A/N: Many, many thanks to my usual beta, moonmama, and also to asteraceablue for some crucial assistance with the action in this chapter. She got me past my writer's paralyzation!

Previously:

Sherlock's thoughts returned to the present as they rounded a corner and Moriarty motioned for he and Molly to stop. The other man held his arm back, handing Sherlock the gun, and he took it without question, already having deduced what Moriarty planned. Taking a deep breath and shaking his shoulders like an actor readying himself for a role – which was very much what he was about to do – Moriarty put his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, relaxed his body into a slouch, and sauntered into view of the guards who'd been placed on John and Lestrade's prison room. Whistling insouciantly, Jamie from IT strolled down the hall as if he hadn't a care in the world.

He pulled it off; he couldn't believe it, but he actually pulled it off. He convinced the two muscle-heads guarding the door that Holmes had sent him to take care of a communications glitch, he got them to hand him their walkie-talkies and mobiles and start tinkering with them while he waited for Sherlock and Molly to get the drop on them. It was almost laughable, the way their jaws dropped when the other two showed up, more than half-way down the hall before the goons noticed them. And all because they'd allowed themselves to be fooled into trusting harmless little Jamie, the timid little computer geek queer-boy.

He'd gone to a great deal of painstaking trouble to create that persona, and had endured much during his time inhabiting 'Jamie's' skin, but would have no trouble at all shucking it now that its usefulness was coming to an end. He'd have been a boon to the stage, his handlers all agreed, but this undercover work brought a thrill no amount of fretting and strutting in front of adoring audiences ever could.

If he'd wanted to, he mused while Sherlock and Molly forced their prisoners to open the door to the make-shift cell holding Greg and the Watson fellow, he could have rivaled his own world's Sherlock Holmes in the area of criminal activity. And something told him his other self had chosen exactly that path, judging by the way Miss Hooper had reacted to the sight of him.

Points to ponder, certainly, but not now. They had a supposedly disabled lift to catch, then up to the roof and wait for the cavalry to arrive. Holmes had fucked up royally this time, not only in letting DI Lestrade see his face so he could be positively ID'd as one of the kidnappers, but also in underestimating Wiggins' assistant.

Moriarty watched alertly for any unexpected additions to their little party, and although it was heartening that they seemed to be getting away with it for now, he knew better than to relax his guard. Sherlock had the door open and the goons ushered inside, and a cautious but elated Greg Lestrade and John Watson were emerging. The doctor stopped short as soon as he caught sight of Moriarty, his expression one of shock and dismay, but Greg walked up to him and clapped him on the back. "Good job, Jimbo," he said with a weary smile. "Now let's get the hell out of here, eh?"

Yep, definitely a baddie back in this lot's home universe, Moriarty concluded with an internal chuckle. It was so clear that Dr. Watson didn't want to turn his back on him, the way he was keeping a wary eye out even as he helped Lestrade bind and gag Holmes' goons.

His amusement faded as he heard a warning hiss from Sherlock, stationed by the door to act as lookout with the Hooper woman by his side. He'd been offered a chair and refused, citing the need to be ready to move at any moment, even though it was clear his wounded leg was paining him more and more. Thank God the bullet had gone straight through or else he'd be in even worse shape than he was now. And thank God Molly was willing to act as his human crutch, although that wasn't such a surprise now that he'd had a chance to see them together. He'd originally assumed she'd be uncomfortable being physically close to the man who was the doppelganger of Sherlock Holmes, but it was evident that the poor girl was in love with this version and had somehow managed to stay in love with him in spite of some rather horrific treatment by the crime lord during her year's tenancy in his flat.

Put it aside, he told himself sternly. He had more important things to worry about at the moment. "We've got more company on the way," he said quietly, pulling out his gun and checking the bullets. He handed Lestrade and Watson the weapons they'd confiscated from their prisoners, then moved to join Sherlock at the door.

He and Molly had already been given guns of their own, and although Molly had looked uncertain, Sherlock had calmly instructed her on how to release the safety, advised her about the recoil (minimal with the weapon she'd been given) and told her to aim for the widest part of the body. She still looked uncertain, but her hands were steady and her eyes were clear. Jim approved, and he also approved of Sherlock's clear familiarity with handguns, and John Watson's as well. They would be useful allies; a pity the point of all this was to get them back to their own universe.

Ah well, you couldn't have everything; where would you put it?

"Algar! Hargreave! Where the fuck are you?"

The muffled, but clearly aggrieved, voice came from just outside the door, and the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps brought silence to the room. Sherlock slid aside, Molly continuing to support him, as the door flew open and one of Holmes' goons burst into the room, glaring around suspiciously. He gaped at the sight of his two comrades trussed up like a couple of Christmas geese, but before he could act Lestrade brought the butt of his handgun down smartly on his head. He collapsed, and Watson dragged him over to join the other prisoners, then looked up as he realized they had nothing else to tie him up with.

"Leave him, let's get the fuck out of here," Lestrade growled, grabbing the ring of keys from the man's slack fingers. They left the room, Lestrade locking the door behind them and taking the time to break the key off in the lock before following after the others.

Jim took the lead again, knowing that their timetable had just been compromised; the amount of missing guards was bound to be noticed by more than just the one man, and Jim had only a vague idea of how many others Holmes had left behind. Surely they'd taken out the majority of them, but he couldn't be certain. Already there were three unconscious guards more than he'd bargained for in his rescue attempt.

The lift he'd jiggered was at the opposite end of the building, since he hadn't wanted to be caught. He hadn't counted on this Sherlock Holmes being injured, but Molly was doing an admirable job of helping him along, and now John Watson had slipped his friend's arm over his shoulder to help speed things along a bit. With Lestrade bringing up the rear, gun at the ready and eyes alert for any signs of trouble, Jim felt himself relax just a bit with every meter they gained.

The others must have sensed his eagerness as they neared the lift, their footsteps collectively picking up speed as they rounded corners and hurried down empty halls. Even with his injury, Sherlock was matching their speed, moving at an off-kilter jog. Jim let out a small breath of triumph when they rounded down the hall and towards the lift, pushing a few buttons on his device and watching the system come to life. The buttons along the wall glowed, ready to take them to the roof of the building and to safety at last.

The blast of a gun and the piercing sound of the bullet ricocheting off of the metal door of the lift seemed to happen simultaneously. He spun around, quickly noting three of Holmes' men at the end of the hall, their guns raised. John and Lestrade mirrored their stances, waiting for the right moment to unload their weapons. Sherlock pressed Molly against the wall, out of harm's way.

"What in the 'ell are you doin', Jamie?" one of the men shouted. "This lot is supposed to be locked up!"

"Sorry, my mistake," he said with a wry grin, yanking his weapon from his belt and firing one clean shot into the man's leg.

The hall quickly fell into chaos and a hail of bullets, but it was over nearly as soon as it started. The first man lay nearly unconscious, possibly succumbing to shock from his wound, another lay dead, and the third had run off as fast as his cowardly legs could take him. Which was a problem if he alerted more of his comrades to the fact that their prisoners were currently escaping.

It was a problem Jim barely had time to contemplate before he found himself being shoved against the wall by a very angry John Watson.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" he demanded. "You could have got us all killed!"

"We didn't really have many other options," Jim said calmly. "We were cornered."

"Gents, we don't exactly have time to argue about this," Lestrade pointed out, attempting to coax John away. "Somebody was bound to hear all that, we won't be alone for long."

With a final pissed-off glare, John let go of Jim and returned to Sherlock's side, once again supporting his friend's weight as they moved towards the lift.

The lift.

"Shit," Jim muttered, his eyes landing on the control panel, utterly destroyed by gunfire. Frantically, he tried to recall the lift remotely, knowing after the first few tries that it was useless and yet still trying and hoping by some miracle it would respond.

"Oh God," Molly said beside him, visibly shaking. "What do we do now?"

Jamie eyed the chained door to the stairwell, considering and rejecting it as a means of accessing the roof. The warehouse was four stories tall; there was no way Sherlock would be able to manage, certainly not quickly enough to avoid any pursuit. And being trapped in a narrow stairwell with an injured man was not something any of them wanted.

"This way," Jamie said quickly, leading them back down the hall and banking on one last possible escape from Holmes. The number of guards they'd taken out and the resultant chaos meant that they might – just might – be able to get to one of the unblocked exits on this floor, and from there to his car. It would be crowded with five of them, but that was the least of their worries.

The only question was, where would they go? The police helicopter he'd arranged for their original escape plan was supposed to take them to whatever destination Lestrade had in mind, but he doubted they'd get very far in a ground vehicle. Far too easy for Holmes to track, to catch them up, especially with his brother's iron grip on the CCTV cameras on every corner.

"We don't have time to try and keep them off our track once we're out of the building," Sherlock said, his voice strained. Clearly the pain of his injury was catching up with him. "We'll have to make a beeline for Smythe's lab, there's no way around it. If we time it properly, he'll be able to get us back to our universe, and Lestrade can whisk him away to a safe house before my unsavory double realizes what we're up to."

"I've disrupted mobile communications, but it won't last much longer than an hour if we're lucky," Jim replied as they continued on their way to the back of the building. He'd memorized the layout of the warehouse and had a particular exit point in mind. As they neared the door he slowed his steps, looking around cautiously. Sherlock eased himself from John's grip, allowing Molly to take his full weight while the other man silently joined Jim, gun at the ready. There was no trust in his action, Jim fully acknowledged that truth; John Watson joined him as much to make sure he had no opportunity for him to betray the group as to provide aid in case of another ambush.

Luck, however, was with them this time; no goons awaited them, no shots rang out as he fiddled the lock and eased the door open. The alarms had been neutralized at the same time as the mobiles, in their aborted attempt at operating the lift, but the rarely used metal door screeched on its hinges no matter how slowly he opened it. Giving up on any attempt at stealth, he wrenched it open and ducked through, trusting the others to follow. Then it was a tense few minutes as they rounded the building and discovered his car sitting where he'd left it, apparently untouched, and another minute passed in silence as they settled themselves inside. He waited until the last door was shut before starting the engine.

As they left the side lot where he'd parked, the sound of gunfire erupted behind them; glancing in the rearview mirror, Jim saw two of Holmes' men running after them on foot. He grinned and accelerated, the car bursting through the chain-link gates he'd left in place after carefully cutting the lock holding it shut. He heard the whinge of a bullet hitting metal and ducked automatically, but a quick glance showed that no one had been hit, and shortly after that they were safely away.