Riverside

John was sprinting across the bridge, the riverside buildings sparkling in the dark and the gloriously illuminated Tower Bridge on his right. He had no eyes for them. Neither did he feel his lungs or legs or the rain hitting his face – all exhaustion was gone and his gaze was fixed on the two men facing each other at the end of the bridge: two shadows in a fighting stance, pointing guns at each other.

Vaguely, he became aware of people running towards him, screaming, fleeing from the armed men. A delivery driver in a brown overall jumped into his path, screaming, "They're shooting!" – he shoved him aside. Civilians, he thought.

It was an eerie scene: with several street lamps cut down, the remaining lights had gone out. Some of the abandoned cars had their headlights turned on and their doors open, the owners having fled in panic; the illuminated buildings on the riverside emanated a faint glow, but apart from that the bridge was shrouded in darkness.

Sherlock and Moriarty were facing each other at gunpoint, both standing close to the railing, only a few feet apart. Sherlock, holding the gun with both hands, had his back to John, coat tails flapping in the wind. Moriarty held a small revolver in his left, trained at Sherlock's head; in his right, he had his phone, the screen glowing blue in the dark. His thumb was hovering over it, ready to press the button.

John slowed down, suddenly becoming hyper-aware of his surroundings: helicopters, emergency lights, traffic noise, boat engines, waves crashing, the smell of water, petrol and oil, granite glistening in the rain; and the police still not in sight.

"Stop where you are!" Sherlock's voice startled him, but he obeyed instantly, coming to an abrupt halt.

"You have a gun, John?"

For the fraction of a second, he wondered how Sherlock knew who was approaching without even glancing over his shoulder, but he was Sherlock. Probably had memorized the sound of his feet, his breathing pattern, his entire physical motion.

"I do, Sherlock, and it's currently pointed at James Moriarty." He feared his voice might fail him, but it was surprisingly steady.

"Good."

"Dr Watson, welcome back to the game! Yet again," Moriarty flashed a predatory grin. "I'm seriously annoyed that you cost me a fine suit, though." The side of his face and his throat was blood-smeared from where John's bullet had grazed his skin, and his suit was covered in dark stains. He dropped the smile. "If you've given me a scar, I'll skin you alive. You know people survive a long time if it's done properly." Every word rolled off his tongue with relish. "I'll nail your skin to the door of 221B and your raw flesh to the door of your new home. Think of what your wife's gonna say."

John swallowed, but Sherlock just drawled, "Oh, shut up."

"Make me," Moriarty hissed.

"I will." Sherlock's voice was deadly serious. "John, aim at his hand, the one with the phone. I'm aiming at his skull."

"What?" John's breathing suddenly sped up, and now he understood: they had reached stalemate.

Moriarty was ready to set off the bomb – all he needed to do was push the button on his phone. Even if Sherlock fired the gun and killed him, he still had enough time to detonate the bomb. All it took was one impulse from the brain to the hand, and that impulse would travel along the nerves down to the muscles, even as the brain that had given it was turning to a pulp. And of course Moriarty would shoot Sherlock simultaneously.

They would all end up dead. Unless he shot Moriarty in the hand, hoping he could make him drop the phone – thus preventing the explosion. But Sherlock would still die.

"John," Sherlock urged, gripping the gun even harder.

"STOP!" John bellowed. "No! This is not going to happen." John noticed how Sherlock's head made a tiny movement, surprised at his imperative voice. 'There. You're not the only one who knows how to give a command,' he thought. "Neither of you move."

"So, what now, Dr Watson?" Moriarty chuckled. "We're running out of time." The laughter abruptly stopped. "I'll blow up the Shard as soon as the police come within shooting distance. Or if you so much as make a move, both of you. Oh, and I will kill you, of course, Sherlock."

"I'll return the pleasure."

"You don't seem very keen on surviving." Moriarty raised his brows. "That takes so much fun out of the game."

"Your fault. You spoilt it."

Moriarty's face was expressionless. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock smirked. "That's the trouble when you destroy a man's life: he has nothing to lose."

"Oh!" Moriarty blinked, then grinned. "Oh, yes of course, Russia. How's your mind, by the way? And your senses? The headaches, the nausea, the sensitivity to touch, the flashbacks … I've heard your brother has made an appointment with the best PTSD specialist – only, you never showed up. Ah, but then I guess you were not happy with the lodgings." He chuckled. "Maybe you prefer to be in hell."

Sherlock smiled. "With you, certainly."

"I know, you promised," Moriarty said softly. "But then again … you would NOT make Dr Watson watch you die again. You know what it did to him last time." He shook his head, his face stretching into a concerned grimace.

Sherlock sighed with exaggeration. "You should know by now that I have inflicted every cruelty under the sun on poor Dr Watson."

"I'm here, you know," John grated, anger flaring up.

"Yes, and I want you to shoot his hand," Sherlock snapped.

"And he kills you. Nope."

"Collateral damage."

"Sorry, no way."

"John!"

"Shut up!"

Moriarty laughed. "God, this is precious! You two bickering over who's going to die! Jesus Christ, I love this!" He was serious in an instant. "Anyway. Enough now." Moriarty edged closer to the railing.

"You're not going to get away," Sherlock snarled. "Not alive. John, you must shoot at his hand. I'm going to-"

"NO YOU'RE NOT!" John yelled at the top of his voice. "I'm done being shoved around by you!" He dropped his voice to a dangerous snarl. "We're going to play this according to my rules."

"There's a boat coming, John," Sherlock spat. "He wants to get away, don't you see!" And indeed, the roaring engine of a speed boat was drawing nearer.

"Oh-kay," John said slowly, his mind racing. He clenched his jaw and hoisted the gun a fraction. "Okay, my turn to make a deal. Mr Moriarty, how about this: you give me the phone, I'll let you get away, the Shard remains intact, no one dies tonight."

Moriarty's face remained completely impassive, but his eyes virtually bored into him.

Sherlock hissed. "John, you can't do that. You can't."

"Yes, I can and I will."

"No! I will ignore your deal." Sherlock's breaths came fast. "What if he has another means to detonate the bomb?"

John swallowed hard. He hadn't even thought of that. "I don't think so," he slowly said. "What for?" He could see Sherlock's muscles along the jawline working frantically, his mind spinning, trying to outmaneuver him.

John acted on instinct before the brilliant intellect found a way to ruin his plan: with one swift movement, John placed himself in front of Moriarty, blocking Sherlock's line of fire. He was standing between them now, protecting the criminal. His heart was beating so hard it threatened to burst, but he would not watch Sherlock die.

"John!" The shock and hurt in Sherlock's voice wrenched his guts – 'treason,' John thought, 'he considers this treason.' "Sorry, Sherlock," he whispered and knew his friend would neither understand nor forgive.

Moriarty gasped. "Oh my, this is beautiful! Dear me, Dr Watson, you really do love him." He shook his head, blinking in disbelief. "Ah, Johnny boy, before you feel the need to remind the world, we do know you're not actually gay." He chuckled. "As if the realm of human affection were divided in sexual preferences."

"Give me the phone," John calmly held out his hand, his gun still pointed at the criminal. "I will stick to my word."

"I know you will," Moriarty grinned. His eyes darted back and forth between him and Sherlock, assessing, calculating. "Oh well," Moriarty suddenly shrugged, "I'll just have to blow up something else, then. Maybe the Tower. Much more of a challenge: centuries old brick and stone." He held out the phone, his thumb still hovering over the screen, displaying a Shard-shaped icon ready to be activated. One touch, one touch alone was enough – John forced his breathing under control. "Careful with that, Dr Watson," Moriarty drawled as he lowered the electronic device into his palm. He didn't let go yet, but pointed his small revolver directly at John's temple. "Need an insurance against Sherlock," he whispered, "otherwise he'll shoot me."

"I'll shoot you anyway," Sherlock growled, grabbing the gun tighter.

"No you won't!" Moriarty sang out, hoisting himself up on the broad metal rail of the bridge. The speed boat underneath roared, moving into position. "And now, Sherlock, step away from the rail. Off you go! A few meters will do, but I want to get down to that boat without a bullet in my head. You can keep aiming the gun at me. It's kind of sexy, actually. But don't forget: my target is Dr Watson."

Sherlock remained entirely still; John realised that he displayed no emotions at all – normally, there would have been small sings of distress, a trembling muscle or a slight frown, but now his face seemed frozen. Then, abruptly, he moved a few steps back, his eyes never leaving Moriarty's.

"A bit further, pleeease," Moriarty sneered.

John slowly released his breath, almost painfully aware of the revolver pointed at his temple. His own gun, aimed at Moriarty, would do him little good if the Consulting Criminal decided to shoot. He felt as if he was in a snake pit, desperately trying to avoid the poison fangs of all the creatures slithering around his ankles.

"Good bye, Sherlock," Moriarty drawled. "See you later."

And then it went wrong.

For a moment, John thought his plan might work. He had the phone, and Moriarty was about to jump down to the boat; the hunt could wait for another day and no one would die tonight.

Just then, the police finally made it to the scene. And it did so in the form of Sally Donovan, running ahead of DI Lestrade and all other officers, because she was younger and fitter and much more eager, and far less cautious.

Her voice boomed, "Don't move! Everyone stay put or I'll shoot!"

"Shit," John groaned. He had to grant her that she made an impressive sight; and she was certainly no coward. But she was also an idiot. 'That's it,' he thought, 'Moriarty's going to blow my brains out. Sorry, Sherlock.'

But instead, the Consulting Criminal moved at lightening speed, knocking the gun out of John's hand and striking him with his revolver, nearly bashing in his head. A resounding crack echoed through his brain and lights exploded in front of his eyes, making him dizzy and half-blind. He felt the phone being ripped from his fingers, and he instinctively tried to cling to it, but his arm was wrenched back painfully, a fist slamming into his bruised ribs, sending a jolt of searing pain through his system. Wheezing, he doubled over, completely helpless and momentarily blinded by pain.

There was a gunshot. But no screaming; he felt nothing beyond the screeching orchestra of pain in his body, no impact, so he was not hit. Probably a warning shot by Donovan.

His legs gave away, yet, he was not falling – rather, Moriarty was propping him up, using him as a living shield, holding him in an iron grip that made his damaged ribs scream; the spidery fingers clawed into his throat, restricting his breath just short of choking him.

"If you so much as move, Sherlock, he'll die!"

John tried to regain some control, but the pain and noise in his head were paralyzing him, threatening to pull him into unconsciousness. Through the fog, he heard Sally Donovan yell, "Don't move! Don't bloody move, all of you!"

"The phone," John squeezed out. "He's got the phone." He didn't know who he was saying it to and he didn't care either since he was about to pass out. Just, someone needed to get that bloody phone …

Through the haze he heard Sherlock shout – an animalistic roar that finally betrayed the emotions within. From the edge of his vision he saw Sherlock charge, pouncing like a big cat. Moriarty fired his gun, but Sherlock neatly avoided the shot, instead delivering an impressive kick to the criminal's ribcage.

John was abruptly released, his ears ringing from the gunshot; he crumpled to the ground and scrambled away on all fours, gasping for air, but he received a vicious kick in the side, sending him sprawling to the flagstones.

Vaguely, he became aware of Sally Donovan moving around the two men, pointing her gun at them but not getting a clear shot with both of them twisting and turning. She was shouting, he realized, but he heard nothing beyond the screeching and hammering in his head, still deafened.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw the two men locked in a deadly struggle. Sherlock had abandoned his gun; he had gripped Moriarty's wrist with such force that the criminal's hand had turned as white as chalk, paralyzing his fingers. Still, Moriarty was holding on to the phone, the revolver in his other hand, fighting to point the barrel towards his opponent. Sherlock, using his height, forced Moriarty backwards, abruptly slamming him down onto the rail. The impact must have hurt, but Moriarty gave no sign of pain.

John tried to shout to Sally to get the phone, but the words came out hopelessly slurred, muscles and nerves failing him. Angry, he forced his stiff body to move, move and not slip into unconsciousness, crawling unsteadily towards the fight.

Sherlock, growling with rage, knocked Moriarty's upper body down on the railing with unrelenting force, and this time the criminal let go of the phone. It cluttered to the ground, front first. John lunged for it, closing his fingers around it, pulling it towards him; furious, Moriarty twisted and managed to point the revolver at him – at his head, his uplifted face.

He would always remember those dark eyes, with sheer malice in them; and then the scream, a murderous, gut-wrenching scream of desperation, barely human, wrenching itself from Sherlock's throat.

John was tempted to close his eyes as Moriarty pulled the trigger, knowing that he was too slow to avoid the bullet and that it would hit him in the face, smashing the bones and blowing his brains out. But he kept his eyes wide open.

He saw Sherlock shift, twisting in an inhuman effort, moving his body into the line of fire.

The shot rang out, bursting through the noise in his head; he saw Sherlock jerk and tense, and then go slack, his body slumping over Moriarty; far away, he heard Sally Donovan scream.

He couldn't think. Couldn't grasp it.

Shot. Sherlock was shot.

But Moriarty was not done yet: all predators claim their prey, and so did he.

Swinging his legs over the railing, he pulled the limp body with him, taking Sherlock down into the abyss of black water.