Things went smoothly as he had expected. He set the device on roof right under people's nose, yet no one found that out. He got John away, so no one could find the truth, at least not within one hour. Sherlock sneaked out the laser cage he set for himself as a cloak, went down the empty Press Center building and got into a cab.
The front yard of Great British Museum was dark and empty. Sherlock had already shut down its security system. He went into the gate without making any sound. Something he learned from Moriaty, and now he was going to meet an old friend of him.
Sherlock smiled in the dark entrance hall. No one was shooting at him, otherwise he'd see laser.
"I'm here." He shouted to the darkness.
"Colonel Moran, nice to meet you." He shouted again. "Your boss would appreciate your loyalty, and I'm sure you'll get his thanks soon, in person."
There was no reply. It was a hide-and-seek game. During his one year tracking down Moriaty's criminal organization, Colonel Moran was the most difficult gamer, who played the game so devotedly that not even spare to kill partners. After the last attempt where Sherlock almost got him, the ex-colonel disappeared into the air, and now he was the last losing end of Moriaty's achievement on earth.
Moran would love to settle him once for all, and so was Sherlock. He had waited for this a long time, and wouldn't let the chance go by.
Sherlock's eye got used to the dim light casting down from the ceiling of Great Court and marched quietly onwards. If Moran didn't come to see him, he'd go to see him. Hide and seek, this time he'd play a hunter.
A flash. Sherlock's eye caught something, tiny, grey, floating down in carefree slowness. A feather, a fluff.
"Good to see you," Sherlock said, "I bring a gift to you, too." He held the gun tight in his palm.
Something floating down. A fluff again.
"Ceilings, he hid somewhere near the ceiling." Sherlock corrected himself then, "Not likely, otherwise could be seen."
"But he hid feather near the ceiling." Then his eye caught another one, "Or they were just floating everywhere."
"Feather." Sherlock suddenly smiled. "You want to weigh my heart, or you just want to burn it?" Without hesitation, he walked towards the Egyptian Hall.
"I see you already find a coffin for everlasting life, or death I might say?" He walked around the Rosetta stone, not surprised to see a stone coffin's cover was removed, forming a gap big enough for an adult to get out.
There was nobody in this hall. Sherlock marched upstairs, and stopped by the Book of the Dead. Even in the darkness he knew the trial of heart weighing, and he knew eyes were fixed on him.
"Why don't you shoot?" He raised his voice, "Out of respect to history, I may guess? Or you were just without a gun, security check, sorry to know that."
He suddenly turned around and turned the flash light on, and Moran was standing right in the light.
"Good evening." Sherlock smiled. "Glad to see you." His gun pointed at Moran steadily.
Moran suddenly made a jump to him, obviously to reach for the gun.
Sherlock got out of his way, gun stilling tightly holding in palm. He didn't want to shoot in exhibition hall, and he knew Moran would take advantage of it.
But to his surprise, Moran began to run to the door. A trap, yet Sherlock wouldn't let the chance go by. He chased after him, prepared to shot at any minute now.
Moran turned into an empty corridor. Great chance! The first shot missed his figure, but Moran leaped a little after the second shot. He got him, he got him. Sherlock ran into the corridor in his full speed.
Feather, millions of them, suddenly fell down from the ceiling. Sherlock tripped a little when sensing this, and soon found himself trapped. In the heavy snow of feather, he could barely breathe, and his sight lost depth. He ran to the direction of exit, and banged himself on the door. He was locked in the corridor.
Sherlock turned around, trying to find the way back. He reached a wall, and tried to run parallel to it, while holding his breath as much as possible.
The feathers fell down with aged dust. Long prepared trap of course, maybe several months or even longer.
A burned smell appeared in the air. Before he could recognize it, all feathers were on fire, turning into floating ashes in no time. Sherlock stopped his step and looking up.
Feathers still fell down, loads of them, burned up even before they reached the ground, like a rain of fire. His skin hurt with heat. The breath became difficult, then choking, then impossible. He gave up struggling his way to the other end of corridor any more, knowing the quickly decreasing of fresh air was partially because of the doors closed on both sides.
"He got me burned in feathers, heart and whole." He said to himself. "Use feathers heavier than a heart could possibly be. Neat yet sarcastic."
And feathers were still falling down. The fire got smaller since the lack of oxygen.
Sherlock fell down softly, back leaning on the wall. His last idea was he should not have cut off the security system so thoroughly, otherwise there would be water.
The gate behind the colonnade was slightly open.
"He is here." John shouted to Lestrade, "Send over your people." Then he ran into the museum.
It was dark; John used several seconds to get used to it, and fumbled his way. Not knowing what was waiting, John decided to keep as quiet as possible. Then he heard a dull sound of gun fire somewhere inside. John ran to that direction, totally forgot his caution. He had already stupidly lost 20 minutes waiting at the Press Center, now he could afford no delay. Where was Sherlock?
The second gun shot was much near, and John could tell it was from above. John ran into the nearest staircase he met, and then John heard someone entered the same staircase from upper floor. He held his breath and waited.
Someone was moving downstairs with a lame leg. The steps were heavy and slow, but steady, and there was no gasping caused by pain. Strong, badly injured, prudent and controlled…
"A soldier." John thought to himself, trying to hide behind shadow of armrest. The figure came nearer and nearer. Now John was sure it was not Sherlock. He rushed to it and knocked the back of his head with strength and precision of a surgeon. The man apparently didn't see this coming, yet he didn't fell down and began to fight back at once. His injury made him difficult to turn and John took advantage of this. He jumped to his back and kicked the knee of the lame leg, finally knocked him down. The next second, John stamped on his back and cuffed his both hands. He took the handcuff from Lestrade on the way here, hopefully the latter wouldn't mind.
"Where is Sherlock?" He strangled the man's neck, adding the strength little by little.
To his astonishment, the man chuckled in broken voice.
"If Sherlock shot him, he should already show up." John realized. He stood up suddenly, and gave a deadly kick on the back of the man's head again, then ran upstairs.
The man was from the first floor. John ran into it.
There was a strange smell of burned fur in the air which made John's blood frozen.
"Sherlock, Sherlock." He shouted and ran. There was no fire in sight, and the smell was so thin, it must be some locked place. John took out his phone to cast light, searched for every possible corner. The smell became stronger; he could almost feel the heat in air when he found a door stuck by wood blocks.
"Sherlock!" He removed the blocks and pulled the door wide open. The dim light from his phone cast on feathers on walls and floors. Millions of feather piled quietly and harmlessly on the floor, stirred lazily by each of his step. And black ashes were turned up from underneath.
"Sherlock." John tried not to imagine what the detective would be like when he found him. "Sherlock." His voice became trembled and tearful. How long had passed since the last shot, five minutes? Ten?
The further he went in, the choked he got. The air was terribly thin, no wonder so many feathers were left unburned.
"Sherlock…Sherlock…" He moved cautiously, trying not to stir too much feature in fear of getting his sight blocked. "Where were you?"
Then he saw a slight bulge of feathers near the other end of the corridor. John began to run to it. "Sherlock!" He found the lifeless body underneath. "Sherlock." John pulled him back the way he came, knowing the nearer door must be blocked from the other side.
"Sherlock! Can you hear me?" He shouted again and again, not realizing tears dripping down his face. "Sherlock! Talk to me!"
Once they were out of the hell-like corridor, John realized Sherlock was in the protection dress. Much relieved by this finding, he dragged off the mask and tested his breath. Nothing. Heart beats, very faint.
Without any hesitation, John pushed Sherlock's head backwards to keep the air tube wide open. Then he pressed on Sherlock's chest in regular heart beat pace for 20 times. "Sherlock!" No response. John leaned over to give him rescue breathing. Then another 20 presses, then another rescue breathing. John could not help to repeat this in mind, "This man is alive, still alive. I can bring him back, I know." A protection dress is not enough to shield people from explosion, but should be enough from burning feathers. All what he needed was more oxygen.
After the forth rescue breathing, John detected a shallow breath from Sherlock. He carried on the aid for the fifth time, and made sure that Sherlock was breathing again.
John sat backwards on his own feet, "Sherlock, can you hear me? Talk. Don't fall asleep." His finger trembled with relief, and reached to the phone.
"Lestrade, I find Sherlock. He needs an ambulance." He looked down at Sherlock's face, surprised to see the detectives' eyes open.
"A blanket, if he insists I get shocked." Sherlock whispered, his lips moved with great difficulty.
"You are the single most stupid person I've ever known." After a while, John found his voice back, and trying to contain as much anger as possible in it, instead of pure joy.
Sherlock smiled faintly, "You could tell."
When the ambulance came, Sherlock could already sit up by himself. He wore an orange blanket.
"A fake death and a fake mistake, then a fake case." John shouted at him, "I'd never believe you. And I don't only mean your word."
"Don't be that harsh." Sherlock lifted up his blanket slightly, "See, I'm in a blanket, I get shocked."
"Ok, all right." John strode away without looking back, "I'd send Donovan and Anderson here to take pictures."
When he was sure no one was looking, John buried his face in hands, swiping off joyful tears. Then he pulled himself together and walked back, Donovan and Anderson were already there taking phones. Sherlock winked at him as if knowing why he was away
"Damn it." John couldn't help a smile on lips.