Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.

Ahhhhhgggghh! I'm so very sorry for not updating this so long! My reason? Two words: Grad School. And science. For science. That's another two words. I have no qualms about admitting that I'm a bad person, but for those who kept following and reviewing despite my lack of updating (and those who read this thing in general) I can't tell you how motivating you have been towards getting me back on track! So I give you AN UPDATE! YAY!

Still a bad person,

-MSSH

Warnings: Temper tantrums. 80's rave music.

Hypothetically

Chapter Eight: A Hostage Situation

"Sebastian Moran. It's a true pleasure."

The red laser sight wavered half a centimetre over Sherlock's temple as Sebastian stepped into the barren room. His tall frame nearly eclipsed the door as he carried himself forward with a robotic grace that was an affront to the carnage splattering the floors. He pointedly ignored the disembowelled deadman and the trembling gangsters assembled around the corpse.

While his senses were still dampened by the thick fog of barbiturates, John could at once register how different this man was from the tormentor in his nightmare. The Moran from his dream had been a doppelganger of his military portrait, but whatever resemblance the slender giant standing before him had to a soldier of the SAS had been horribly twisted. His hair had darkened to a shade of murky blonde from years spent away from active duty in the bleaching sunlight. John only caught the briefest flicker of light glinting in Moran's cobalt eyes; they were arctic abysses, void of all sane emotion, as they focussed on the consulting detective.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied, as calmly as one could with a sniper rifle aimed at one's frontal lobe.

"Oh, yes," said Sebastian, "I've been anticipating a face to face meeting for some time. I really must say that after seeing you up close, well, you really are quite something."

"Moran!" interjected one of the Garrotter Street Rogues. The man took an audacious step forward and held up a small lump of crimson pulp for examination. "We've found the Trigger! Now let us—"

Without averting his eyes from them, Sebastian angled his rifle and fired a single gunshot clean into the gangster's shoulder. "Do not interrupt me. I was in the middle of a conversation." He frowned at the horrified wail that poured into the room; nonetheless, he heedlessly returned the laser sight onto Sherlock's temple.

As he waited for the agonised moaning to die into quieter, bitter sobbing, Sebastian tilted his head in John's direction. "And you must be Captain John Watson." He gave him mock salute. "Always lovely to meet another one of Her Majesty's soldiers."

Anger pulsed through John's chest. "Do not even place us in the same category," he managed to bite out, his drugged and dulled mind be damned.

A chuckle hummed from Moran, and John could not tell whether it was directed at his slurred speech or it was simple contempt from the derelict ex-soldier. "Give it some time. You will realise that a tin medal is the only difference between what they call honour and complete idiocy."

John's knuckles tightened. Before he could growl out a retort, Sherlock pressed a dissuading hand on his shoulder.

"You were among the snipers at the swimming pool all those months ago," said Sherlock.

Sebastian flashed him an evanescent smirk. "I'm flattered that you would remember."

The consulting detective tapped at the red dot glowing menacingly over his forehead. "I do not easily forget the manner in which the barrel of a gun is aimed at my skull. No doubt you were hunting at long range as child years before your service—snipes, perhaps?"

"You're doing that party trick of yours, aren't you?" Sebastian chuckled. "James said that you would."

"He also says hi, or am I to understand that you can afford a surplus of dead gangsters in the Bristol Channel?" parried Sherlock.

"Clever boy. I should say that he knows you rather well, and I can see why. A mind like his and yours are frightfully similar," he speculated aloud.

Sherlock said nothing. The image of the detective wielding the circular bone saw from his most recent nightmare came rushing to the forefront of John's mind, and he bitterly suppressed it. The man standing at his side, the man that had come to rescue him, was nothing like Jim Moriarty.

Unsatisfied with the silence, Sebastian crooned derisively, "Telllllll me, Sherlock Holmes. I'm thinking of a number between one and one hundred. If you can guess it, I may just let you and Captain Watson, over there, escape with your lives."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "And regardless of the outcome, this Trigger of yours remains where it is?"

"Naturally I cannot allow you to spoil all of my plans," replied Sebastian. He glanced at the mutilated crimson mass that was once the leader of the Garrotter Street Rogues. "The innovations of the 21st century—GPS surveillance, RFID chips, a wireless infrastructure—how spectacularly idiotic is it that a radio device fused together from copper and plastic in the Cold War Era could bypass its security with some basic upgrades?"

"I suppose you will no doubt use said device to acquire any amount of wealth your criminal enterprise could imagine?" Sherlock deadpanned.

"The money," muttered Sebastian with a roll of his eyes. "They always assume it's about the money! How can you of all people, Mr Holmes, continue to underestimate us? The Global Summit on Energy is currently underway. I would hazard a guess that half the attendees have RFID implants. Now what should happen if we were to circumvent the jammers and eavesdrop those frequencies? It would hardly be difficult to breach their security— discover all sorts of fascinating information, nuclear or otherwise. And that's not even the icing on the cake. Simply imagine the doors this device could open!"

"All that I imagine that this Trigger will have ever opened are the stomachs of several low-class criminals," retorted Sherlock.

The strangled groans of the wounded gangster still permeated into each silence that elapsed. John was grateful that his chair was angled away from the worst of the carnage, but just as another moan pierced into the room, a disturbing thought prickled into his muddled brain. "You're assuming that we're not leaving this room if you've already told us this much."

Sebastian re-focussed the laser sight over Sherlock's forehead. Its red glow reflected into his eyes as his lips wound upwards like a coiling snake. "I do not make assumptions, Captain Watson. I guarantee them." He beamed at Sherlock. "It will almost be a pity to put a bullet in that pretty face, but—"

Moran paled as a cheery, tropical ringtone effectively cut him off and reverberated into the room.

Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl~

With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there…

Sebastian cringed, and after two seconds of internal bickering, he awkwardly lowered his rifle. Sherlock exchanged a half amused, half nonplussed look with John as the ex-SAS-Colonel-turned-mercenary frantically patted his pockets for his mobile.

She would merengue and do the cha-cha~

Sebastian turned his back to them, and he answered the phone with a growl, "Yeah? No—No, I'm not in a strop, I was in the middle of something, and have you changed my ringtone again? What the hell did I tell you about changing it!" He exhaled sharply, and his voice softened. "Look, I'm not angry—Yes, really. I mean it."

When Sebastian turned around, he found Sherlock pulling John upright from his chair. He fired a warning round into the decayed ceiling. "DON'T YOU MOVE!"

John felt his knees buckle at the sound, and he would have collapsed if Sherlock had not captured him in his arms and anchored the bulk of his weight against his chest. John swallowed hard and stared at the gun-wielding psychopath only to find that he had returned to quietly speaking into the mobile.

"Well, yes, they're both here. Of course I am, why else would you tell me to bring my rifle?" Sebastian paused. "What? I doubt that's—" He grimaced. "Yes. Alright then, I'm putting you on speaker."

As a frustrated Sebastian Moran all but impaled his finger through touchscreen of his mobile, John had a dreadful premonition about whom he was about to hear on the other end of the line.

The soft, Irish voice poured through the small device. "Sebs? Am I on speaker now?"

The moment Moriarty spoke, John could feel the muscles in Sherlock's chest pull tight against his back. "Can you hear us now?" Sherlock answered dryly.

"Oh, brilliant, Sherly's there! Come to retrieve your pet, did you? Won't you say hello, Doctor?" Moriarty exclaimed. John bit his lip to hold back what he wanted to say, which was the farthest thing from hello. "No? Well, boys, all pleasantries aside, I have an important query for the both of you, so listen closely: did Sebs threaten you with that HK417 of his?"

Sebastian sighed heavily into his shoulder. Propped to his feet by Sherlock, John was now capable of surveying the complete bloodshed before them. He saw the glistening pool of murk that was Dawson's blood and the four crouched, dry-heaving shadows of his fellow gangsters circled about his body. One man squirmed in feverish pain amid the havoc.

"I think he's done a hell of a lot more than that," John hissed, careful of his slurring affect.

"Ah, Johnny-boy, there you are! I thought Sebs might have 'jumped the gun' as they say!" Moriarty trailed away with several patronising clicks of his tongue that puttered over the mobile speaker. "Now Sebs, dear, what did I tell you in Dublin? Mind your temper." Sebastian mouthed the same words in unison while bobbing his head with contempt. "Keep that in mind, especially when circumstances become a bit more interesting."

"Am I to take that as a compliment, James?" snapped Sherlock. "You were expecting me to follow your trail the moment you concocted this plan."

A snort rattled over the speaker. "Oh no, heavens, no, darling! It's insulting that you would even believe I would devise this debacle! Sebastian had all the honours there. He wanted to play so very badly since our last tête-à-tête, and who was I to deny him a spot of fun after he generously funded the entire operation?"

"Old money," added Sebastian with a dark laugh. He impatiently tapped the tip of the rifle against his shin. "Well, I say old, but Father was a mere 53 when he chewed his bullet, leaving me the keys to the estate."

"Sebs has been one of my more enthusiastic backers, but perhaps we would both agree that his planning leaves something to be desired," continued Moriarty.

Sebastian's grin faltered. "I have the Trigger, James."

"After it was lost for how long, exactly?" taunted Moriarty. "Sebs, if you would like a smuggling operation to go well, use immigrants. You can slaughter them all after with little mess and even fewer questions."

"Or if you wish to avoid the questions entirely a corpse or two should suffice," suggested Sherlock. "What? I think that would be most practical," he replied after John dug his fingernails into his forearm.

"Sherlock, don't consult the consulting criminals," John grumbled. They were hardly at an advantage, cornered by an unstable sniper with a fully loaded assault weapon, and Sherlock was not helping. However, it was unlikely that Sherlock's suggestion had much of an impact as the two psychopaths were now enthusiastically quarrelling.

"James, I sorted it all out!"

"Oh yes, Sebs, clever work, that. Although next time if you would like to save a day or two, perhaps you might sever some of their heads and watch them flail about London like pheasants!"

John felt Sherlock shifting his stance in exasperation, and when he hazarded a glance back at the consulting detective, he appeared to be longing for the laser sight to return on his forehead. "Oh no, never mind us. We will merely stand here with a rifle aimed in our general direction," he mumbled.

Moriarty continued with Sebastian heedlessly. "My argument is that evisceration cannot possibly be a gainful alternative to—"

"Uh, Sir? Excuse me?" A quiet voice interrupted Moriarty over the speaker, thankfully before Sherlock had that opportunity. "Are you ready to order? There are other customers in the queue."

The consulting criminal let out an exaggerated groan over the speaker. "Very well. Let's have a Grande Caramel Frappuccino. Sebs, would you like anything?"

Sebastian's answer was strained. "No. I do not. Want. Anything."

John made a face. Was Moriarty, this sick lunatic, having this conversation in—? No, he could not seriously…

"And a Grande Soy Vanilla Cream. That's his favourite."

"No! I don't want it!" roared Sebastian.

"Well, then. Make it a tall." A pause lingered over the speaker in which there was an obvious exchange of cash. The nebulous image of the consulting criminal debating the finer points of disembowelling live drug mules in a bustling Starbucks permanently curbed John's future desires for personalised coffee.

Moriarty's voice arched over the speaker to rouse him from that disturbing resolution, his melodic voice descending into a darker inflection. "What it comes down to, is that you boys have a deplorable talent for poking little holes into matters that are beyond you."

"Oh good, I was concerned that you had forgotten about us," muttered Sherlock.

"Never, Sugar. The fact of that matter is that you poke, and you poke—and without even realising the flood that's about to come down, you keep having at it. Just look at how you've upset poor Sebastian. Frankly, my dears, I'm beginning to question my decision to let you both live." Moriarty's voice lowered an octave. "And I hate to question myself."

The effect Moriarty's change of inflection had upon Sebastian was immediate. No longer sulking like a spoilt child, he straightened his posture with his eyes fixed on the threatening mobile.

"Um, Sir? Would you like whipped cream on these?" queried the distant voice of an oblivious barista.

"Of course I want whipped cream!" snarled Moriarty. "In fact, if you fail to top these frozen drinks with whipped cream, I will rip out your tongue, force you to chew it to bits, and I will use it as garnish for the Vanilla Cream!"

A peculiar smile came over Sherlock's face as he mulled over the threat towards the poor Starbucks employee, and John stifled a groan. The last problem that he needed, on top of everything else, was to have Sherlock influenced by the psychopath attempting to murder them.

"Sebs." Moriarty's Irish cadence did not lift from its menace. "Time for Plan B."

Sebastian hesitated several moments before venturing to answer. "But James—Jim, we have the Trigger. We could still—"

"I'm quite aware that you likely revealed the details of your ill-conceived plan. You have a weakness for speaking too much when you panic. Do not upset Daddy, Sebs. Plan B." A long-suffering sigh pulsed out of the mobile speaker. "As for you, Sherly, so sorry that we could not play this bout together. You boys will just have to make the most of it without me! But I do have other appointments to run off to, so ta-ta." The speaker on the mobile curtly silenced with a click.

"Damn it! Plan B," Sebastian growled at the phone. "Fucking Plan B!"

Before John could stop him, Sherlock derisively raised a hand. "Just curious—do you enjoy the Vanilla Cream for the tongue garnish or because it's soy?"

John felt the air rushing past him from the force of a bullet before he even heard it crackle from Moran's rifle. He blanched upon realising that it had passed only centimetres from Sherlock's head into the wall behind them. "Sherlock, bad," he hissed against his friend.

Sebastian briskly strode towards the congealing puddle of blood at the farthest corner of the room, and he kicked away the whimpering gangster that he had shot. Barely shifting his weight to his toes he reached for the ceiling, and with a swift tug, he pulled down a collapsible ladder leading to the attic above.

"Mr M-Moran?" One of the Rogues timidly asked. Sebastian narrowed his eyes at the ill-fated individual from his perch halfway up the creaky ladder. "Are you going to let us free now?"

"Wait here for another hour. A courier of mine will collect the Trigger. Then you'll be free as snipes, gentlemen." he replied with a grim smile. Instead of reassuring the wretches under his control any further, he directed his HK417 back at Sherlock's direction.

"Should we cross paths again, there will be far more than a pence-sized beam against your head." John held his breath as Sebastian shifted the laser sight from Sherlock's forehead to his temple. "In fact, I might just be looking forward to it." Sebastian held his rifle on John's forehead for an extra second before catapulting himself through the attic door.

"Until then," Sherlock flatly replied. His only answer was the thick and brisk thump of the attic door being shuttered behind the sniper.

John let out a ragged sigh as his shoulders slumped against Sherlock. With the adrenaline pumping spindles of ice down his arms and legs and the drugs still lingering in his bloodstream, the floor beneath his feet felt as if it was liquid. In spite of himself, an alien sensation bubbled out of his mouth. It started with a few chuckles, but the more he attempted to force it down out of propriety, the less he succeeded. "Sorry it's…just, um," he began between giggles at sensing Sherlock's frame stiffening in confusion. "Soy Vanilla Cream."

A snicker escaped Sherlock, and John felt the other man's chest vibrate against his back as they dissolved into a fit of laughter amongst the grisly murder scene. "What a ponce," John added before launching into another bout of giggling. However, the detective tensed behind him at once, and the grip Sherlock had on his arms turned bone-crushing.

"John," he said, barely above a whisper. As John's laughter trailed away, he noticed, but did not quite understand, the reason for his friend's distress. A long synthesiser riff—the first note in an ominous performance—resonated through the building. It was stereo music, and as that one ringing note climbed in volume with electric flourish, John realised it was a rather appalling 80's tune. Certainly just that would not quicken Sherlock's pulse, but as the second riff vibrated through the room, it was enough to send him moving forward.

"John, with my assistance, can you sprint out of this building?" he queried in a low, quick voice as he levelled his wide grey eyes into his.

"What? I can hardly stay on my feet! Sherlock, why—"

Before John could have the courtesy of finishing his sentence, Sherlock hoisted him off the ground and held him in his arms bridal-style "Allow me to rephrase that!" Sherlock clamoured over the music and the doctor's frenzied protests.

The stereo blared another riff from the synthesiser that ushered forward an urgent electric piano harmony. With one of the more lucid Rogues shouting after them, Sherlock dashed towards the doorway clutching John tightly to his chest. A female voice rose from the stereo with the increasing tempo.

Humidity is rising

Barometer's getting low~

As they escaped the room, John realised that he had been held captive on the second floor of an abandoned office. Sherlock wasted no time in propelling them both down the stairway as quickly as his coltish legs could manage.

According to our sources

The street's the place to go~

A deafening shot rang in John's ears just as Sherlock ducked and gripped him closer to his body. As the detective continued his mad sprint forward, John could see the bullet hole in the drywall where Sherlock's head had been. At the top of the staircase, the blood-splotched gangster glared down at them with menace.

Cause' tonight for the first time

Just about half past ten~

Now panting with exhaustion, Sherlock flung open the front door, and the unfamiliar sting of daylight bathed them. Without any regard for the oncoming traffic, he rushed onward. As though the music were playing from the surrounding rooftops, John could hear it with disturbing clarity.

For the first time in history

It's gonna start raining men!

Sherlock launched himself onto the unforgiving asphalt, covering John with his full bodyweight as they hit the hard surface. Not a second later, John felt a searing gust of heat, followed by an ear-splitting explosion.

It's raining men!

Hallelujah!

It's raining men!

Amen!

Despite the metallic ringing in his ears, the chorus pierced through the air in derisive and crisp precision. Certain that all that remained of the deserted office building was a wreck of coral flames belting black smoke into the sky, John risked lifting his head from the crook of Sherlock's elbow to find the source of the sound. He wished he hadn't; a semi-charred arm that had been torn above the elbow plummeted to the ground centimetres from his face. Other extremities were quick to follow.

It's raining men!

Hallelujah!

It's raining men!

Amen!

Now fully sober, John steeled his stomach and looked beyond the shredded remains of the Garrotter Street Rogues that flew through the air. His eyes, tearing up from the hot and scratchy smoke, focussed on a solitary shadow on a neighbouring rooftop. The shadow merely saluted in his direction before shouldering a long rifle over its back and disappearing from view. Before he could register what was happening or even find the damn speaker that was still projecting that sickening tune, Sherlock pushed him back to the asphalt and firmly pressed his head against the broad expanse of his chest.

"Keep your eyes closed, John," whispered Sherlock. And amongst the amalgamation of rampant car alarms, the sick stench of overcooked body tissues, and the horrified screaming, John did just that.

More to come as soon as I can update, but with the Grad Schoolz, it might not be as frequent as I like. Not giving up on this though!

I heart my reviewers!

Ju Lara: I agree with you that Moran gets away with too much in this fandom! Although I really enjoyed writing this particular incarnation of Sebastian. Hope you do too! Corey5268: Yay! I'm dragging everyone with me into insanity! And sorry for the cliffhanger meredithriddle: Poor Sherlock, indeed. And I love Dexter :) notquite. somethingelse: Thanks for reviewing, and sorry for making you wait so long! Icy Sapphire15: We are all morbid. It's okay. You're among friends (that try to kill one another). CakeBook: John never gets a break. But honestly, if he did, it wouldn't be half as interesting, now would it? dmrar: The joy I get from those hypothetical murder plans...I'm glad you love it too! .mightier: Ahhh! I did, see? I did! rtistyksyko: Aw, thanks! I can't give up the final murder plot! But I don't think it would be surprisingly mundane either...hm. Vi-Violence: I updated! And I'll try to update as much as I can lest the work and science gods interfere! ACtravels: Thank you thank you for such a thorough, awesome review! It made me happy and really motivated me to keep up with this. I will finish this story-the plot bunnies won't stop hopping around in my head until I do, so never fear. PrimaDoctor: ALSO YAY.

Also thank you to the 3 Guest reviewers who took the time to post their thoughts on the story. Taken together, your comments were inspiring, hilarious, and..honestly made me a bit wistful.