I know it's been a while, but again, Moriarty's whole game is in this chapter. Hope you enjoy and as always, thanks for sticking around and your amazing reviews.

My goal for this chapter is to make it as awesome as possible. Also as realistic and suspenseful and a little mind-boggling, if I can manage. All I have is a map of London (that I probably won't use [cough cough]) and a cuppa (or ten) to help me along this journey. Not to mention youtube for music. Wish me luck!

By the way, all times are estimated (approximated?)... so... yeah...

(Sherlock, why must you be such a bamf... [John, you too!]? I can't channel all of your awesome into my stories, you need to tone it down a bit [fan-girl swoon])

Sherlock frowns as the call ends. This is rather disturbing. He throws the now-useless phone across the building in a blind flash of fury, not at Moriarty, but at himself. It was he who let his guard down and allowed this entire situation to even happen. If he had been more alert, if he hadn't fallen asleep, John wouldn't be in danger. He should have focused on catching that bastard weeks ago, but he had been so relieved to have his doctor back, he was too afraid to bring Moriarty back into the picture.

Hm. Afraid. A word he never thought he would use for himself. But that's what he was right now. That's how he felt weeks ago, when John went missing, what he had felt (very) few times before, and what he was sure John was feeling right now.

He has to find another phone. He assumes they'll all be the same. Dull, prepaid, with under a minute of time left on them. There should be about nineteen, maybe twenty including the phone he just used. After all, what better way to create a great game than to remake a good one?

John is just lacing his shoes when his cellular goes off. He almost trips to answer it, but it's only a text. Three words.

Ninety minutes, John.

Jim xoxo

The doctor sprints down the stairs, grabbing his and Sherlock's coat on the way, and pulls his on. The streets are empty, there's no one and nothing in sight. It's still raining buckets, and he quickly tucks his detective's long coat inside his jacket under his arm. He turns up his coat collar and zips it before he begins to run down the sidewalk. There are no street lights, no moon, no stars, and he's blind momentarily before his eyes have the chance to adjust. The never-ending black of night - mixed with the power outage and the storm - fades to a dark grey, and John can now see shadows as he flies down the street, urgency pushing him forward against the protesting wind. He has to get to the Yard. If they have any brains at all, they'll still be stuck there - no one would be crazy enough to drive home in this weather. Maybe there'll be something there to help him, Lestrade should definately know what to do, he can send men out with him and they can search the city. With all of them looking for clues as to Sherlock's whereabouts maybe John can find him in time. Maybe he can even call Mycroft, he's just as smart as Sherlock, surely he can offer some form of assistance.

By the time he slams open the door and dashes inside the building, he's soaked to the bone and dripping water pools at his feet. He unzips his jacket and pulls out Sherlock's coat, which managed to only be slightly damp, and walks purposefully to Lestrade's office. Water streams down his face and into his eyes, but he simply blinks it away. He itches all over from the rain, but he ignores that too, only really paying attention to just how wet he is when the door knob separating him from help refuses to turn. John finally resorts to using his coat sleeve and after a few minutes manages to shove open the door.

It's dark, like the rest of the building - hell, the rest of the city - and John begins to wonder if anyone anywhere happens to have a back-up generator. Someone should...

Candles flicker on his desk as he reads an unmarked novel, but brown eyes soon look up and widen at the sight of the doctor.

"John?" Lestrade asks, slightly startled by the dripping figure. He rushes to his feet and closes his book.

John wants to start talking a mile a minute, but he forces himself to take a moment to collect his thoughts (he can't afford to mess anything up), looking around the office for the time being.

The detective inspector notices the action and gestures to the lights. "Our generator blew out. Pretty much like everyone else's..." he tries to explain before John shakes his head wildly, sending water droplets flying.

"Just, I don't care about the power," the doctor rushes, raising a hand to the other man. "Look, we only have a short amount of time. Moriarty has Sherlock and I only have," he checks his watch, "seventy-three minutes to find out where he is. I don't know about you, but I don't want to waste the hour I have left, gather everybody up." Christ, an hour and seven minutes to find his friend in the entire fucking city of London. Fuck me... He does count the minor blessing that it only took just over twenty minutes to get to the yard. Now if they can get some actual work accomplished...

Frustrated grey eyes flash as his fingers feel under pieces of machinery and inside crevices for anything resembling a cell phone. He needs to call John, he needs to know what is going on outside. He assumes the doctor is at the Yard right now, talking Lestrade into sending his men out to look or him.

After an eternity, something cold and smooth brushes his fingertips - and it's not metal. Grabbing the phone wildly, he pulls it out from its hiding place. As he flips it open, he notices a text.

Did I mention you can't tell John about the twist?

Jim

Damn. Nevertheless, he dials John's number and waits. It rings once, twice, three times before a familiar voice that sounds a little too tight and high-pitched to be calm is on the line.

"Hello?"

"John, it's Sherlock. Where are you?"

The doctor doesn't hesitate, but rambles slightly, obviously stressed. "Sherlock! Oh god, are you alright? I'm at the yard with Lestrade, he's getting everyone together - Jesus, do you have any idea where you are? I've been worried sick-"

"John," the detective says, and there's something in his voice that makes the other man ceize all noise. Sherlock doubts he's even breathing. "I'm fine, and I'm in some sort of abandoned factory. It's completely barricaded and dark because of the storm."

"Jesus Sherlock, I have no idea what to do-"

Sherlock can't help but cut him off again. "John, everything is going to be fine. We only have a short time though. Let me think, and I'll call you back in a few minutes, alright?"

There's a long pause, exchanging looks with the detective inspector no doubt, before the doctor replies. "Alright Sherlock, but hurry it up. We have an hour." At this, John seems to swallow painfully, and something about it pulls at the detective's heartstrings. Well, if he has a heart. He's been reliably informed that he doesn't, but in light of recent events-

"Just- just don't... don't..." John suddenly says, and even though he can't find the words, or perhaps the means to say them, Sherlock understands perfectly.

"I know John. Will do. I'll ring you in a bit."

Lestrade's eyes meet his and John sighs as he hangs up.

"He says he's going to think, then he'll call us back."

The other man nods before he goes to walk out the door - they're still in his office - but suddenly he stops. He turns and seems to look a little closer at John, frowning slightly. A hand flies up to his neck for a second before he makes a vague gesture at the doctor's. "Uh, John... I think you have a little..." he makes a motion with his fingers and John reaches up to his own neck. "Other side," Lestrade says. "What is that?"

John frowns heavily. Why is this so important? Why is Greg suddenly so interested about what may or may not be-

"Oh," he huffs as his fingers find their way over the purple blotch Sherlock left there last night.

Lestrade nods. "Yeah, that. Is that a... Were you out with the girlfriend last night?"

The doctor propells himself forward, out of the candle light, and pushes past the other man. He walks purposefully down the hallway, towards the faint sound of voices across the building. Lestrade follows on his heels and John snaps quietly. "Can we just focus on getting Sherlock back? We have just under an hour."

"So it didn't go well, huh? Were you at her place? That how they got Sherlock?"

A grimace. "No, I was at home."

There's a short pause, and John almost thinks he's given up. "So did Sherlock hear?"

John snorts, quickly getting fed up. "Of course he did. But there was no girlfriend."

By this point they've reached the door separating them from the others, but before the doctor can open it, Lestrade grabs his arm, slowly connecting the dots.

His voice drops to a low murmur. "So... you and Sherlock?"

John meets his eyes for a few long moments, fingers rubbing the mark briefly before he nods and opens the door. Greg is silent as they walk inside. This is going to be a long night.

Sherlock paces around his prison like a caged animal, mind racing out of control. No scuffs on his shoes, he was carried not dragged; his coat smells like smoke, but not cigarettes a cigar, and of the flat - of him. Inwardly, he misses the scent of John that usually mingles there. His hair and clothes are damp, so he was carried from the car through the heavy rain and into the building. Not a large building, but big enough that anything or anyone could be hidden easily. By simple common sense, Sherlock knows it's not over twenty minutes from the flat, given the short amount of time they have, which narrows it down drastically. Based on the footprints tracked in by Moriarty's men, he's still near the urban part of London. The tracks are wet, with tiny bits of gravel and asphalt scattered about, but no mud or grass. The map in his mind gets smaller and smaller. He doesn't hear any sign of life outside, but he can't count that, no one is out in this. It's been storming for over three hours. He needs to know how hard it's storming where John is, the wind speed and direction, little things he could find out for himself if he could see out a bloody window! He needs to find another phone, the one he has is out of time. He needs to call John.

Keen eyes scour the catwalks above him and he realises there are doors leading elsewhere. Damn, how could he have been so blind! This place is much bigger than he had originaly anticipated. He climbs up with gusto and tries a door. Locked. Tries another. Locked. Tries another. Third time's the charm. The consulting detective has to jiggle the knob a bit, but he manages to bully it open with a creak. Then he sees it out of the corner of his eye. Something glimmers on the ground at his feet in front of the door. Tripwire.

Looking more carefully about, he eases the door open just enough to slip through and over the wire. Upon closer inspection, he sees the wire is rigged to a pistol across the room, sitting menacingly at eye level. Ah, that tricky bastard. Sherlock takes a moment to disarm the trap, and slips the gun into the waistband of his trousers, shivering as the cold metal brushes against his spine. He blinks, unaccostomed to this new light. The door is the only source, dust swirling in the beams. Slowly, a corridor appears, and Sherlock follows it. Cautiously, of course. Yet, he encounters little else before he comes across two other doors at the end of the narrow hallway. One to his left, unmarked, dull and grey. Brass knob, though it's hard to tell in this gloom. The door is three and a quarter meters behind him and the light is dim. The door to his right still bears its natural wood, and has a silver coloured handle. Both are unlocked.

A dizzying analytical process begins in his mind. Does he take the left or the right? Deep green eyes flick between the two wildly, twitching and narrowing as he thinks. Could they be rigged, like the other? Will there be any light at all? What will the dangers be? Is this going to be like a maze? Does Moriarty expect him to wander around this place like the men in the minotaur's labyrinth? Is there a right and wrong door?

Oh, he's good, Sherlock thinks, chuckling. If nothing else, if he has no other blessings to count, he can count this one. He's definately not bored.

If anyone notices what Greg had, no one says anything about it.

John sighs as Anderson makes another snide comment about his detective, though.

"Will you just shut it," he half-yells, irritated and on edge. His mind is working in overdrive, and he wonders if this is how Sherlock feels all the time, the way his brain works. The doctor checks his watch for the umptenth time since he got off the phone with Sherlock. They have barly forty minutes left and they've gotten nowhere. Several hunches based on what Sherlock said about being in a factory, but nothing solid. Moriarty's voice still rings in his ears. '...get a single thing wrong and the game is over.'

"Like I said before," John says, head propped on his hand, elbow resting on the edge of the table in front of him, "it can't be far or else I'd automatically lose. Moriarty knows it'll probably take me up until the very end to figure it all out, so I'd say he can't be anywhere over fifteen or twenty minutes away." Which leaves about twenty minutes to figure out where the bloody hell that is.

Anderson snorts - of course he's one of the people here, now. John almost wishes he would have risked the ride home in the mess outside. He still hasn't forgiven the dick for his comment to Sherlock the other day. "You said he would call in a bit to help us out. Well we still have nothing but a factory of some sort that's no more than twenty minutes away. We have nothing and he still hasn't phoned." John opens his mouth to retort, but he's soon cut off. "Are you sure he just isn't playing games to get attention? I mean, you say you woke up and he wasn't there. If someone had come and gotten him, don't you think you would have heard a struggle? Everyone knows the Freak doesn't sleep-"

"Say that again," the doctor suddenly threatens, fed up and quickly losing all patience with everything.

Anderson looks mildly shocked. "Excuse me?"

A smile quirks his lips. "You heard me just fine. Say that again." John leans forward in his chair, elbows propped on the desk, fingers laced in front of his chin.

"Say what?"

A chuckle comes from the back of his throat. Breathy. Menacing. "Call him a freak again, Anderson, and I'll do to you what I did to those bastards in Afghanistan who killed my friends."

He recieves an incredulous look from everyone, save Lestrade, who simply gives him a scolding glance.

"Is that a threat?"

John savors his change in pitch. Minor, but noticable. "You know damn well it isn't. It's a promise. Sherlock was right, you are a moron." There's suddenly a muffled vibration coming from his pocket. "Not that I couldn't have figured that out on my own." He looks at the number. Private call. "Now excuse me, that'll be him."

He had decided to take the right, which opened up to reveal a quaint little office. It housed a desk, a couple pictures and trinkets, and a device hooked to yet another wire that when triggered lit a match to a fuse that lead to a few cans of gasoline. How trite.

It's almost as if he wants me to think he's being a spectacular moron...

But, it is in here, in a locked drawer of a reinforced, fire-proof filing cabinet, that he finds another phone. The key he finds inside the chair behind the desk. It takes him a minute or two, but he manages to finally phone John as he walks back out into the corridor and tries the left door. If there's another wire, he actually might let it go off, this is so boring.

But there is none. He frowns, though it quickly fades away when he hears John's voice.

"Sherlock? What took you so long? Is everything okay? Have you figured anything else out?"

The dark-haired man suddenly spots a tile that's slightly uneven next to the others. Pressure plate? "Yes, everything's dapper." Cautiously, he reaches out a foot and taps it. Once, twice. He adds a little more pressure, and suddenly a jet of flame appears above his leg. Ah. Brilliant. A little expected and unimaginative, but brilliant. If you'll excuse the sarcasm for a moment.

"Good, good. Sherlock, we don't have long, do you have anything we could possibly go on?"

Sherlock checks how much time is left on the phone. He's surprised to see that there happens to be just under ten minutes on this one. He checks the floor around the tile, eyes straining in the lack of light. There seems to be nothing, but one can never really rely on that. He takes a moment to think. He can't let John know where he is, he can't. But he has to figure out just where he is. John is smart, he really is, and eventually he'll find the right path on his own. If he even begins to get on the right scent, Sherlock needs to lead him astray. Or at least explain the situation to Lestrade without telling the doctor.

"Can you get back to the flat?" he asks, edging his way into this new territory, just shy of that crucial tile. Still nothing. He shuts the door behind him, cutting off the last of the light, and faint arrows suddenly appear in glow-in-the dark paint. There's also that damn smile face Moriarty is so fond of.

John seems to stutter. "Um, well, probably. If someone's stupid enough to go out."

Sherlock chuckles. "It doesn't always take stupidity, John. Sometimes it just takes bravery and a hunger to find the right answer. There are clues there, John, and I need you to find them."

There are a few muffles voices, John is obviously discussing the matter with his hand over the speaker. For a moment Sherlock thinks he hears Anderson's annoying voice before John silences it. Finally, the hand is removed. "Uh, Greg and I will be there in a few minutes. Do you want to call back in say, ten?"

"That's perfect, thank you John." He goes to hang up, but before he flips the phone shut, he finds himself, not entirely of his own will, whispering into the phone. "John, please do be careful. ...Oh, and if you could, note the rainfall, wind speed, direction, cloud cover, anything and everything. Tell me when I call back. And just. Be careful."

John finds the means to smile softly as his detective hangs up. "Alright, let's head out," he says to Lestrade, who nods and walks towards the door. Anderson snorts derisively, but says nothing. Smart man. For once.

"We'll take my car!" Lestrade shouts mildly over the storm as they arrive outside. John is a bit apprehensive about being in a car in this rain, and he can't even begin to worry about how slick the roads are, but he also knows time is of the essence.

"Alright," he replies simply, turning up his coat collar, clutching Sherlock's longcoat to his chest protectively. He's taking notes on everything, just like Sherlock asked, and he only hopes he doesn't forget anything.

Greg unlocks the doors and they both throw themselves in. Shivering slighly - he still hasn't completely dried from his run here - he stares outside. Or he tries too. Rain is still coming down in buckets, to his amazement, and the view of the outside world is completely obscured. The car starts, and Lestrade switches on the wipers and the brights before pulling onto the street.

John was right, the roads are ungodly slick as Lestrade speeds down them much faster than he should, but then again, the doctor can feel the urgency filling the air. You could almost cut it with a knife as they whip around corners, sliding dangerously. Thank God no one else it on he road. No one's that stupid. No one is this desperate.

'I love you, John Watson...' Sherlock is suddenly whispering to him. John jumps, eyes widening considerably as something hits him like a bullet.

He never told Sherlock he loved him.

Oh, God...

He starts fumbling in his pockets for his keys, but he can barely remember if he even bothered to lock the flat before he left. John strains to see anything at all as Greg suddenly comes to a stop.

"We're here, let's go John, hurry up," he says, already halfway out of the car.

John doesn't need to be told twice.

He follows the arrows around a spectacular array of booby traps, each getting increasingly more creative than the last. One is actually rigged to a pile of C-4. Spectacular, this game. Again, a bit unimaginative, but maybe that's the point.

Checking his watch, Sherlock notices it's been about eight minutes. Two more.

He's made it down another corridor, and now he's met with three doors side by side. Just how big is this place? All dark hallways, windowless, dreadful. The smell of oil and rust and disinfectant clog his senses.

Ah. Disinfectant. One of these may be a janitor's closet. But what does that mean? Where do the other two lead and what is the point of all this? Nine minutes. He wonders briefly if Moriarty is enjoying the thought of him running around this maze like a lab rat. He chooses the middle door - each are identical - and peers inside. A candle burns at the opposite end of the room. It happens to be filled with bleach and cleaners on rickety metal shelves. Okay. He closes the door and opens the one to the right. Nothing but a brick wall. Brilliant. The left is next, and opens to reveal a room identical to the one he woke up in, but darker, and almost labyrinthine. There is a penlight lying just in front of the door. He ignores it and the wire attatched to it and strides forward onto the catwalk, senses at attention for any other mindless traps.

Ten. He flips open the prepaid phone and calls John.

"Yeah, hey Sherlock," John answers, seemingly distracted. Sherlock hears rusting and a muffled voice. Lestrade.

"So you're at the flat?"

There's a breif pause. "Yeah, just got in. By the way, rain is coming down in buckets, still no power anywhere, cloud cover is complete - the sky is absolutely black, but a bit purple on the horizon, grey-ish towards the west, like it's letting up a bit. Wind is blowing somewhere around forty-seven kph, towards the south, south-west."

A map appears in Sherlock's mind - the one from before - and it narrows further. He's down to three possible locations. "Good, now what's at the flat?" I've almost got it figured out, he adds silently, suddenly on pins and needles.

All stress goes out of John's tone, all business now as he has a look around. "Uh, looks like tracks. Faint though, probably dried and were ground into the floor. Mrs Hudson is going to be in fits if they've ruined her carpet," he murmurs. "I see bits of grass and muck, but mainly tiny specks of what looks like gravel or asphalt. Um..." there's a short pause here, "smells like rain water and... Oil? Yeah. Like they use in those big factories."

Ah, so they were at this place before they went to get me... Brilliant.

"Right, what else?"

Footsteps, John's walking about now. Sherlock does as well, half his attention on the phone, the other half on his surroundings. So far, nothing. Just machines, switches, nothing unusual or spectacular.

"The tracks lead to your room, I don't know how I didn't notice them before..." the doctor says, sounding at a loss with himself.

"Probably because you were in a panic and there weren't any lights," Sherlock hears Lestrade say over the phone, slightly muffled.

Sherlock sighs. "John, stay focused."

"Right, sorry. Ah, looks like they raided your drawers and closet... then they turned tail and went upstairs." The doctor seems to be thinking hard, as if a revelation is taking place. He seems to be holding his breath, and the detective doesn't like that. He wonders what set off this sudden train of thought.

"John, what do you see?"

There's a long pause, followed by more rustling. "It's not what I see, it's what I don't..."

"What?"

There's a mild thump, and other odds and ends noises. "Your phone."

Sherlock frowns, halting mid-step. "What about it?"

"It's not here."

Odd. "It should be. I don't have it." Something flashes in the distance, catching his attention. What is that?

There's a click and the sound of keys being hit. "Oh good, full battery."

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock hears his voice rise an octave, and he bites his tongue.

More typing, followed by soft mumbling as the doctor talks to himself. "Greg can I see your phone? ...Thanks."

There's a mild feeling of dread as Sherlock looks towards the light again. Suddenly, something rings from the same direction. "My... my phone...?" he stutters, slightly bewildered. He hadn't seen that one coming.

He can almost see the triumphant smile on John's face as the typing resumes. "I was right, good. Now I just need to... okay... name, number... pass... word..."

"John?" he asks again as the ringing stops. He can hear Lestrade murmur a thanks, and he sounds mildly confused.

"Right, got it," the doctor says in a rush, then there's a click as the laptop it closed. "Sherlock, I'll be right there. Don't move." Another click and the call ends.

Oh bloody hell.

Sherlock runs across the catwalk, towards the last place he saw the light, cursing under his breath. John figured it out and now he's on his way to certain death, all because he never bothered to stop him in time. Damn Moriarty. Damn the bastard in Afghanistan that shot John and sent him home. Damn the country for the size of his pension, making him seek out a flatmate. Damn Mike for being friends with John and recognising him in the street. Damn Mike for introducing him to John. Damn the flat for looking as good as it did, and damn John for being so bloody-

...Just what is John? Patient? Easy-going? Amazing? Fantastic? God, why can't he think of a word that suits him appropriately?

But damn John for just being John, and not running in the opposite direction after he spent one minute in the same room with him.

He sees the phone now, just below him. Sherlock slips under the bars of the walk and drops onto the conveyer belt two meters below him. He lands lightly, though he winces just the same. He hops the remaining meter to the ground and looks about. His phone flashes and Sherlock grabs it, quickly dialing a number he's never necessarily called before.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade, where's John?"

A pause. "He left to find you. He pulled up a site and activated the GPS in your phone once he realised it was there with you."

Sherlock begins to feel a low growl in his throat. "Why aren't you with him?"

"He said he needed to go alone. It's about fifteen minutes away and he seemed pretty frantic. He told me to stay here... and well... if you would have seen the look on his face-"

"Do you know where I am?"

This seems to throw the detective inspector off guard. "Well yeah."

The consulting detective sighs heavily and he begins to pace back and forth. That would leave them right at the end of the clock. "Lestrade, I need you to come here now-"

"Well I was going to gather some of the boys and come along anyway-" Greg tries to interrupt, before he's interrupted himself.

"No, don't go back, don't call anyone, just get here as quickly as you can! Can you find your way?"

"Sherlock-"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock snaps. "I need you to do this for me!"

"Well, Sher-"

"Lestrade? Lestrade!" he calls into the phone, but it's no use. The storm outside blew the signal. Damn it all. What is he going to do now?

Sherlock's ears prick as he hears a door slam open, followed by the sound of rain water. Automated door. Opened for someone. John.

He rises from his spot on the floor and waits. It's not long before he sees a blond head bobbing along in the gloom, searching the place apprehensively. It's only now that Sherlock realises that with his dark hair and clothes he must be nearly invisible. The doctor does manage to see him, his attention gained when the detective clasps his hands behind his back, in a very Mycroft-like manner.

John doesn't hesitate to run over, eyes wide, mouth open as he tries to get back lost oxygen from the obvious run over. Sherlock doesn't move, trying to distance himself, reinstate that feeling of alone before the worst happens. He has a plan, of course, and it may work, but nothing is guaranteed in this life besides death and taxes. He might as well prepare himself, though it tears through him like a knife as he tries to gain his composure. He's prepared himself for this while John was making his way here. He's had plenty of time to resign-

Then the doctor hugs him, coat and hair dripping. His skin is cold, almost as cold as his own, and even with all the rain Sherlock can still detect John's familiar scent. He's amazed it hadn't been washed away.

"Sherlock... just... Jesus," the shorter man whispers, and Sherlock feels his resolve shatter. How could he have possibly accepted the fact that Moriarty was going to take his John away from him? He feels guilty, and his cheeks redden as his arms encircle his friend (but he's so much more) tightly. No one is going to take John away from him. No one. He'll die first.

Right on cue, shoes are clicking across the dark room, followed by that damned Irish lilt.

"Hello, boys. John, I see you've made it."

Sherlock feels John tense before the doctor backs away to face the source of the voice at the edge of the room. Sherlock feels himself bristle and sidesteps a little closer to his friend.

Moriarty grins. "Ah, John... You'll do anything for him won't you?"

John doesn't answer.

"Would you die for him?" Jim asks.

This time there's no verbal reply, but the criminal mastermind does receive a brisk nod. Sherlock is filled with horror at the action, his hands re-clasping behind his back, feeling a crucial something there as he waits.

Another grin. "That's good, John. Because it's here that you'll meet your end so Sherlock can walk away."

Now.

Sherlock's fingers grasp something and pull it out of his waistband, aiming directly at Jame's heart as the other man pulls out his own pistol, lining up with John's forehead. John himself stands stock-still, yet he doesn't look afraid. Slightly bewildered, but unafraid.

Moriarty tuts softly. "Oh, Sherlock," he croons as his trigger-finger twitches ever-so-slightly. The detective fires on instinct, but there's only a dull click. Damn. "Sherlock, I'm surprised. One, you thought I would leave a loaded gun where you could attain it easily? And two, you didn't even check to see if it was loaded? Wow... it was a nice try though. Too bad it didn't work, because now you have to watch your boyfriend die right in front of you."

That crucial finger twitches again. Everything instantly slows down. Sherlock sees John jump as the shot is fired, his eyes flicking towards the detective. No. This isn't going to happen. Not like this, not now, after everything.

His body leaps into motion, pushing John behind him as he throws himself between the doctor and Moriarty, face towards his best mate. He prepares himself for the incredible pain that comes from being shot, the whole scene forming in his mind before it happens.

The bullet hits him just a few centimeters to the right of his spine. Pierces a lung. He gasps his last few breaths as he falls to the ground, John's stricken face being the last thing he sees. Then, nothing...

He blinks for a moment, waiting for that blooming pain, the blood, the drama, utterly at peace with himself and the world. John will live. No one will hurt him.

He'll die first.

Oh shit, cliffhanger... Sorry guys.

Okay, just next chapter and the story ends! I was thinking of going for ten chapters, but I think nine is enough for now...

And you have no idea how excited I was when I broke six thousand words! Ah, and see any mistakes, you don't like something, something doesn't make sense, I need to explain more, let me know! I appreciate the feedback!