A/N I love the pool scene so much.
Thanks to Natalie Nallareet, 666BloodyHell666, johnsarmylady, sparrowismyhummingbird, Motaku1235, ThisDayWillPass, Jackrabbit74ever, and starrysummernights
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XCIV. Last Hope
Tension pulses through the air, cutting through the pale water of the pool, filling his ears with a slow buzzing. His eyes are wide, taking in the entire scene before him—the stretch of tile, the two dark men standing there, the gun arm of one extended, the other with his hands tucked neatly in his pockets. He knows the inevitability of what's approaching, John does, and he forces himself to take slow, careful breaths, not even sure how he manages to stay on his feet what with the extent of his chilled fear.
They're talking, Sherlock and Moriarty, and he hears each word clearly, but it goes on to drop out of his memory almost instantly, so that he can't quite connect them, can't pull together their combined meaning. All he knows for sure is that Moriarty's going to kill him, kill him if he can't do this, can't think of something to get Sherlock out. He's not going to survive, John's not, but he barely cares, really—what does it matter? What does it matter? So long as Sherlock makes it, nothing else is important. The world can't stand the loss of such a magnificent man.
John will do whatever's necessary to save Sherlock. He admits this to himself, and that makes things easier, simpler. There's nothing to it, then—all he has to do is stop Moriarty, physically restrain him from doing anything to stop Sherlock from fleeing. And then hope that he will be smart enough to flee. Surely he realizes that this is it, that there's no other way, that this is their last hope.
I have to do it. I have to get him out of here, let him live another day.
So he does, forces himself forward, and it's like he's moving through quicksand, dragging and thick, but he manages to get there, to pounce on Moriarty, cinch his arms around the slim psychopath's neck, somehow concealing himself from the taunting rifle sight that had been playing at the bomb wrapped around him.
Run, Sherlock, go! He knows he's shouting the words, forcing all his energy into them, frantic, trying to convey the absolute desperation of the situation, that Sherlock can't stay behind and play the hero this time, that he has to get out of here. It's John's last wish, then, if this is really it for him.
Moriarty's laughing, taunting, his Irish voice weaving in and out of hoarse gasps and trilling murmurs, and John processes the words, but just barely, because he's freezing, his heart is turning to pure ice, freezing fog filling his lungs as the glowing laser appears on Sherlock's own forehead, weaving through his ebony curls.
He steps back, his stomach plummeting, adrenaline wandering his body. His legs tremble as he holds his hands up in a weak surrender.
What now?