Sherlock turned his head to the side as he struggled. The cool surface of the desk against his cheek brought back his clarity of thought. He checked the time inside his Mind Palace. The cocaine might have made his thoughts and body race, but his internal clock was far too well calibrated to be affected. John and Greg should be arriving at any moment, now. He simply had to buy them time.
The struggle Sherlock put up was just enough to keep Walsh from getting what he wanted, though he daren't fight him too hard, lest he bring down retribution on Mycroft. Thankfully, the detective heard a sound from the direction of the closed door. How the other idiots could have missed it, he didn't understand.
Sherlock met Mycroft's eyes and his brother understood. The government official threw himself forward onto the floor and rolled to the side just as the office door crashed in.
Link, who had been holding his gun on Mycroft, whirled around, his gun coming to point towards the door. Before he could get a shot off, a single bullet pierced his forehead and he dropped heavily to the floor, barely missing Mycroft.
At the same time, the blond man who had been holding Sherlock's shoulders against the desk let go and reached around to draw his own gun. John didn't hesitate. He shifted his aim and shot the man through the heart.
Greg had dove under John's arm and had Walsh around the waist, trying to pull him off Sherlock. The detective reared back, smashing his head into Walsh's nose. As he lurched away in pain, John jabbed the needle of the syringe he had been carrying into him and depressed the plunger. Walsh fought on a bit longer, but eventually he succumbed to whatever had been in the syringe and collapsed.
Greg left John to help Sherlock in favour of checking on Mycroft. The government official had managed to sit up and was trying to stand - a difficult process with his arms bound behind his back.
"Here, let me," the DI said as he started working at the leather belt binding Mycroft's arms behind him.
"How's Sherlock?" Mycroft asked worriedly. "They injected him with cocaine."
Sherlock was sitting up on the desk. John had already noticed that something was wrong. His mouth thinned into a white line as he took the detective's pulse. It was fast, but not alarmingly so. "Greg, would you hand me your keys?" The DI tossed them to him and freed Sherlock's wrists.
Large hands grasped John by the shoulders and silver-grey eyes locked with his. "I didn't take it, John. I swear I didn't. I didn't even want it, my brain did, but I didn't. Please-"
The doctor raised his hand and gently covered Sherlock's mouth. "I know. I believe you."
His inhibitions lowered by the cocaine, he pulled John into an embrace and dropped his head on his shoulder. "I can't lose you," Sherlock whispered into John's neck.
The doctor didn't know what to do, but he knew one thing. "You're not going to lose me, no matter what."
"John," Greg called sounding urgent. "Can you take a look at Mycroft? They weren't very gentle with him."
As John approached, the elder Holmes brother waved them both off, holding his hand out to Greg. "Might I borrow your phone?" Shrugging, the DI handed it to him. "Anthea, track this phone. Contingency plan Walters is go. Get our most trusted security detail here immediately and have them bring medical supplies. Oh, and prepare the special holding cell, the one only I can access." He looked at Walsh. "We'll be needing it." He rang off. "She'll call off the police, as well. All we need do is sit tight." Sherlock started shivering and Mycroft noticed. He drew back his foot and kicked Walsh, then regained control of himself. "Poor form, I know, kicking an unconscious man. Forgive me."
Moriarty was looking at Sherlock with mock pity in his eyes. "Of course, Johnny Boy will be calling his wife soon. He'll forget all about you."
Sherlock shouted at thin air, "Shut up. You can't be here. I'm high, and it was just cocaine not the rest. Go away!"
John moved back to the detective's side. "Sherlock. Sherlock!" The detective looked at him and John took his hand. "Tell him to piss off."
Sherlock turned to do just that, but the hated phantasm had already fled. He held onto John's hand even more tightly. "He's right, though. You do need to call Mary. She needs to know you're safe."
"She needs to know we're safe," John corrected him, then he pulled out his phone.
As John dialled his wife, Sherlock looked over at his brother. "Mycroft." He paused unsure how to express what he was feeling. "I'm not entirely unpleased that you're alive."
Mycroft wanted nothing more than to hug his brother, but instead replied, "Likewise, I'm not entirely unpleased that you're alive, baby brother."
It wasn't enough. The detective held out a shaky hand in silent entreaty. Mycroft took it and found himself being pulled into a fierce hug.
Sherlock's voice was as shaky as his hand. "I'm sorry for all those times I scared you. It's wasn't... pleasant, fearing for your life."
Mycroft let his eyes close and simply held his brother. "Now you understand."