards himself rather than Sherlock. The doctor already knew what the consulting detective was going to say before he spoke up again, but the intense pause between his question and the inevitable answer made John look back at Sherlock. The detective's face had noticeably fallen at John's follow-up question, and it was not obvious that up until that point Sherlock was fiercely considered the two cases mutually exclusive, and that he had intended to keep them that way. Upon meeting John's eyes, Sherlock answered in a lower tone of voice:

"I saved your life, didn't I?"

Now John felt bad. Damn him for being so fearful. Why did he do this to Sherlock, bring on the guilt just to win an argument? Was it really worth it to see that sorrowful look of self-reproach cross his best friend's face once again, just to remind John that Sherlock was in fact human, that he actually did have a heart within him?

"…You're right," John admitted, bowing his head. "Sorry for bringing that up."

"You were scared, John," Sherlock spoke in understanding, using those four words in place of a simple, less-meaningful 'it's okay.' With a nod, John lifted his head back up, meeting Sherlock's eyes once more before effectively ending their decidedly fervid conversation with a light-hearted offer of: "Tea?"

Sherlock could not help but crack a small smile as he nodded once; leave it to John Watson to singlehandedly see everything fixed with a cup of tea.

-•-• •-•-