"Sherlock!" John hissed.
Sherlock smiled, "I'm very glad to see you, John. I wasn't entirely sure you'd wouldn't just ignore my texts. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd shut the door on me forever."
"No," John said shaking his head and smiling sadly. "I don't think I'll ever be able to ignore you again. But, I don't think now is the time…" John said trying to change the subject. They needed to figure a way to extradite themselves from their current predicament.
"It's always the time, John. You coming here to help me," Sherlock paused a moment, "It makes me regret everything I've ever thought or done to you. No listen!" Sherlock cut him off before he could protest. His voice rose as a red flush began to infuse his face. "I'm through worrying about what others…" and here he glanced at Moriarty, "think about what I do or do not care about. I CARE about you, John. I want to find a way back to where we were and start over."
"Sherlock, I care about you too. When Mycroft's team lost you…I had only one thought, I must get to you. I had to help you somehow. I think we can do that. We can start over," and John smiled his first genuine smile in a long time. "If anyone can do it, we can, but we've got to get out of this mess first."
The sudden look of hope that passed over Sherlock's face made John sure again. He couldn't help the warm feeling of fondness that rushed through him at that look. If Sherlock meant it, if he really could feel empathy then, they could move on, maybe even move on together.
"John," Sherlock said squirming suddenly.
"Don't, you'll tighten the ropes," John said worriedly. But Sherlock kept squirming. "I've got a lock picking kit….in my shoe. He managed to worm one of his expensive, black shoes off his foot. "If I can kick it over to you, you can pick your lock and free me."
Hope sprung in John's mind. "Yes, try Sherlock."
There passed a tense few minutes where Sherlock tried to twist his foot into a good position. He had such limited room to move and John could tell the tightening ropes were becoming painful. Soon, they'd be too tight for Sherlock to move at all. They had one chance at this…. Sherlock stopped to regroup for a moment. Then, he maneuvered the chair leg so it pinched the toe of his sock and began tugging his foot free of his sock. It took a bit, but he finally pulled it free. The bonds were cruelly tight now. Using his toes, he grabbed the opening of his shoe. Using his whole body, he whipped forward suddenly and tossed the shoe in John's direction. Moriarty's eyes tracked every movement and narrowed when the shoe landed just out of the reach of John's foot. John groaned. He had to lengthen himself somehow. Then, an idea occurred. He toed off his own shoe and sock. Using his own toes to grip the opening of his shoe, he used it as a tool to try to drag Sherlock's shoe toward him.
It occurred to him that had he been able to watch himself doing this, he'd have laughed himself sick. Absurdity followed him even to the bitter end, he thought.
Sweat began to run down his chest as he increased his effort to use his shoe to capture Sherlock's. Finally, the boat lurched sideways and the shoe rolled fortuitously toward John's outstretched foot. One of the laces of Sherlock's shoe caught in the tongue of John's trainer and felt it move toward him. Sherlock's sharp inhale encouraged him to keep a slow but steady pressure on his shoe so he didn't lose it. He had no idea when Captain Wells would make another appearance so he just kept at it.
Eventually, he hooked one bare toe into Sherlock's enormous, leather shoe and pulled it toward him. He had to contort himself wildly to get the shoe up to his handcuffed hands. But again, where there was a will, there was a way as he remembered his Mum saying to him as a boy. He had great will.
He found the lock picking kit encased in the heel, and he used the little tools to get himself free under the intense gaze of two geniuses. He felt an audible relief when he heard the cuffs click open. In a second he was up and rubbing his shoulder and trying to get the kinks out of his legs. He hurried over to Sherlock and began working the knots loose. He wished he had something to cut them with but Wells had taken his pocketknife. Sherlock nodded to a small desk in the corner of the room. "Try in there, John. See if there is anything,."
John hurried over to the desk and yanked open drawers looking for anything sharp. He found an ornate letter opener that looked promising, but ran a finger over the edge. Dull as a drainpipe. He pocketed it unthinkingly and kept rooting around in the drawers. To his amazement, he found a pair of surgical shears and a roll of gauze. Jackpot, he thought. Shears were designed to cut through clothing and these looked a sturdy pair. He hustled back to Sherlock and used the shears to cut the rope binding Sherlock's arms to the chair. Freed, he began clawing at the ropes around his wrists and John knelt down between his legs to work on the ropes around his ankles. His nose, only inches away from Sherlock's crotch, breathed in the musky scent of the man. Unconsciously, he drew in the deep, unmistakable smell of Sherlock; it calmed him. He kept working on the knots. Free from his bounds, Sherlock stood up unsteadily. He'd been sitting for a long time and he wobbled a bit as he stood.
"Careful, take it slow," John warned.
Sherlock used the wall as a support to make his way across the room until he stood in front of Moriarty. He looked down on the man, eyes unreadable.
"Sherlock!" John hissed again. "What are you doing?"
The detective stood in front of Moriarty swaying slightly, staring down at the cursed wretch who'd caused him no end of pain. John could see the desire kill him etched in every line in Sherlock's face. It seemed he'd reached a decision and had begun to move his hand forward when they heard the shuffling footsteps behind the door Wells had left through earlier. Wells was armed, while they were not. John scuttled quickly toward the deck door. Locked of course; he couldn't budge it. Then he saw the number panel. Panicking, he tried to think of the blasted code. He had only seconds before Wells would be on them when the five digits floated into his memory and he keyed in: six, six, two, one, two. The door disconnected from the frame with a satisfying whump and the two men were through just as they head the other door open.
John reached behind and grabbed Sherlock's wrist in case he still felt unsteady. He forcefully drug Sherlock up the steps. They made it to the top and opened the outside door. It nearly wrenched free of John's grip. In the time it had taken to get free of the ropes, Wells had driven them right into the heart of the storm. Rain swept down almost sideways. A fierce wind blew the door back into them nearly driving them back down the stairs. John put his shoulder to it and Sherlock helped. Together, they pushed it open and clambered onto the water-soaked deck. John looked wildly around for cover and pulled on Sherlock's arm again as he found a suitable hiding place. They dashed toward a solid, metal square box that housed some piece of nautical equipment. Just as long as it provided some kind of cover from Wells' gun, John didn't care what it was.
They crouched down behind their cover. The sea storm blew cold rain into their heads and faces. Water began trickling down John's neck under his collar. But he stayed as still as possible, willing himself to calm down and walk through his combat training. Stay under cover, look for exits, watch all vantage points, look for any possible lines of shot from other angles. But, Wells never followed them. In fact, Wells had had other plans. After waiting over five minutes, John decided to break cover and scout out the backside of the boat. "Wait here," he mouthed in Sherlock's ear.
However, when he moved, Sherlock followed right behind him. "Git," he said under his breath and heard a low chuckle from behind him.
They stayed low and moved quickly toward the back of the deck. They were horribly exposed for most of the trek. The back of John's neck prickled as he imagined Wells taking aim from somewhere, and picking them off. But, when they reached the back of the deck and John peeked cautiously around the corner, he understood why the reason they had not heard the sharp retort of gunfire. Wells had come up on deck from the other door and now he had Moriarty at gunpoint. The pair stood in the driving rain facing each other. Moriarty slouched unsteadily, shoulders slumped and head down. His movements seemed sluggish. Perhaps having the rope so tightly around his neck for so long and caused permanent brain damage. Rain dripped off his short hair and even the tip of his nose. He looked beaten, but something told John that the spider only shammed.
Wells' hand held steady as he aimed between the soft, brown eyes of the man responsible for his beloved husband's death. Sherlock's warm breath ghosted over John's ear as came forward to put his face around the corner. They could do nothing but witness the scene set before them. If they moved from their cover, Wells would see them and shoot. Moriarty would jump him and then he'd be armed. An armed Wells was the lesser of two evils.
When John thought back over the few moments, he remembered seeing everything in a slow motion. Wells' unoccupied hand crept up in that gesture of pain he'd shown earlier causing the hand with the gun to dip slightly and Moriarty used that fraction of a second to lunge forward in an attempt to disarm his would be executioner. Wells jerked his gun arm back up and John heard a pop. Moriarty's head snapped back and a spray of blood shot out from the back of his head and fell in a no-nonsense, little patter on the wet deck behind him. His knees bent and he slumped down in a crumple, falling face first into the deck.
Then, time sped up. John surged forward and Sherlock grabbed a fist full of his jacket to keep him from running forward. "No, John," Sherlock said fiercely and yanked the doctor backward. He wrapped long arms around John to keep him from running into danger. Sherlock understood what was about to happen next, even if John didn't. Wells looked down at the limp form of Moriarty and shot him in the head again taking off almost the top portion of the man's skull. Blood and brains sprayed up and spattered onto the bottoms of Wells's cargo pants. John heard one more shot as Wells put another bullet between the shoulder blades of Moriarty's corpse. In the state he was in, John wondered if he'd have shot anyone coming toward him, and was thankful Sherlock had the presence of mind to keep him from such a stupid impulse to move into that line of fire.
Sherlock still held John tightly when the dying ex-husband of Tyler Wells turned the gun around, placed the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger one last time.