A/N: Wow you guys! Thank you so much for your support; you're all fantastic! I'm so thrilled you're enjoyed it, and I hope you will continue to do so. Reviews are always welcome, as are small prompts. I'll try and update ASAP, but it may slow during weekdays what with school and all. I love you all. And now; ONWARRDS.

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John's thighs burned stiffly from remaining knelt for so long. Checking over both his shoulders, he flumped backwards onto his backside and stretched his legs out in front of him, gasping at the change of position, and the tingle of blood returning to his calves.

Once seated, a single thought struck him that caused him to groan out loud in apparent pain.

I didn't ask for Sherlock's mobile number.

Sighing in anguish he settled back to take the pressure of his tender stomach, feeling his heart hammer rhythmically inside his chest as he planned it out inside his head. Sherlock would be in the custody of the police right now, surely? And as soon as he was freed, once Wilf Hudson had been released from prison, he would be taken to the same place as Sherlock, right?

Then he could ask him for his number. Excellent.

Grinning, he imagined Sherlock's face as he suavely propositioned him into going on a date. He could take him to the cinema; or maybe that Chinese circus that was in town? That would certainly be a night to remember.

Half stuck in fantasies and remembered touches, he glanced around. Only forty five minutes to pass, and this abominable nightmare would be ending, he'd be asking a gorgeous guy out on a date, and, if he was lucky, the gorgeous guy in question actually saying 'yes'.

With that the only apprehension in his swelling heart, he waited.

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"Sir? Please uncurl your hands."

It was that blasted paramedic again. Sherlock shot her with the look that would slay many a Detective Inspector into submission, but acquiesced; loosing the fists his hands had unknowingly coiled into.

The paramedic continued tending to his swollen knuckles. They twitched impatiently as she handled them; rolls of gauze slotting between the dark haired man's long fingers with timid meticulousness. All the while, Sherlock had returned his accusing gaze to his brother; whom was having his nose tapped up by the paramedic's partner.

"You know it's funny," Sherlock spat, resisting the urge to smile maliciously as his brother winced in pain. "I've somehow preformed the impossible and made your nose look even worse than usual."

"Insults will get you nowhere, Sherlock." His brother seethed, not amused. "This van isn't turning around, and no amount of sulking will change its course."

"Oh, really?"

"Oh for God's sake; that wasn't a challenge, and you know it."

"I beg to differ."

"Look." By this rate, Mycroft's only tone of voice would be 'conceding brother', "If it makes you happy; I can let you talk to this John fellow one last time before I give the order for the bomb to be detonated. How does that sound?"

If there was a scale of anger; Sherlock would have just smashed it into oblivion.

"AND SAY WHAT?" Ripping his hands away from the withering paramedic he thrust a finger into Mycroft's face, his bandaged fist visibly vibrating with fury. "What would I say to him! 'Oh hello John! Lovely to see you again, my brother is just about to have you killed, hope you don't mind!' "

"Now you're just being childish." Mycroft bit. "You have ten minutes to decide whether or not you want to speak to him, and then the bomb will go off. Until then, please refrain from loosing your temper any more or I will have you restrained, and don't you think that I won't."

There had to be a way around this, there just had to. There was no way Sherlock was going to let a man like John die without a second thought. He deserved more than that.

"He saved my life, you know." Sherlock returned to his seat in the back of the van, his voice eerily hushed, and his head hanging low. "I'd be dead if not for him. Can't you see, Mycroft," His head rose, trying one last time to break through his brother's hardened exterior. "I can't let him die, not after what he did. Please."

Mycroft's blue eyes widened, not just in shock, but because of the shooting pain straight to his heart.

Please.

That one, pitiful, unpretentious word that had been uttered so little, Mycroft could count the times he had heard it fall from his brother's lips on one hand.

It was 'please' that had Mycroft stay the night on the private ward Sherlock was in after his drug relapse, holding his hand, telling him it would be alright.

It was 'please' that made Mycroft accompany Sherlock to school when he was being teased by his classmates, who'd kicked him to the ground the previous day.

It was 'please' that persuaded Mycroft into letting Sherlock sleep on his couch after their grandfather's funeral; a man who'd inspired Sherlock from his first memory.

Please. He'd said please.

Before he could speak, the breath was pushed from his body. On the laptop beside his brother, something had gone wrong. It seemed Moran had accidentally pressed something, and there was a one way stream to their laptop; Sherlock and Mycroft could see them, but Moran was unaware.

On the screen, Moran was standing, relaxed, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, nonchalantly attempting a conversation with the small, handsome blond man, who had been forced back onto his knees, and looked as if he had seen better days.

But it wasn't that that made Mycroft's chest tighten to an almost cruel extent.

It was the look on his younger brother's face.

Sherlock looked, quite frankly, as if someone had ripped out his heart. His eyebrows were pulled together over his grey eyes, which were wide in pain, and the corners of his mouth were tilted down; his bottom lip protruding. He looked truely heartbroken.

"You don't seem very afraid…" Moran stated, nudging John absentmindedly with his foot.

"You don't seem very frightening." John replied, and Sherlock chuckled despite himself. John was so obtusely stubborn.

"Ah, the bravery of a soldier." Moran sneered. "Bravery is by far the nicest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

John visibly bristled. "If willingly sacrificing your life for the sake of others is stupid well then sir, I'm stupid, and I will continue to be stupid for as long as I live."

Mycroft sat back astonishment. Maybe he'd underestimated this man…

Sensing his brother's averseness, Sherlock bolted upright and pivoted, Adam's apple bobbing as he once again suppressed his emotions.

"Mycroft-"

"He seems to have a strange effect on you, this John fellow."

Sherlock paused, uneasy. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you've only known him for a matter of hours and already you're pleading with me to have his life saved. If he lives, should I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Don't-"

"I'm being serious." Mycroft's face was a blank, unreadable mask. "You broke my nose in an attempt to uphold his man's honour; what makes him so special? Give me one good reason, brother dear, and I will put the order to withhold the detonation."

The sound of hitched breathing was all that echoed against the walls of the van.

"One reason?"

"Just one."

Sherlock's hands resumed their position, fingertips together, and rubbed his full lips against them in calculated thought. One reason to save a man's life.

"You have two minutes left, Sherlock. If you have a reason, speak it now."

How can you put the value of a man's life into something as menial as a reason?

Raising himself upwards, he leant forward until his lips were but centimetres from the curve of his brother's ear. Then speaking with a hushed, revered tone, the reason sounded.

Hovering with his back bent; Sherlock awaited his brother's reply.