"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?"

John didn't want the doubt to rise inside of him, but he couldn't prevent it, and Jim, seeing through him like a glass of water, knew it wasn't long before it would overwhelm him and spill over. The consulting criminal gave his legs a great swing forwards and then sprang off the desk, landing soundly on his feet, creating only the slightest of creaks. John involuntarily stepped backwards, and then only just managed to prevent himself from taking a second one as Jim abruptly swept up the gap between them, bringing them uncomfortably close together.

Jim Moriarty's face was inches away from John's, and a sneer crawled across his face like a spider. "You wouldn't dare, would you?" he purred. "You wouldn't dare do a thing that could hurt your—should I say...relationship with Sherlock Holmes." There was a trace of mocking in his tone when he uttered the word 'relationship' and John tilted his eyes upwards to meet the other's looming, deadly gaze. Jim's face suddenly shattered like glass and the corners of his mouth were tugged downwards, a crease between his eyebrows. "Why did you have to ruin him?" he sounded on the verge of tears. "Why did you have to go and—" he turned away as though he could no longer stand the sight of John, running a hand through his short dark hair, tugging harshly at the roots, slapping the base of his palm against his temple with a small clap, inhaling a trembling breath.

John thought he looked like a child who had just heard the dreaded word 'no'; a child who realised that he couldn't have his way, and the hurt that came from hearing that word, seared within, threatening to bellow out of him.

Then Jim swung around, charging forwards and John staggered backwards in shock to find the other man's hand balled up in his shirt, tugging him forwards so they were, again, incredibly close to one another. John thought the words "easy now" skidded out of his lips, but the amplified shout of the criminal drowned it out, so he couldn't be sure if he spoke at all.

"YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!" Moriarty screamed, eyes bulging, temple rising, spit stinging against John's chin.

John's heart banged against his ribs as if it was trying to break them so it could escape, get itself as far away from Jim Moriarty as possible. John wished he could do that...beat down the door and run. However, he never would have been able to...and on reflection, neither would his heart. His heart wouldn't abandon Sherlock—and neither would he. His mind sprinted over to Sherlock now, and he sickened himself by fancying he could even hear the detective's last breaths, last heartbeats. It turned his sweat that was clinging against his flesh startlingly cold, and, without contemplating or pausing to think, he acted on pure instinct and brought his hands to impact with Moriarty's chest, shoving him away.

Jim stumbled a little, and at first, his features went lax, stunned. Then he straightened himself up and laughter frothed from his lips...loud, garish, blood curdling laughter. "That's the spirit, my boy!" he exclaimed, stretching his arms out as though he were beckoning him for an embrace. He then brought them together in applause, even whistling as he did so.

John stood there, trying to minimize the shivers that rolled down his form so the other wouldn't notice just how terrified he was. What was Sherlock thinking, believing he could—could beat this man...wait, not even a man... How could he? There was nothing he could do to inflict pain, nothing at his disposal other than he could stand his ground for a while.

"Oh boy, at least you're trying not to be boring," the criminal chuckled, digging his hands back into his pockets. "I tell you, Sherlock has been a bit dull lately. All he does is lie there. I had to entertain myself most of the time." Jim winked, bringing forth a pack of mint chewing gum and popping one into his mouth. He extended the packet. "Want one?" when he received no response, he threw one down at the doctor's feet and returned the packet to its home.

"What do you mean you had to—" John couldn't bring himself to complete the sentence. It felt like he was being strangled, his own body beseeching him not to ask, not to pry, and to remain ignorant.

Jim tapped the side of his nose. "Never you mind, Doctor Watson. Nobody likes a nosy Parker, now do they?"

Whatever it was that he was implying John didn't like it, not one bit. He shuffled from one foot to the other, considering just going for it and just punching the crap out of the bastard and see how far that got him. He wanted to yet his feet were caught to the ground. He wouldn't admit it, but he was bloody scared of Moriarty. He wanted to keep some sort of distance between them, though Jim seemed to enjoy closing the space and invading his personal space.

"I will say this," Jim said, closing in again like a shark delivering a second bite just to get a good taste of the blood to decide whether to treat itself to a third, and devour it whole. "You ruined Sherlock for me...so I ruined Sherlock for you."

John rarely ever lost it. He had somehow managed to suppress his anger no matter what was thrown at him. No matter how many times he found bottles of booze in Harry's flat when she'd promised she'd quit, no matter how many times he saw Anderson smirk behind Sherlock's back, no matter what people said about him or about Sherlock for that matter...John had always found a way to keep calm. That instant, that tiny voice that usually encouraged him to take a deep breath and to cool off, was replaced by just pure loathing and fury.

He reached out and clutched Moriarty's shirt in a similar fashion that the criminal had done to him, and slammed his fist directly into the other man's face. John didn't release his hold, jerking the criminal upright after delivering the blow. Jim was still sneering. John lashed out a second time, his knuckles smarting as he grazed the skin, even drawing small specks of blood to the surface. Jim's nose was trickling vibrant strings of blood, but he hardly reacted to it, licking it up when it reached his lips.

"You're ever so handsome when you lose your temper," Jim said quietly, and then his eyes darkened and he spat the blood that was in his mouth into the doctor's face.

The saliva may as well have been a burning chemical against John's skin. He longed to wipe it away but knew if he dared loosen his grip on the other man, he would be in danger, so he allowed it to grow cold and dribble down his cheek. Jim bared his teeth as he beamed at him; John realised the criminal was quaking with exhilaration.

"What you waiting for, big boy?" Moriarty asked. He leaned closer so the tip of his nose lightly brushed John's, and then he shouted, "HIT ME AGAIN! DO IT AGAIN HIT ME HARDER!"

Despite wanting to, John didn't want to do anything Moriarty asked of him, and the demand was so disturbing he pushed him away again in disgust, letting go. He glimpsed at his knuckles to find his hand shaking violently, dark bruises blossoming. Before he could gather what had happened, he felt a fist collide with his chin and he was permitted to fall backwards with a loud thud, his head hitting the floor hard.

His mind went foggy and sluggish, his vision slipping in and out of focus as he stared with glossy eyes up at the ceiling, watching it move like a wave over his head. Moriarty's face penetrated his view, glowering down at him, a droplet of blood falling from his nose and landing on the ground by John's head.

"You should do as I ask," Jim remarked in a sinister way, straightening out his clothes and tutting at the blood stains on the white of his shirt. He rubbed his nose against his sleeve reluctantly and, so to demonstrate how he felt about John making him ruin his favourite blazer, brought his foot down with great force onto the doctor's hand.

A scream rang out in Baker Street and it took John a while to realise it had been torn from his own throat like a hook, leaving it ragged and broken. He scrunched up his face in agony as Jim refused to let up. Then he applied further weight—

"Please, please oh God please stop..." John whimpered out, knowing that if his fingers were close to breaking.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, you know it's a two way street with me," Jim sighed as if he were simply scorning a child for forgetting to add please at the end of their sentence. "I asked you to hit me, which you refused, now you ask me to stop. I guess in order to make things even is if I do as you did mere seconds ago..."

"Please...please don't..." John gasped out, eyes running, breathing in reverse.

Jim clenched his jaw and raised his foot, bringing it back down with all his strength, and the bones crunched beneath his shoe like snow.

Sherlock heard John's cry from 221c, and everything halted. He turned his head so he was looking at the closed door.

Moriarty strolled back over to the fireplace, his face that was bright red, beginning to relax into a placid looking manner. He even started nosing through some of the books on the bookshelves, taking one out and flicking through the pages. John grasped his injured hand, further bruises shadowing his flesh, his fingers beginning to swell. He didn't care if he was crying or if he looked weak. All there was in his world right then was pain, this blinding, dizzying pain and he was on the brink of being sick and passing out.

"You're starting to bore me," Jim commented, glancing over his shoulder at the smaller man, who had gathered himself up on his knees and was holding his abused hand close. "I insist you do something entertaining soon or else I'll have to make things interesting."

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?" John exclaimed, turning his head ajar to look at the criminal. "WHAT IS THE POINT OF ALL THIS?"

Jim faintly smiled. "Your brain really is slow. Plodding along like a little donkey." He clucked his tongue to mimic the sound of a donkey's hooves. He put the book back in its place and took his seat on the table once more, hands clasped between his knees. "I don't want anything really. Just—" he shrugged, pursing his lips and looking around. "A hobby I guess you'd call it."

"This...this is a hobby?" John choked out, clenching his eyes shut and grimacing.

"I tried train spotting," Jim offered, and then he grinned. "But I just kept thinking about how I could blow them all up. My hobby is chaos. Like Sherlock's is understanding things...and like yours is..." he frowned as if in thought. "Do you even have a hobby?" when John didn't answer, he waved it off. "Anyway, doesn't matter now. The game's getting dull. It's almost my curfew, playtime has to stop soon."

"Why don't...you just sod off then?"

"Oh no, the end of the game is only made official when there's been some blood spilled. Don't worry, my dear...not long now."

John sank back down, his head spinning too much that it felt like his very skull was rotating under the flesh. It was right then that he noticed it. In the corner of his eye, he saw something dark hiding under the armchair with its back to the kitchen. He gulped when he saw it glimmer as he shifted his head ever so slightly, and he knew immediately that it was Sherlock's gun. He'd put it down before he'd fallen asleep, keeping it close at hand though out of sight if anyone burst in on him in an attempt to attack. John leaned his eyes over to Jim's direction, scarcely moving his head so not to draw attention to the fact he was looking, to see that the criminal was poring over some book he'd picked up off the shelf. John knew it wouldn't be long before the criminal grew bored again and would glance up to see him crawling across the floor to get a gun. Did Moriarty even have a weapon on him? John mentally groaned as he thought how Sherlock would know, how Sherlock would estimate how many seconds he had to get a hold of the weapon before being stopped, and what he should do once he had the damned thing in his hands.

Would John be able to shoot when it came to it? It wasn't so much his moral code restraining him, because Moriarty fit the definition of deserving death and a hell of a lot more in John's eyes. It was that nagging idea that Sherlock would hate him and wouldn't be able to forgive him. Yet if that was the case, why did he ask John to follow him rather than letting him go?

Fingers pulsing with a radiating ache, his heart wedged tightly in his throat like a sharp-sided cube; beads of perspiration sliding down his forehead, John made his decision.

Ignoring the pain stretching up his arm and throbbing at the back of his head, John crawled as fast as he could towards the chair. He stretched his arm out and wrapped his fingertips around the butt of it, dragging it towards himself. John didn't dare wonder if Moriarty was watching him, if he was aware of what he was doing. He chose to focus instead on getting the gun and pointing it, that was all he had to do. Using his good hand to hold it, John raised his torso, gun pointing directly at Jim Moriarty, who was grinning inanely with his hands held up in surrender.

"Though I do find this highly entertaining," he said, his gum squelching beneath his teeth. "I recommend you put the gun down and try to be a little more inventive."

John narrowed his eyes, trying to even out his breathing as he eased himself up to his feet, walking over to the criminal. "You're going to let Sherlock go..." he said slowly, as it took a great amount of effort to prevent his voice from wavering. He wanted to do all he could to stop Moriarty from seeing that he was absolutely petrified. "You're going—going to let everyone go. D-Do you understand..." he cringed as he stammered.

"You think you can threaten me with that, Doctor Watson?" Jim inquired, and then, to John's horror, pressed his forehead against the barrel of the gun. "Go on then. Pull the trigger, will you? I dare you. I double dare you."

John swiped the tip of his tongue over his dry lips. The most mortifying aspect of the entire situation, was that the only thing John could possibly threaten James Moriarty with, was death and even that...even such a thing was greeted warmly by the consulting criminal. Jim didn't care if he lived, he didn't care if he died—for some reason, this bothered John. It bothered him, because he wanted to hear the bastard beg, he wanted to hurt him as much as possible for what he'd done to both him and Sherlock. He wanted Moriarty to suffer, to feel remorse and regret over all the terrible crimes he'd committed.

Nevertheless, John had no other option...

John breathed in deeply, the sound of the criminal chewing lazily on his gum the only thing he could hear. Jim just kept grinning. John pulled the trigger. He shut his eyes, waiting for the bang and the jolt. Instead, the sound he heard, twisted his stomach into an icy knot. He heard a click. Peeling his eyes open, John saw Moriarty's face still intact, leering up at him, laughter waltzing boldly in those black pits of his eyes.

"I was here for five minutes, Johnny boy," Jim murmured. "More than enough time for me to find the gun and take the bullets out."

John's world deflated. For some reason he kept the gun held to the criminal's head, as if the bullets would suddenly return home and he could pull a trigger and hear the shot crack the silence that was eating him up. Tears of frustration collected in his eyes, though he didn't grant them permission to fall, so they just burned there, blurring his vision. Sherlock probably would have laughed if he'd witnessed that...rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, then give an elongated account as to how he'd known the gun was unloaded the instant he walked into the room.

"As hilarious as that was, I'd say it was time for us to put an end to all this," Jim Moriarty said lowly, no hint of laughter in his voice now as he snatched the weapon from John's limp fingers and tossed it aside. "Sebastian! Your services are required!"

"You're not even going to finish me off yourself?" John let out a short, bitter laugh. "You may as well. You've done everything you could have possibly done to hurt me..."

"I told you, I don't like getting my hands dirty with pointless people's blood," Jim pulled a face as though the very idea repulsed him. Then he frowned at the door. "SEBASTIAN!" he boomed.

No response.

Moriarty moved forwards, and John stole the opportunity, his final feeble attempt. He bolted forwards, a man with nothing left to lose, and wound his fingers around the criminal's throat, disregarding the agonizing creak of his broken bones. Jim seemed more irritated by this rather than concerned, and jerked his knee up, striking the doctor's ribcage. John winced but didn't loosen his grip, tightening it even, refusing to let go. Jim, sensing that the other's hold wasn't going to let up easy, began to punch and hit him, calling for Moran to come in.

The door slammed open. John felt a shiver tingle up his spine, as he knew that Moriarty's man was standing behind him, ready to embed a bullet in him. Despite this, he kept his clutch on the criminal's throat, hoping that at least he could bring the other with him. Moriarty went still. John chanced a glimpse upwards, hoping that he had succeeded in his plight, to see the criminal's face turning partially blue but he was still alive. John looked over his shoulder to see a group of men standing there, and at the front of them, stood Mycroft Holmes.

"Let him go, John," Mycroft requested evenly. "We'll deal with him now." When John only blinked dazedly at him, the older Holmes sibling rolled his eyes and added, at a slower pace that even someone as simple as the doctor could understand. "Let him go otherwise we can't get a clear shot."

It took a lot out of John to actually release Moriarty, feeling a brew of relief and, oddly enough, disappointment, being stirred within him. He met the criminal's gaze. Those eyes locked with his own, and his blood turned blisteringly hot. He lessened his grip and then dropped his hands altogether. Jim hardly reacted, though John noticed the way his chest was heaving, wolfing in the oxygen like a parched man would water. John went to turn away and then brought his fist directly into Moriarty's abdomen. When the criminal involuntarily leaned forward, John hissed in his ear: "I hope you rot for all you've done".

He paid no heed to Mycroft's irritable remarks, and John reluctantly removed himself from the criminal, allowing himself to be led away by someone, who was whispering frantically into his ear.

"We'll get your fingers seen to," the man was saying softly.

"Hang on, just give me a second," John replied distantly. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to see this. He wanted to know for certain that Moriarty was going to be killed, and not just receive some lie from Mycroft to disguise the fact that he escaped—again.

The guy glanced over to his boss, at a loss of what to do. John saw Mycroft nod in the corner of his eye, and made a mental note to profusely thank him later for granting him this.

"James Moriarty," Mycroft practically growled, blatantly livid. "I do not care how much heat I will get from doing this. I promise you, I will enjoy it."

Jim nursed his abused neck, yet that antagonizing sneer didn't fade. "I took your brother away, Mr. Holmes," he said croakily. "I can take your enjoyment away from you too."

Mycroft smiled. "I highly doubt that."

Jim Moriarty quirked up his eyebrow and then gave a salute with his hand, body straight and rigid as a soldier. His eyes never once left John's, not even as he threw himself backwards to shatter the glass window behind him. No one uttered a word. Just the crash of the glass filled the air, the tinkling of the shards that reached the ground sounding like bells. Jim fell backwards and out of sight.

One or two of Mycroft's men sprinted forward to ensure the criminal had met the concrete ground below, and then cast their boss a look over their shoulders, giving tiny nods. Mycroft stepped forwards to check for himself.

The relief stole over John like powerful pain medication, and his knees sagged. He dropped to the ground, supported by unseen hands. That was that...Jim Moriarty was dead...he was dead...he was gone...

Mycroft's face crumpled up, the mask he had adopted as a second layer of skin forgotten. He mumbled something to those who surrounded him, who then sprinted off down the stairs. Mycroft pressed his hands together, his long fingers greeting in a steeple, and tucked it neatly under his chin, closing his eyes. It was over, and even Mycroft Holmes couldn't repress his relief.

John found himself being eased up onto his feet, and though his shoulders felt lighter of a heavy burden, the remainder of his body still weighed him down. The exhaustion and pain that had piled itself up, was now teetering and, bit by bit, was tumbling down, and the rubble was oddly heavier than the stack itself. He knew that once he had been granted a few hours of rest and a generous dose of pain medication, he would be okay.

That was then, with a hideous blow, John remembered that Sherlock was still lying up there, probably dying or worse. Shaking himself loose of his human crutches, he made his way up the stairs and staggered to an abrupt halt when he saw Sherlock lying there at an odd angle. One arm was lying across his stomach, the other at his side, one leg was bent, and the other was stretched out.

"Jesus..." John breathed and rushed forwards to the detective. He wasn't sure what to do, whether he should gather the man up in his arms or whether that would inflict even further damage. John took Sherlock's wrist and checked for a pulse to find one flickering faintly there like the flame of a candle that was being battered by the wind. When John looked at Sherlock's face, he found to his relief, that the other's eyes were partially open and watching him. "What on earth were you doing?" John said, trying to sound angry though only managing to sound broken.

"I heard you..." Sherlock responded faintly. He stretched out his fingers, revealing his pale palm. John clasped his hand with his uninjured one, and Sherlock visibly relaxed at the contact.

"So you decided to crawl down the stairs, you bloody—" he cut off as his eyes fell upon the puddle of blood that was gathering beneath the detective. John's mouth hung open in a muted gasp, subconsciously squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"HELP!" he cried over his shoulder, the tears he'd been restraining now tearing down his face.

He needn't have, as what he assumed was paramedics were already rushing up the stairs. John looked back at the detective, watching numbly as he was gently peeled away from him and as strangers began to see to Sherlock, exchanging quiet private words that they didn't care to share with John, and looking very grim at the scene in front of them. As they couldn't bring the stretcher up the stairs, one of paramedics collected the thin consulting detective up in their arms like he was a small child, breaking through the thin crowd to lead the way down the stairs.

John nudged his way through, also, so he was the one behind Sherlock, and managed to reach out to reclaim the detective's hand. "You listen here," John said, hoping the younger man was listening. "You better be okay. Because—" his voice broke. "I don't know what I'd do without you...you just think about that, alright? You hear me, Sherlock Holmes...you understand..." the cold night air struck his face like a slap, and he felt someone touch his chest, holding him back.

John held onto Sherlock's hand for as long as he possibly could, until in the end he was only holding onto his fingers. He wasn't sure if it was a figment of his imagination or not, but he could have sworn that Sherlock gave his fingers a frail squeeze before they were, once again, forced to let each other go.

TBC

I don't know about you, but the final episode of Sherlock season two had me in fits of tears, and has thus been the fuel to me in writing this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it, and there will be a couple more chapters following this, revealing details such as what happened to Moran and Mrs Hudson, how Mycroft got there, what will become of Sherlock and so on. I hope I haven't inflicted further emotional damage, though I admit the picture of John holding onto Sherlock at the end did make a small dent on me.

The following chapter will be uploaded sometime soon, yet I am not certain when as this week is my last week off university and this weekend, starting from Friday, is a long weekend treat from my girlfriend for my birthday, which was on the 15th January—so my birthday was very depressing as that was the night of the last Sherlock episode of season two. I will probably be writing when I'm back at university, depending on whether my timetables have changed, so please be patient and keep reviewing, your reviews are all so lovely and greatly appreciated.