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Heart of Glass

A game-changer. Nothing more.

Sherlock pursed his lips. Yet, Moriarty was right: his plan had hinged on Mycroft and perfect timing, and his dear brother had ruined it thoroughly. Neither he nor Mycroft had a contingency plan.

He wondered how much time he had left. Moriarty was certainly in a hurry to carry out his plan: the quick end to their encounter was testimony to that, and despite his nonchalance, he was afraid of Sherlock's threat to alert MI6 to the bomb. Moriarty needed his plan to succeed – he needed to show the world that he was alive, back in business and better than before. Blowing up the Shard would announce his return with a big bang. Failure was not an option. But first, he needed to get away far enough to safely detonate the bomb via remote control. Using his phone, most likely.

So, he had a minimum of thirty minutes. Hopefully more.

Still, finding the bomb, bringing in experts and defusing it would take longer than that. Much longer. If they were extremely efficient, they might just manage to evacuate part of the building. Not the whole thing. And never the surrounding area.

Sherlock idly wondered what the Shard would like like, blown to pieces. A lot like the twin towers, he mused, but it depended on where the bomb was and how big the detonation would be. Given Moriarty's expertise, it was more likely that this entire area of London would be erased from the map.

He frowned. Would London Bridge still be there? Without it, the traffic would be a nightmare.

Unacceptable.

There was only one way to stop the detonation: get hold of the remote-control. Which was undoubtedly in the hands of Moriarty. Quite literally.

Therefore, he was in a hurry, but all he could do was wait.

There was something else that was making his current predicament hell: John. He worried about him – if Mycroft had followed him, it meant John was nearby, and thus in grave danger. And there was nothing he could do about it – not yet, anyway. First, he had to rescue bloody meddling Mycroft.

The thought was less than appealing, particularly since he was not prepared for it; his escape plan had not included extracting his stupid brother from Moriarty's claws. Not even the fact that Mycroft would be mortified and indebted to him for the rest of his life made the venture more attractive. Really, it would all be so much more fun if John were here.

Moriarty was right, he was just not the same without his blogger. Friend, he corrected himself. No, even that term was insufficient. Heart. That was it. Again, Moriarty had seen right through him, as early as the pool incident, and he had set about burning his heart out with stunning efficiency.

Hateful. All of it.

Still waiting.

A constant tingling in his throat.

Sherlock sat down and wriggled into a slightly more comfortable position – as far as possible, given that he was handcuffed to a metal rail. He suddenly became aware of how cold it was – the top of the Shard was open, allowing rain, wind and fog to find their way to the observation deck, chilling him to the bone. He was stuck, the adrenaline rush had worn off and the lack of food and sleep hit him with a vengeance now. His lungs seemed to be constricted, punishing every deep breath with a stabbing pain and torturing him with a constant urge to cough – surely, this was the worst time for the bloody pneumonia to manifest itself. Just his luck.

Suddenly, his ears picked up a sound above the wind and city noise: a bump, the chink of metal, rubber squeaking. Then, a rope flying over the railing, landing only a few feet away from him, followed by scrabbling and a loud curse. Sherlock lifted his head expectantly, looking up into a weathered face with a tooth-gaped mouth grinning at him.

"Glaziers are here!"

"For God's sake, at least call Mycroft Holmes and check with him!" John glared at the two security guards, broad-chested and tall as trees, who just stared back blankly. He might as well have talked to a cupboard. With the difference that a cupboard would not have held on to him with a vice-like grip.

He was standing outside the Shard, at the bottom of the escalators leading up to the building. The construction was a lot less impressive when you were underneath it, he thought – just a strange big chunk of glass. Or a gigantic toothpick. The moment he had tried to enter the building, he had been apprehended by the security guards – someone had obviously informed them he was coming. Moments later, a black car had pulled up and two dark-suited men had emerged, undoubtedly Mycroft's. The man himself had not deigned to show his face, however, but John had caught a glimpse of his PA, so Mycroft was bound to be here.

John tried his persuasion skills again, but in vain. He sighed in relief when several police cars pulled up, followed by Lestrade's grey BMW.

"John!" The DI jumped out and ran across the plaza towards him, several officers in tow.

"Greg! Good, oh good, I'm having a bit of trouble here," John huffed, pointing at the two burly security guards. "These gentlemen are extremely stubborn. It seems Mycroft's men caught up with me. Should've known he'd have me followed. Listen, apparently Mycroft's arrived in the meantime, didn't bother to speak to me though – I bet he's gone up to the top of the Shard, probably speaking to Sherlock right now. This isn't going to end well – and I don't even want to think about what happens if Sherlock's right and the bomb is somewhere in the building."

"Any clues?" The DI rasped.

John shook his head. "I have no idea where, my guess is that if it's there, it's in the basement or the foundations or even the elevator shafts – wherever the structural damage will be biggest. We have to evacuate the building – actually the whole area! And we have to find the bloody thing!"

"Why isn't Mycroft on to it?!" Lestrade yelled, yanking out his phone.

"He thinks the Tube's the target – doesn't believe Sherlock."

"But you do?"

"When has he ever been wrong, Greg?"

"Damn." Lestrade fiddle with his phone and cursed when it refused to work. He turned back to John. "I've alerted MI5 as soon as you called me. The cavalry's just riding in – this can't be handled by a normal bomb squad if it's really a nuclear warhead. They're already here, but we're trying to keep this as low-profile as possible. The last thing we need is a panic! God, if Sherlock's right, we're in a hell of a mess!"

"Tell me about it. Greg, I need to speak to Sherlock. Listen, please call Mycroft, or convince those two bullies to let me go!"

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade frowned and held up his badge. "Back off, guys, you've done your job."

The two looked at each other, then nodded and withdrew. In the meantime, Lestrade cursed loudly, stabbing at his phone. "Can't get through to Mycroft. Can't get through to anyone, actually."

Now it was John's turn to curse.

"Sir!" A young officer came running, holding up his walkie-talkie.

"What is it?" Lestrade growled.

"Sir, we have a communication problem. We can't reach anyone on the upper floors. Someone's jammed all signals – this looks like military technology, if you ask me, Sir."

"The bomb squad's doing?" Greg looked at John, perplexed.

"No, why would they do that?" John shook his head.

"But who's got military technology? If not MI5?" Lestrade looked around, at a loss.

John blanched, a chill running through him. "I can think of someone."