You say your time has come / you're tired of waking up / don't be obscene / I can't conceive of living without you

"Where oh where oh where is Sherlock...where oh where oh where is Sherlock...where oh where oh where is Sherlock...where could Sherlock be...?"

John staggered as his limbs came to an abrupt stop, almost losing his balance altogether. He gripped the railing for excess support, and his jaw clenched as what felt like chilly razor sharp nails dragged themselves down his spine. That voice was like acid being poured over his head, dribbling down his body leaving their hideous and blatant mark. The lump that found itself wedged tightly in his throat made him feel sick, and he had to fight every impulse he could not to just swing himself around to face whatever or whoever was standing behind him. He was now aware of someone standing behind him, the distance between them he could not tell but just knowing that he wasn't alone now was terrifying.

"Come to 221c...I have a little surprise for you, Doctor Watson."

"Is it a bullet with my name on it?" John spat out, hands clenched tightly at his sides. "What were those gunshots outside?"

There wasn't an answer, not a sound. He stiffly started to turn his head; he found it difficult as it felt as though someone was holding it to prevent him from looking over his shoulder. There was an empty space at the top of the stairs, and John realised he was alone. For a millisecond, he wondered if he'd merely imagined everything. That the shock of hearing the gunshots had somehow just startled him from his senses for a moment, and he even took one step down the stairs only to halt, hanging his head. No, it was definitely real. He desperately didn't want it to be. If it was, then it meant that Moriarty was here. He was here at Baker Street, playing a little game with him. John didn't want to play games. He wanted to go back to bed only to be woken up by the screeches of Sherlock's violin; he wanted to feel angry with the detective again and to share knowing glances again and to tell him what to do.

John gripped the railing hard and exhaled heavily, inhaling shakily. He turned himself around to still see no one there, but this time he noticed something. Planted on the floor at the top of the stairs, was a small bundle. John tentatively approached it, constantly looking left and right as a small child would when crossing the round just in case Moriarty would leap out from somewhere. Swiping his tongue over his dried chapped lips, John leaned down and collected the object on the floor, and immediately he realised what it was with a pang of shrill fear. Only when he brought he brought it close enough to his eyes, as it was extremely dark, did he recognise that he was holding Sherlock's scarf in his hands.

"You bastard..." John muttered to himself, squeezing the item of clothing in his hand. If someone else had been there to witness it, he would have felt embarrassed about this action, though right then John doubted that he would have cared if that had been the case.

His heart juddering in his chest like a hummingbird's, and his hands clammy and trembling violently, John let the scarf drop as he bolted up towards 221c...

[SH]

"It'll all be over soon," Jim breathed against Sherlock's cheek, sneering as he felt the shudders course through the detective's body. "If I know your dear doctor, he will be with us any second now."

Sherlock had never felt so tired in all of his life. All of his muscles felt stretched beyond their limits, each individual strand wrinkled, and throbbing in protest. His bones felt that upon the lightest of touches they would turn to dust. His organs were raw and stinging. His skin was drenched with sweat and was freezing cold, like he had just been unearthed from the depths of an icy lake. The blood was the only heat that he felt, and whenever he thought too long about it, he would feel lightheaded and his head would drop backwards to thud against the ground. In all honesty, he had never wanted it all to be over so badly before.

He wasn't taking anything that Jim was saying in, not until he heard the thumps of footsteps up the stairs and his heart stumbled in his chest and whatever blood he had left felt as if it had been drained from him entirely at that moment. Jim's face, on the other hand, flushed with anticipation, and his grip on the other's shoulder tightened.

"You hear that, Sherlock?" he whispered, kissing his brow softly. "He's coming to rescue you. He's really proved himself to be a loyal pet, hasn't he? We'd better get ready to greet him."

Sherlock was faintly aware that he was being pulled to his feet, which alone was a strikingly agonising task, yet all he could focus on was the sound of John coming up for him. John was coming to get him. He'd been waiting for this to happen, to see his friend's face again, but now it was the last thing he wanted. If he could muster it, he would scream at the top of his lungs for John to turn around and leave Baker Street altogether.

Jim pressed his cheek against Sherlock's once they were both on their feet, one arm wound around his waist, the other holding something alarmingly cold against his temple, which Sherlock recognised to be a gun. Something akin to a whimper drooled from the detective's numb lips, and he heard Jim chuckle darkly behind him.

Then there was John. Perspiration was glimmering against his forehead and his throat; his breaths were laboured, clearly running the whole way. His hair was unkempt, definitely sleeping before the gunshots. Bags hooded his eyes, he didn't get much sleep and hasn't recently. Hands shaking, badly, he's frightened. There's no sign of a gun on his person. He had lost weight, just a bit, but it was clear from the corners of his lips and his fingernails that he hadn't been eating recently. No sleep, no food, dishevelled...he was becoming more and more like Sherlock every day. Sherlock smiled slightly at that, but it was swiped from his face when the sheer look of panic sliced through John's features like a knife. Obviously, he'd just noticed the gun being held to Sherlock's head. John raised his hands a little in surrender.

"Please, I beg you please don't shoot," John said, his voice cracking and wavering.

Jim let out what could only be described as a giggle equivalent to that of a coy schoolgirl's. "Oh my you are fun," Jim said, even going as far as to wipe false tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes with the hand that was around Sherlock's waist, and then put it back again, tighter this time. "In a different way, of course. Like...a cracker kind of fun. I do hope you don't bang too soon, John, because otherwise I'll have to throw you away and that'll be-" he pulled a face. "—rather dull."

The criminal chose this moment to press his arm down on Sherlock's stomach, and a yelp of pain burst from the detective's mouth before he could seal his lips together like a barrier. John, looking frankly mortified at the sound, widened his eyes and tensed up, colour forsaking his face.

"Please—please don't-" John stammered. "I'll do anything please don't...please..."

"I'm not going to do anything, Johnny boy," Jim said coolly, lessening his pressure that he had applied to the detective's injury. "You're the one with the decision to make." He lavished John's bewildered and terrified expression. "I'm going to give you two options. Option one; you let me go. You let me leave Baker Street, and you can tend to Mr Holmes'—condition. You can save his life. Option two; you let him go. You come down to your flat to meet me, and you leave Sherlock here unattended. And just to make sure you don't cheat, because you know much I hate cheaters...MORAN!"

John flinched in surprise when a man clad in black stepped in from nowhere behind him, cradling a rifle in his arms as if he was holding his newborn child. John couldn't make out much in the dark, other than the pale piercing eyes that sat like two polished pebbles in the man's sockets.

"If you attempt to give Sherlock any medical attention before coming down to me if your decision is option two, then my dear friend, Moran here will put a bullet right through your skull," Jim made a popping sound with his mouth at the final part, beaming at the doctor and his companion. "Seeing as though I'm a very understanding and fair man, I will give you five minutes to make your decision."

Jim, after planting a tender kiss to Sherlock's neck over the bruise he'd left there before, let the other man go; literally dropping him to the ground like a ragdoll, he'd grown bored of. John grimaced, wanting to cover his eyes but not daring to, keeping his balled up fists firmly at his sides.

The consulting criminal dusted his hands together and sauntered over towards John with such a casual air it was as though he hadn't done a thing, like they were merely passing each other by as strangers often do. It was like he hadn't just kidnapped and hurt John's closest friend, amongst other things, that John wasn't yet sure of and hoped with every ounce of his being wasn't the case. John would have closed his eyes if he weren't so concerned that Jim would suddenly turn on him, change his mind, and shoot. John wanted to be ready if Moriarty wanted to try anything.

"Five minutes, Doctor Watson," Jim Moriarty reminded him, his hot breath crawling down the skin of John's throat like venom.

The two men regarded each other, each feeling an amount of loathing for the other. It claimed the atmosphere, a silence stealing the air that was only broken by the odd creak of the stairs and the groans from Sherlock; the latter John was trying to blot out.

"Keep an eye on them, Sebastian," Jim murmured as he passed, and he literally skipped down the stairs.

John did his best to pretend that Moran wasn't there watching him, as he crossed over to his friend, crouching down at his side. He couldn't see anything, so he wasn't sure what was causing Sherlock so much pain, though nonetheless it twisted his gut and his hands faltered over the other, not knowing where was okay to touch and where wasn't. John decided he had to collect Sherlock up into his arms, aware that the floors were damp and unceasingly uncomfortable.

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," John said before winding his arm around the detective's back and, as considerately as possible, eased him upwards up onto his lap, ensuring that he had a good grasp on Sherlock.

Even though he was limp, head lolling back and right arm dragging, the detective was chillingly light to lift and hold, and John felt the first tug inside of himself, the first in a series that he would experience that night—or well, technically early morning. Sherlock's eyes parted slowly and he gave a closed mouthed half smile, which lasted for about half a second before he pressed his lips together tightly as he felt a twitch of pain.

John didn't know what to say. During the time the two were separated, John had regretted and dwelled on all the things he hadn't had chance to say to the younger man, but now they were reunited they had all abandoned him and dissolved into thin air. Everything sounded meagre, everything sounded pathetic, and the last thing he wanted was to be mocked. He was also scared, secretly, that his voice would crack and he may start to cry. A cocktail of relief and sheer panic shook up inside of him; it was so intense he could barely withstand it. He was on the brink of having Sherlock back, and the brink of losing him again. Not quite one or the other, and it was up to him where he would apply his weight in the end, leaning towards one of the two.

Instead of talking, John resorted to what he knew best. He scanned his medical eye over Sherlock, squinting in the very little lighting they were provided with, and then his eyes landed on it as if he had bumped right into a wall as he had been off looking elsewhere rather than looking where he was going. John breathed in a short sharp breath and trapped it in his mouth for a moment, hand hovering over the bottom of the blood soaked shirt. He could pretend it was just a scratch, but his knowledge informed him firmly that the amount of blood was from a more serious wound. He'd made up his mind right then. He would have to let Moriarty go.

John reached to undo the buttons to inspect the injury closer when a freezing cold hand clasped his own, halting his movement. The long slender fingers wound themselves around his hand like a pallid ribbon, and John's eyes met Sherlock's. No words were exchanged for the doctor already knew what was going to be asked of him, and his heart skipped a beat.

"Don't you dare," John murmured, doing his best to prevent his chin from quivering. "Don't you dare do this to me, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock, acting as though it was not already made clear and that his friend hadn't spoken, ran his thumb delicately over the roof of John's hand. "You have to go after him," he said quietly and hoarsely. His breaths were deep and short, revealing that talking was a strain.

"Shut up, I'm getting you to a hospital," John insisted. "I just have to stop the bleed-"

"John."

Much to his humiliation, a tear landed on the detective's hand and John's eyes became overwhelmed with them, so much so he had to rub his cheeks with the higher part of his sleeve, refusing to release his hold on Sherlock's hand.

"You can't let him—get away..." Sherlock said, bumping his forehead against John's arm in a soothing manner when he realised the army doctor was crying. "All he will do...is come back for us..."

"I'm not letting you do this," John partially sobbed out, and he was so ashamed that he looked away, not wanting to see that look of superiority or judgement in Sherlock's face.

"You have to, John. You have two minutes left before you must go..."

John let out a short, wet sounding laugh. "You're keeping time...of course you are..."

There was a pause. Sherlock swallowed hard and shifted his jaw. In a sense, he was signing his own death sentence—hell, he was even part of the firing squad. All the same, he knew there wasn't another way. Even if John chose to stay with him, it was unlikely, now this part hurt, that he would survive. He was feeling so numb, and his body was so tired. His brain, once so active and wired, was wanting a rest and the only way it would be granted such a privilege, was if Sherlock switched off. He couldn't look frightened, and he had to keep a level tone that left no gaps, no ways for John to persuade him to let him try to save him. In a couple of minutes, he would be left alone to die, and he felt winded by that fact. He subconsciously tightened his grip on John's hand, drawing the attention of the other.

"You know I'm right," Sherlock managed. "I will wait here for you."

"You can't promise that," John whispered, no longer caring that tears were cascading down his face. "You know you can't." He sniffed.

"I could never promise anything, John," Sherlock replied. "You knew that from the start, but you've always trusted me, you've always followed me. Don't stop doing that now."

John wanted some words of—what was the word, gratitude? No... but he wanted to say something that would express how much Sherlock meant to him, how much his world revolved around him, how much he needed him, how much he loved him. If he allowed those words to trip from his tongue, would he regret it? Would Sherlock even respond let alone reciprocate them? John didn't know how he loved Sherlock, or how he had come to love him, or even what sort of love it was. Despite this he knew for definite, he felt love.

"Time's nearly up," Moran barked out gruffly.

John started, almost forgetting completely that his moment with Sherlock was being observed. He felt uncomfortable now, painfully aware of how he was holding another man and that he was crying and that he was close to admitting that he loved him. Sherlock slid his fingers through the spaces between John's, their palms greeting. Sherlock's hand was trembling. John would have put it down to the loss of blood and the cold if it weren't for the pale eyes gaining extra gleam that was magnified by the darkness. John felt as though this moment was the very definition of heartbreak.

"If you go anywhere, I'll come after you and kick your arse," John warned half-heartedly.

Sherlock grinned, letting out a weak and brief laugh. "I know you would." He did too.

"Time's up," Moran said, making to step forward, entirely prepared to pry the two apart if it called for it.

However, that was unnecessary as John had already laid the detective back down with as much consideration and care as humanly possible, hands still tightly clasped. Then, like a rope being cut dead down the centre, the two fell away from each other. Feeling as though he was missing a limb, John turned around and walked away past Moran, who was bemused as he was half expecting to be forcing the yelling and kicking doctor out of the door. Moran cast a glance over his shoulder at the detective, who was lying very still on his back, and followed John out.

His breaths were the only sound, and they were growing more frantic by the second. Sherlock felt the hot moisture slide down the corners of his eyes and he had no strength left to even rid his skin of them. Instead, they were left to make their slow journey down his face and down the side of his throat, the trail they left behind turning cold.

[SH]

"I was scared you'd done the obvious and boring thing...I'm pleasantly surprised, Doctor Watson."

"Cut the crap," John muttered, hoping this would've been heard, but it seemingly hadn't as Jim Moriarty continued to roll the skull around in his hands, disinterested.

"I'm glad you came out to play," Jim continued, glimpsing up for the first time and that shark-like sneer prowled across his features, his dark eyes glinting with hidden thoughts and silenced laughs. "How does it feel leaving your friend behind to die?"

"Don't," John spat out, earning a raise of an eyebrow.

"You know how threats get me going," Jim giggled girlishly again. He tossed the skull up into the air and caught it, and then cast it aside. Tucking his hands into his trouser pockets, he walked slowly forwards towards John. "Seb, stand outside the door and make sure no one gets in—or out."

John heard the man behind him shuffle out and then the door slam, causing him to flinch. Jim sat himself down on the table by the window, swinging his legs back and forth. He even patted the spot next to him for the doctor to join him, though John had no intention of abiding and he knew it. Jim beamed.

"Are you here to kill me?" Jim Moriarty inquired with such nonchalance, as one would ask what their plans for the day were.

"With my bare hands," John retorted, desiring something witty and intelligent similar to something Sherlock would say to come to him, yet it didn't. He stuck to what he knew, no matter how simplistic it sounded.

Jim laughed aloud, running a hand over his face and tugging down the flesh of his cheek, so the pink underbelly of his eye was revealed. He dragged his hand down his skin until he came to his own neck, drawing his nails down leaving those flaming red marks.

"I love it when you talk dirty," Jim teased. "Come on then, Johnny. Kill me with your bare hands. But you know—" and at this he leaned forward, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. "You do realise that Sherlock will never forgive you for killing me. He wants to do it himself. He will never be able to forgive you for ruining our game. Our game, not yours. He'll probably want to cut your face off so he'd never have to look at it again, because every time he does he'd know that you're the one that killed his only match. The only one who was equally as intelligent, if not more so." John made a scoffing sound, but his confidence was faltering. "He'd never forgive you. Can you live with that?"

TBC

Good place to leave it until I next have chance to update it. Tomorrow (Sunday 15th January) is my nineteenth birthday, as well as the dreaded final episode. I honestly cannot wait. There was such a large delay with this chapter, and I sincerely apologise, it won't happen again. Right before Christmas I had an exam and a blog entry due in on the same day, and so I gave myself a few days break for Christmas and to de-stress, and then Boxing Day I had to start my two assignments (also due in the same day), and I only just finished them in time. Since then I haven't really felt in the mood to write as I'd been doing so much of it, and I did write a version of this chapter that I utterly despised as it was such a letdown, even for me reading it back I felt disappointed.I will update this sometime early next week, maybe even Monday as I intend to write tomorrow with my angst as my fuel. Sorry for a cliff-hanger again –

The lyrics at the start of this chapter are from a song called 'The Beacon' by A Fine Frenzy. It was on a loop as I wrote the scene between Sherlock and John; you only have to look at the lyrics to see a connection:

You say you drag us down
No one should want you now
When I start to cry, you kiss my eyes and say
I'm not allowed to
Burning beacon in the night
Can't feel its heat, or see its light
That single solitary guide, it must get lonely there sometimes
You were a child forgot
Lessons of love untaught
Now no embrace can quite replace
The one that never found you

Please listen to the song if you wish to of course whilst reading that scene. Thank you very much.