Lighting Fires

Well, here comes Sherlock, just in time... as usual.

I was inspired to get on with this chapter after watching the Crime Thriller Awards here the UK, at which Sherlock, Benedict and Martin won in their categories - way to go, guys! As Benedict said: Emmys, who needs 'em! Oh, and I can report that Martin was looking... gooooood! Benedict won for Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy too, so he had an amazing night.

I will thank all you wonderful reviewers in more detail in the next chapter, but just to say... your comments mean a lot. And I really mean that. I've loved writing this story, but I'm not that experienced a writer and am in awe of so many far greater writers in this fandom, so it's always good to hear that someone else has enjoyed reading my effort!

Inspired by the song Fires by Ronan Keating

Just a quick comment on Sherlock's interrupted anecdote about the Dalai Lama. It's true - he did attend a global spirituality conference at Oxford University in the 1980s, and my husband was an undergraduate at that time and got to meet him and Mother Teresa too. Sadly, Mycroft was not present.

Disclaimer : not mine, no money


John's initial reaction on seeing the famous consulting detective for the first time in over three years is... but this cannot possibly be Sherlock.

He strains his neck looking over his shoulder at his long-absent friend, who has just strolled through the door as if he's on a social visit.

Sherlock's curly hair has been cut brutally short in an amateurish matter – almost as if someone has just hacked at it with a pair of blunt scissors - and it's been dyed a strange mixture of partially washed-out red and brown. He's dressed in tatty jeans that look as if they've come from a charity shop and are ridiculously short on him, finishing a couple of inches above his bony ankles. His shoes look as if they're about to fall apart – the soles are split and they look if they're only being held together by ratty string acting as shoelaces. He's wearing no socks and his feet are filthy. He's wearing a dirty and badly torn hoodie, which is too short in the arms. Underneath it, John can see a jumper that he recognises as one of the ones he packed in the backpack, although, in his memory, it was light blue instead of grey.

Never particularly well-fleshed, Sherlock is now bone-thin, as evidenced by his skinny ankles and wrists and the fact that the jumper, which John picked out deliberately to fit him, is hanging loosely on his frame. His nose looks as if it has been broken and poorly set at some point, and he has a long silvery scar down his left cheek, running from just below his eye to the back of his jaw. John doesn't have to be a doctor to see that the scarring is likely to be permanent.

And he stinks. John's nose wrinkles involuntarily as Sherlock moves towards him.

It's a serious comedown for the sharply-dressed detective, with his designer suits, dramatic coat and bespoke shoes, and as Sherlock glances at him with an apparent air of unconcern, John detects just a trace of embarrassment in those strange, otherworldly eyes.

All in all, it's surprising that he recognises him so quickly. It's even more surprising that Sebastian Moran clearly has no doubt as to the newcomer's identity.

The gun falls away from John's face as Moran takes a step back, his face ashen.

"But…but… you're dead!"

"Well, obviously not." John notes that Sherlock hasn't lost his acerbic tone – that ability to convey utter contempt in just a few well-chosen words.

"But how…? I saw you fall. I was watching."

"Really? Exactly what did you see? As I recall, you were employed to watch – in fact, to kill – Dr Watson." Sherlock moves forward, disregarding the gun, his eyes steadily focused on Moran. Apart from that one casual glance, he is paying no attention to John whatsoever. "And yes, you saw me fall, but in fact you did not see me land."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The words sound hostile, but John sees Moran's eyes narrow with interest rather than anger, and he lowers his gun, while keeping it still cocked. His attention is reserved purely for Sherlock now – John gets the strong impression that he is no longer of the remotest interest to Sebastian Moran. For once in his life, he doesn't much mind being ignored in favour of his more charismatic friend.

"Tell me, Moran, why do you suppose I asked Dr Watson to stand where he did?" Sherlock's voice is light, perfectly casual - or so it would seem. John frowns a little; this is not Sherlock's usual style when faced with a criminal… but then, what's normal for Sherlock after three years of living in obscurity, danger and squalor? He's not able to examine his face for any clues regarding a possible plan of action, as the detective has stepped straight past him and is keeping his back towards John.

"Presumably so that he would get a good view," Sebastian sneers, not looking at John.

"Not true," Sherlock replies, calmly. "It was so that you would see me fall…but would not see me land. I was able to deduce your likely location without actually seeing you. From where you were positioned, with your focus on my colleague, you would only get a fleeting glimpse of my falling body. The distance between Dr Watson and my fall was such that you were unable to keep your eyes on both at once. And, of course, the building that he was positioned by prevented him – and you – from getting a good view of my supposed landing place."

"I see." Moran smiles slowly with something like admiration. "Very clever, Mr Holmes."

"Hardly," replies Sherlock, in his 'I'm talking to a fool' voice, and John has to suppress a grin despite the seriousness of their current position. He's acutely aware of the fact that Sherlock appears to be unarmed in the presence of an unhinged individual with a gun and a serious case of trigger finger… and that he is currently unable to be of any help whatsoever.

He's also a little confused by Sherlock's actions. The detective is currently standing slightly in front of him and slightly to the right, with his hands behind his back. He's moving them in an odd manner – they are close together, thumbs pressed against each other and wrists touching, but the fingers of his right hand are curled up and twitching just above his wrist.

It takes John a ridiculously long time to realise that Sherlock is imitating his own tied hands, and that he's instructing John to use his fingers to pull on a loose end of rope situated just above his right wrist. John focuses carefully on Sherlock's fingers and clumsily tries to imitate the twisting motion that the detective is demonstrating. He feels the knot beginning to give very slowly… slowly…

"So, Mr Holmes, where have you been for the past three years?"

"I suspect you know perfectly well where I have been."

Moran laughs. "I can't deceive you, can I? Of course I know. Moriarty's remaining empire – well, well...impressive. Very impressive."

Again, John is struck by Moran's lack of empathy for his former employer. He wonders at the mentality of a man who will stay his trigger finger on Moriarty's say-so, not once but twice, despite his murderous intentions… and yet will show not the remotest interest in that man's death. Was he always this mad, even during those days in Bastion? How the hell had he got through the army's numerous psychiatric assessments?

But then he'd fooled John too, hadn't he? He'd fooled them all.

John had been nervous of him following the Rob Marshall incident but prior to that, he remembered being charmed by the colonel's bright, admiring smile when it was directed at him at a firing range during basic training. Moran had an innate ability to make people like him and want to please him – so much so that John had felt almost guilty about turning down the colonel's half-serious suggestion that he transfer from the medical corps into his own team due to John's skill as a marksman.

John watches now as that same smile is directed solely at the famous consulting detective who has just returned so dramatically from the dead. He had feared Moran's reaction to Sherlock's survival, but it's become clear that his captor has no murderous intentions... towards Sherlock, at any rate.

"Well, you have been busy, Mr Holmes, bringing down an international crime ring - apparently single-handed, too."

"As have you, it would seem." Sherlock's voice is perfectly neutral; no hint of condemnation, but no enthusiasm either.

"You surprise me." Moran's expression is increasingly calculating. It hasn't taken him long to get over his shock. "I should have thought you would have been too busy with your own battles to pay much attention to what was happening here in London. You realise, of course, that your activities have put your old colleague here into some danger."

Sherlock shrugs. "I had every confidence in Dr Watson's ability to look after himself. My colleague is a soldier, after all – and perhaps he is rather more accomplished than you give him credit for."

His voice is utterly cold and controlled, and John is confused by his constant reference to him as 'Dr Watson' and 'my colleague' instead of the more familiar 'John'. It's almost as if Sherlock is trying to distance himself from his friend… unless the language is being used to convey a message?

Sebastian throws John a dismissive look. "He received assistance from your brother, of course – he was hardly likely to survive alone. Moriarty's former associates have made several attempts on his life, thanks to your activities. It was just as well that your brother was vigilant, otherwise my game would have been rather short."

Again, Sherlock gives that dangerously negligent shrug.

"So…you were aware of my…activities." Moran folds his arms, apparently quite relaxed. However, John's eyes are on the still-cocked gun, now facing downwards. The firm grip and slightly twitching thumb worry him. Please, God, Sherlock don't taunt him. He's just looking for an excuse…but which one of us will be his victim?

"Indeed, I was perfectly aware. My network kept me informed, even while I was abroad, focused on other matters."

"Ah yes, the infamous Homeless Network." Moran gives an icy smile. "I must apologise for the death of one of its key members, but, as you see, your colleague Watson made it necessary. If he had not broken the rules of the game by going to your brother for help, she might still be alive. Ah, well - casualties of war, you understand."

"I see." Sherlock's voice is perfectly calm. John still cannot see where the detective is going with this. He seems content for the moment to allow Moran to lead the conversation; he's not breaking in with his usual quick-fire observations. It occurs to John that Sherlock may be playing for time – trying to give him the chance to free his hands.

If so, it's working well, if slowly. Sherlock's left hand is moving above his right, changing the angle and indicating another loose strand with his thumb and forefinger, and John is following suit. He can feel the knot weaken a little more. He should be able to slip his hands out any minute now… he has to suppress a wince as the rough rope rubs against his already raw wrists.

"The Homeless Network played a role in my game, didn't they?" Moran asks. "You instructed them to send the warnings to the police. About the murders."

Sherlock says nothing, but Moran goes on, emboldened by his guess. "If that's the case, why delay until it was too late? I assume you were able to deduce who the next victim would be… but clearly you were just too late on each occasion."

"I was…somewhat resource-limited," Sherlock admits, after a pause. John can detect the reluctance in his voice. If there's one thing the detective hates, it is having to confess to a failure.

"No doubt you were," Moran agrees. "Even with your brother's assistance. I presume you compiled the file that he eventually passed on to Watson, at your request?"

John's muscles tense. He has a sudden vision of Mycroft – the man he sat down with only 24 hours ago, a man who tried to convince John that he cared - as someone who has been aware of his brother's survival all this time. And he had the nerve to look directly into John's eyes... That complete, utter bastard. And there he was, feeling vaguely guilty about keeping Sherlock's own brother in the dark...

He has to force himself to breathe deeply and calm down, so he can carry on slipping the knot with the greatest of care.

Sherlock ignores this reference to his brother. "I was able to predict the victims and their likely order – that was obvious once I was in a position to hack into police computers. However, it was more difficult to predict the pattern, and thus the dates and locations. It was clever of you to keep them quite random."

There's just a smidgeon of grudging admiration in Sherlock's voice, and Sebastian preens in a way that sets John's teeth on edge.

"It's really quite a shame that I wasn't able to play this game with you instead of Watson. You would have made the last three years much more interesting."

"Your game would not have lasted three days, let alone three years, if I had been involved," Sherlock points out, acerbically. "And since Dr Watson was only called in by the police four days' ago, you can hardly blame him for not having solved the puzzle any sooner. In reality, you have spent a considerable amount of time taunting the police - and to little end, until Inspector Lestrade decided to consult my colleague."

John holds his breath, but Moran doesn't seem to take offence.

Sherlock continues: "Unfortunately, circumstances meant that I was only able to predict a murder very shortly before the event. I realised fairly early on that the common denominator was that the killings took place in locations not perfectly covered by CCTV. It was then a case of observing potential victims, matching them to such locations and working out exactly when they were likely to be alone there. Once I had a good grasp of their activities, I was able to deduce where the assault would take place and a possible time of day – or night. However, it was still difficult to predict exactly what date. I was only able to do so when your killer was spotted following them, at which point it was usually too late. My assumption was that, eventually, the police would arrive early enough to intercept the murderer, but progress was slow, particularly as I was often abroad and out of contact."

"So, when it became clear that Watson wouldn't back off, you no doubt advised your reluctant brother to provide the information he had requested," Sebastian comments. "I'm surprised you didn't force him to remove Watson from the equation altogether. I have no doubt that your brother would have been able to make the necessary arrangements… which would, of course, have been of the greatest disappointment to me."

"Why would I do that? You appear to be under the misapprehension that I lack confidence in Dr Watson's survival skills – and his ability to solve crimes."

There's a slight tension in Sherlock's shoulders as he replies, in that same light, neutral voice. John doubts that Moran will have noticed; he only does so because he is concentrating very carefully on Sherlock's body language. He's finally slipped his hands free and is bracing himself, ready to move at Sherlock's signal.

Moran laughs. "You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe." His eyes run over Sherlock with renewed interest. "Unless… am I missing something? You've never shown particular confidence in Watson's abilities in the past. Your attitude towards him is usually impatient – one might say dismissive. Certainly I have never detected any particular respect or admiration."

"You may not have detected any apparent respect," Sherlock comments, mildly. "After all, you have only seen me in public and it is not in my nature to display any emotion. It seems rather pointless, when my attention and energies can be far better deployed."

"And then, of course, caring is a disadvantage," Moran responds softly, with a slightly mocking glance towards John. "You said so yourself."

Sherlock is silent for a moment. Then: "I must congratulate you, Moran. You seem to know me very well."

Moran looks triumphant, but John hardly spares him a glance. Come on, Sherlock, come on…

"However," the detective continues, "- my friend John knows me rather better."

The emphasis couldn't be more obvious. It's the signal John's been waiting for. He tenses his thigh muscles, gripping the chair in his shaking hands.

"Vatican cameos!"

Sherlock dodges instantly to the right as John jumps up, throwing himself forward. Sebastian Moran has the barest moment to react, to bring his gun into position, before John brings the chair over his head and hurls it with as much strength as he can muster straight at the colonel's head.

His aim is imperfect and only strikes Moran's shoulder, but it is enough to force his arm backwards and send the gun flying to the corner of the room. The lithe ex-soldier is almost knocked off his feet but is already recovering his balance as John follows with a better-aimed punch, into which he channels all the fury that his captor's insults have aroused.

Moran's chin flies up at the impact of John's fist and he is flung back against the wall, blood spurting from his mouth. John is already surging towards him, drawing back his fist once more, when Sherlock grabs his arm and drags him towards the door.

"Sherlock, the gun!" He squints into the dark corner where it fell, trying to spot it.

"Leave it – no time," Sherlock orders, his hand gripping John's wrist as he more-or-less hauls him out of the door and down the dark passageway towards the open front door. "He has back-up on the way – I saw him send a warning code from his mobile in his pocket."

The detective stops abruptly and John careens into him, almost knocking them both off balance. Sherlock seems to be listening intently.

Then: "Too late. Back, back – to the back door, quickly!"

As Sherlock pushes him back along the passageway, John hears running feet coming from the street at the front. He runs straight past the door, not stopping to look for Moran, with Sherlock on his heels. He guesses that, like most of these old Victorian properties, there'll be a kitchen at the back with a garden door. He takes a chance on the door at the end of the passageway and gets lucky – at the back of the empty kitchen that he finds himself in, there's a door leading into the garden. John hurls himself at the door, praying that it isn't locked, but in fact the rotten wood simply gives way with the impact.

Once outside, Sherlock sprints past on his longer legs, vaulting the fence at the far end of the garden with his usual effortless grace. John, cursing in a way that feels all-too-familiar, follows him. He tenses his muscles and somehow manages to scramble over. He lands a little awkwardly, wincing at the impact on his knees.

"Come on, John. At least try to keep up."

"Easy for you to say," he mutters, as he follows the lanky shadow across the rough ground of another garden. He can hear the heavy breathing of someone running fast behind - this more than anything else gives him the impetus he needs to pick up his heavy feet.

The garden is overgrown and the going is awkward. Ahead of him, he can see the detective making for the road just beyond the unlit house, which looks derelict. Once again, he stops unexpectedly, then backs up quickly and dodges back around the house.

"Armed man coming from the front," he mutters.

"And another behind," John replies, resignedly. He glances over his shoulder, but there's no one to be seen. Unlikely to be Moran, though – he'd be lighter on his feet and would certainly have caught up by now.

"Hmm. They're cutting us off. Quick - over here." Sherlock darts across a weed-strewn patio towards a door with the upper window smashed in. He climbs through the open window frame, John following as closely and as quietly as possible.

It's pitch-dark inside, and John backs up, reaching behind him with one hand to find the side wall while grabbing at Sherlock's torn top with the other. Having located a wall, he backs along it, pulling Sherlock with him while feeling for a doorway. His foot knocks against an object on the floor.

"Shh." Sherlock pulls on his arm, forcing him to stop. The detective's face is silhouetted by the faint light coming through a nearby window, and John can see that his head is cocked slightly to the left, listening intently. Quiet footsteps can be heard crossing the patio.

A torch is shone through the broken patio door and flashed around the room. John freezes against the wall. In his current position, he's more-or-less hidden behind Sherlock, which is probably just as well, as his lightish jacket would stand out, unlike Sherlock's dark hoodie.

The light flashes briefly across their wall and John holds his breath. Sherlock stands as still as a stone. It returns again once and then moves away before withdrawing altogether. They hear footsteps retreating across the patio and a quiet discussion between two men, which fades in volume as they move away.

Sherlock moves silently, crab-like, towards the window and peers out quickly before moving back towards John and putting his mouth close to his ear. "Two men. One going back around the front of the house; the other heading back across the garden."

"Towards Moran," John agrees.

"Yes. We don't have much time. Moran won't be so easily fooled – as soon as he gets here, he'll realise exactly where we are."

"Come on, this way." John backs along the wall again. "Maybe we can find a way out of the front door without being seen?"

"No, no – we need to get up high. Look for some stairs."

"What are you on about? Sherlock, we need to get away from here," John whispers frantically, but Sherlock darts in front of him and pulls his arm urgently.

"Here – up here. Quickly!"

They stumble up some rickety steps. The loud creaks and the degree of give in the rotting wood unnerve John. He hesitates on the first floor landing, half-expecting the floor to give way, but Sherlock urges him on along a passageway, and then up some steep wooden steps at the far end.

The steps lead into an attic, lit dimly both by a skylight and by slatted gaps in the roof itself. Sherlock pushes a wooden crate under the skylight, steps on it and stands on tiptoe to open the window.

"Here – give me a lift up," he urges, and John makes a step with his hands for the detective's foot. He braces himself, pushing Sherlock up until he grabs the edges of the sill and pulls himself up out of sight.

He reappears almost immediately, leaning dangerously low to grab John's hands and pull him up until the doctor can find enough purchase to scramble out onto the roof.

It doesn't strike him as a particularly safe position. There's a fair chance that Sebastian has snipers posted around the area, and they are very exposed here on the rooftop. And the roof tiles are slippery with rain and dangerously loose – one clatters noisily to the ground as Sherlock scrambles up the steep slope towards the chimney. John notices that his friend is struggling to find a grip with his worn shoes; he himself is finding the going easier in military-style boots with a good grip.

He just hopes that Sherlock has made the right decision because, right now, they're sitting ducks. It's too much to hope that Sebastian won't work out where they've gone.

Sherlock crawls to the top of the roof and works his way around the chimney, until he is out of view of the skylight. John sighs and follows him, after a cautious glance towards the window. When he sinks down beside the detective, he notices that Sherlock is fiddling with a wristwatch on his bony wrist.

"Activating a signal," he explains at John's questioning look. "Mycroft's agents can home in on it. That's why we needed to be high up, to reduce interference. Much as it pains me to admit it, we may require my dear brother's help."

"Yeah, well I suppose it didn't occur to you that it might be useful to bring a gun?" John is suddenly quite furious. This is so typical of the Sherlock he remembers - to go bowling into danger without backup or any apparent plan to get out again unscathed.

Sherlock huffs out a breath of irritation. "Well, forgive me for being focused on getting to you before Moran's gun went off. It's not as if I had much notice."

"Well, forgive me, but it sounds as if you've had plenty of support from your dear brother over the last three years," John snaps back. "I suppose he told you where to find me?"

"As a matter of fact, no, he didn't. He contacted me earlier to indicate that one of those fools he employs had lost sight of you somewhere around Battersea Park Station." Sherlock mutters this through his teeth; he sounds utterly furious. John wonders whether he's been forced by the circumstances to break his cover… and he also wonders exactly how much of a role Sherlock has played in Mycroft's surveillance of him during the last three years. "I had to mooch around the area, trying to work out where you'd got to, until I received the intelligence - and I use that word lightly in relation to the imbecile concerned - that your old friend Bill Murray had recently been seen hurrying out of Weston Street. After that, it was easy to track you down - naturally."

"Oh, naturally," John snipes back, then stops, listening to himself and shaking his head in disbelief. "Oh, for Christ's sake, this is crazy. You've just come back from the dead after three years, and here we are on a roof, probably in full view of some of the best snipers in the world… and we're bickering?"

Sherlock is looking around, his eyes darting over the nearby rooftops, checking for any movement. "Well, in point of fact, I believe you are bickering. It's obvious that you're trying to provoke some kind of confrontation. And while I do not deny that some explanations are required, I'm not entirely sure that you have the best timing, John."

John opens and closes his mouth a few times, in utter disbelief.

The detective frowns. "I'm assuming that you found out fairly soon afterwards that my death was faked? After all, I left enough clues…surely?"

John sighs. "No, Sherlock. You left enough clues for you. We lesser mortals sometimes require a bit more help. If I hadn't spotted your coat in the graveyard that day, I'd probably still have been none the wiser. You really are a complete and utter wanker, you know that, don't you?"

"Probably," Sherlock agrees, with just a glint of humour in his eyes.

"It might have helped if you'd sent me a message or two. Anything, really – just word-of-mouth via your network would have done. After all, you knew that I'd found out – you must have done, since my bag obviously got to you." He nods at Sherlock's jumper.

Sherlock looks a little confused. "I did send you messages. Didn't you see the flames?"

John visualises the blue flames that matched his own red symbol perfectly. "So, Raz was right – they really were painted by you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "No, John, they were painted by the Dalai Lama. Now that's an interesting man, unlike your old army pal down there, who appears to have a rather inflated ego. I had an opportunity to stay with him in India last year while hiding from some rather nasty individuals who seemed a little unhappy with me." He grins, reminiscently. "He told me about a most amusing prank he played on Mycroft during an international spirituality conference at Oxford University – my brother was an undergraduate at the time and it seems that -."

"Um, Sherlock, I'm not sure this is the best time for Mycroft-related anecdotes. We're currently sitting on the sliding roof tiles of a house that's probably been condemned, being hunted down by a psycho with a gun who wants to kill me and crown you king of his personal empire of nuttiness."

"And your problem is?" asks Sherlock, casually.

They stare at each other in silence for a moment… and then both burst into shaky laughter. Or, at least, Sherlock laughs and John lets out a slightly hysterical giggle that he will later try to deny.

"I'm just trying to lighten the atmosphere," Sherlock counters. "I've been told that it can help in certain situations."

"Not in this one," John mutters. He remembers something else, and feels his shoulders tensing again. "Did he… did Mycroft know? From the start, I mean?" He tries to sound casual, but can tell that he's failed.

Sherlock pauses in his eagle-eyed perusal of the rooftops to give John a sideways, slightly uncertain, look. "He didn't know at first. It took him about two months to find out. He had my phone, of course, and I'd left clues on it regarding my planned movements. I thought – I imagined - that you might get the mobile, and I hoped you might be able to work out at least some of the codes. But of course Mycroft sent in a clean-up crew to retrieve Moriarty, so the phone fell into his hands. I should have anticipated that."

He looks genuinely irritated by his perceived oversight, and John is struck afresh by the fact that the Holmes brothers are far more alike than they would probably care to realise.

"And he's been helping you bring down Moriarty's empire? And you're back now?" John observes his friend, carefully. "It is over – isn't it?"

Again, he gets another of those uncertain, darting glances. Sherlock, he realises, is less sure of his welcome than he wants to admit.

"It's not over quite yet. There are some loose ends that need tidying up -."

"Which Mycroft can do – surely?" John can't believe what he's hearing – surely Sherlock isn't planning to disappear again?

Sherlock hesitates. "Well, yes, he could."

John shakes his head, slowly. "But you won't let him, even now, will you? It's got to be by your hand... all of it."

It's not a question. Sherlock gazes out over the rooftops for a moment, and then he turns his head slowly, looking at John directly for the first time since walking in on him and Moran. "It won't be tomorrow, John, it might take a few weeks or longer…but I will come back." If you'll let me, is the unspoken proviso that lies between them.

John gives a short laugh. "Well, you'd better. This conversation is most definitely not over… and you still have a lot of explaining to do." And you will give me answers, he adds silently.

Sherlock's all-seeing eyes run over his face, clearly lingering on the gaunt features, the dark-ringed eyes that speak of sleepless nights and the bloodied dressing on his forehead. John flushes a little under the scrutiny and looks away… and then there's a crash in the house below them. It's the unmistakeable sound of a door being knocked down – Moran is clearly too enraged to bother about stealth… and, in any case, he must know that he has them cornered.

Sherlock grasps John's arm in a vice-like grip. "Not long enough," he whispers. "Mycroft's men won't make it in time – not to us, at any rate, although they should be able to apprehend the others. It looks like they've already taken out the snipers."

"And you've really got nothing – no gun?" John looks around, rather hopelessly, trying to spot a loose tile with a sharp edge in the absence of any other weaponry. "Jesus, Sherlock, how the hell did you manage to survive for three whole years without pissing off someone enough for them to take a pot shot at you?"

"Well, I have survived – and fairly unscathed too," Sherlock points out, defensively.

"That's a matter of opinion." John lets his eyes run over his friend's emaciated features and broken nose, noting old cuts and bruises. "Was it… how tough has it been?" he asks, gently.

Sherlock doesn't answer for a moment. One eyelid flickers rapidly before he responds in a considered, deliberate manner. "It was…tedious."

And that's quite clearly all that John is going to get, for now at least, but he can read between the lines. And what he observes in the thin, scarred face, the tense shoulders and the uneasy eyes is enough to make him press his shoulder very lightly against Sherlock's in an attempt at a comforting gesture. The detective tenses even more before pressing back against him just for an instant.

They freeze as they hear footsteps in the attic immediately below them. Sherlock puts a finger to his lips and then leans around the side of the chimney, looking towards the skylight just below them. There's a sound of crates being dragged across the floor – Moran can clearly see where they've gone and is trying to climb up unaided.

Sherlock turns back and starts to roll up one of his trouser legs. As John watches, a sports bandage comes into view, just below his knee, and the detective reaches inside and pulls out a small but lethal looking flick knife. Clearly he's not entirely unarmed.

He glances at John and makes a shushing gesture again, before moving onto his feet in a crouch, the opened knife clutched in his hand, listening very carefully to the sound of Moran climbing out of the skylight and onto the roof.

John looks down at his friend's dangerously pathetic footwear… and suddenly he sees it all, quite plain. He knows exactly what will happen if Sherlock scrambles down the slippery roof in those shoes to try to apprehend Moran.

And he knows that he can't see it again – he can't watch that body plummeting off the top of a building. Not again. Once was enough – more than enough.

He tenses his body and, just as Moran turns towards them, gun in hand, throws himself on top of Sherlock. He hears a startled oomph as he pushes Sherlock hard, down onto his stomach… then, without hesitation, he grabs the knife and half-runs half-slithers down the roof, launching himself at Sebastian Moran.

The full force of John's body sends the colonel slipping backwards towards the guttering. He braces himself and manages to find a firmer foothold at the bottom of the sloping roof. John grabs at the arm holding the gun and, for a moment that seems to last forever, the two men struggle for control of it.

Sebastian Moran might be the stronger, better trained fighter, but John has learnt plenty about street brawling during his time with Sherlock and is able to employ some underhand tactics. They're evenly balanced opponents and, as John kicks viciously at Moran's shins to undermine his balance, it becomes clear that he's slowly gaining the upper hand.

Moran teeters dangerously. His arm flies up and the gun goes off with a startlingly loud bang, in the direction of the chimney and … "Sherlock!"

John looks up in horror towards his friend as he shouts his name, his attention fatally diverted. Sebastian takes his opportunity, pulling his arm free and pushing his opponent back towards the edge of the roof.

As he feels his feet slipping on the edge, John has just a brief moment to think oh no you don't, you bastard – if I'm going, you're coming with me.

He puts his arms around Sebastian in a kind-of bear hug, holding his jacket in a tight grip. Moran's muscles tense and, for a moment, John thinks he will succeed in holding them both up. But then Moran's feet slip, he loses his precarious balance… and they are both over the edge, tumbling through the air.

He is dimly aware of Sherlock's frantic voice calling his name… and then they land together in a heap on the ground, Sebastian underneath him.

All the air is ripped from John's body by the shock of the impact, and he can do nothing but suck in precious oxygen with painful breaths for a couple of minutes. When he comes back to his senses, he discovers that he's lying with his head on Moran's chest and his right arm slightly underneath the other man's inert body. His first thought is that, somehow, he's managed to escape with very few injuries… and then a burning agony rushes up his arm into his shoulder, reminding him that he has, after all, just fallen from a two story building's roof onto a paved patio.

He lies still, trying to assess his injuries. Almost certainly a broken wrist and probably a couple of cracked ribs. And then there's the possible concussion from two separate bashes to his head earlier this evening. All in all, he could use a hospital right now...

All of a sudden, he's aware of the stillness of Moran's body. He can't see very well in the darkness, but he reaches up with his left hand and feels for the man's pulse in his neck. It's faint and thready - and even as his finger is pressed to the point, he can feel it slowing down. And then he makes another realisation. He's still clutching Sherlock's knife in his right hand…the hand that is currently just under Sebastian's left side, right beneath his ribs. He keeps his finger on Moran's pulse until it finally stops.

He grits his teeth and rolls off Moran; the action sending another wave of pain up his fractured wrist, still trapped underneath the other man's now-dead body. The resulting agony is so intense that he can't prevent the groan that escapes his throat.

"John? John!"

There's a flicker of light coming towards them. John tries to speak, but nothing emerges other than another low moan.

And then Sherlock is there, bending over him, the light from a fast-burning match making his eyes glitter in an odd, otherworldly manner as he stares down at John.

"John? Are you alright?"

The match burns down, and the detective's face fades into darkness once more.

John feels his lips tilting up into a faint smile in the darkness. Oh yes, our discussion is quite decidedly not over, Sherlock Holmes, he thinks to himself. And then he closes his eyes and feels the world slipping away.


Next time... John finally learns the truth... or, this being Mycroft, an approximation of it. And will Sherlock finally come home?