Mary and John stepped out of the café after brunch to find a cold, dreary London. Neither of them wanted to go home yet, but spending time outdoors was less than desirable. Mary suggested visiting a museum; John wasn't much for museums but he'd visit Pluto if Mary suggested it. She hailed a cab and the two of them hopped in the backseat. John held Mary's hand and thought he must be the luckiest man in the world.

Then everything went black.

John awoke duct-taped to a chair in a dimly lit warehouse. As the room swam into focus, he sized up his captors: a tall, muscular blond man with a nose that looked like it had been through a meat grinder and… Mary?

"So nice of you to join us, Dr. Watson," the tall man said. "You already know my associate. Rather well, from what I've heard." He nodded to Mary.

"What the hell?" John said, still reeling from the concussion. "Who are you?"

"Sebastian Moran. Jim Moriarty helped me readjust to civilian life when the Army threw me away. He never mentioned me, did he? No, Jim wanted everybody to think he did it all by himself. The truth is that he never could have done it without me! Jim was the idea man, but I brought all his ideas to life," Moran said with a pompous smirk.

John glared at his girlfriend, who winced and looked at the floor. "Mary, what in the hell is going on?"

Moran sneered, "Yes, Mary. Tell your loverboy why I had you seduce him."

Trembling, Mary began to speak. "My dad didn't die of cancer. He was forced to retire because he was addicted to pain pills, and when the pills weren't enough, he started using heroin. We tried to get him help but he went to rehab after rehab and nothing worked. He shared needles, he… sold himself, and he got AIDS. That was what really killed him. Jim helped me cover up his addiction and the circumstances of his death. Sebastian threatened to tell everyone if I didn't deliver you to him. I'm so sorry, John."

John looked at Mary with a mixture of pity and revulsion. Turning from her to Sebastian, he snarled, "What do you want, Moran?"

"I want you to stop all your efforts to clear Sherlock's name."

John went from infuriated to completely confused. "Sherlock's already dead. What could clearing his name do to you?"

Moran laughed; it was a cold, mirthless sound. "Oh, Dr. Watson, you really don't know? Your boyfriend was right; your mind really is placid and barely used! Well, you've got quite a surprise waiting for you when you get to the Great Beyond! Let's just get him there before someone spoils it, shall we, Mary?"

Mary's face turned deathly white. "What do you mean?"

"I need you to prove which side you're on," Moran said, and placed a Sig Sauer 9 mm in her hands. "If you really want your father's secret to stay a secret, you need to eliminate the only person outside of the organisation who knows."

"But-" Mary stammered.

Moran's stare proclaimed that further discussion was not an option. Time seemed to stop. Mary and John stared at each other pleadingly.

Eyes brimming, Mary took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry, John."

She pointed the Sig at John with shaking hands. Clearly, she'd never held a gun before, much less pointed a gun at another human being. As she pulled the trigger, a smoke grenade landed between her and John and the fire alarm clanged. Smoke poured from behind Moran and Mary as well; with his vision obscured and no sound from John, Moran didn't know that the bullet had only grazed the doctor's left arm.

"Let's get out of here!" Mary shouted.

"I will. But I'm afraid you've outlived your usefulness," Moran said, and he pulled out a second Sig and shot Mary. Then he directed his men towards the front door and they made their escape.

John surveyed the room for a way out. Through the smoke, he spied a sharp-edged crate a few feet away and laboriously scooted his chair to it. Adrenaline coursing through his vein, the wound in his arm may as well have been a paper cut. He briskly rubbed the duct tape on his wrists against the edge of the crate, sawing it off. Hands freed, he ripped the duct tape off his ankles, covered his mouth and nose with his jumper, and then made his way over to Mary. Sweet Jesus. Moran's bullet had hit her in the temple and she lay in a large pool of blood. John blinked back tears. Remember Afghanistan. You've carried on after this before and you have to do it again. He gently picked up Mary's gun before scrambling to the back of the building.

John burst through the rear exit coughing and gasping, then staggered clear of the building. After pulling his jumper off, he salvaged the duct tape and used it as a makeshift tourniquet. He could hear Moran and some other voices but couldn't make out what they were saying. I need to get to a good vantage point. He ducked behind a stack of crates and sneaked over to another warehouse about 50 feet from the one that was on fire. The ex-soldier scurried up a drainpipe to the roof of the second warehouse and crawled on his stomach to the edge of the roof. Pain is irrelevant. Forget the pain. Cautiously, John peered over the edge of the roof. The scene below amazed him.

Greg Lestrade and half of Scotland Yard were in the parking lot wearing riot gear. The police had their guns trained on Moran, who stood between the buildings with a hostage. Both hostage and captor had their backs to him, but when he saw that the hostage was a tall, dark-haired man, he immediately knew the man's identity. Mycroft! He's not equipped for these situations. I've got to do something.

John checked the gun and found a half-full clip. Good. He quickly reviewed his options. He could aim for Moran's torso, but with Moran holding Mycroft in front of him, the bullet could go through Moran and into Mycroft. Can't take that risk. However, Moran was a few inches taller than the hostage and was holding the top of the hostage's head level with his chin. If the hostage held completely still and John's aim was absolutely perfect, he could get the top of Moran's head without injuring anyone else.

BANG

The bullet went into Moran's skull. Moran fell. The hostage staggered backwards. John raced back down the drainpipe, sidled past the crates and came upon the hostage, who was kneeling over Moran's body with his back to John. John stopped just behind him, panting.

"Are you OK?"

"Better than I've been in months, John," a very familiar voice said, and Sherlock Holmes stood up and spun about, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

John's jaw dropped. Spluttering incoherently, he punched Sherlock in the face. And then, John Watson lost consciousness for the second time that day.