Moriarty's face hit the kitchen door with a sickening crunch, his arms jacked tightly behind him until he thought they might break. The cold metal of handcuffs chilled his wrists, and he began to scream. Moran's name was the only thing on his lips as two burly officers attempted to drag the criminal away. Pride surged through Moriarty as, out of the corner of his eye, he watched a lanky sergeant fall unconscious to the ground, blood streaming from a broken nose.
It was then that he felt the barrel of a gun being pressed to his sweat-slick temple.
"Now, Moran," An unfamiliar voice snarled, "I suggest you stop struggling."
Moriarty saw his bodyguard's eyes widen, obviously taking a moment to look for any other way to rescue Jim from the bullet which was mere inches away. It was fruitless, however, as even Moriarty's great mind could see that – without dying himself – there was no way for either of them to avoid arrest. Sherlock Holmes had made every arrangement to ensure that, this time, he really had them.
Moran's chokehold on a young blonde policeman loosened imperceptibly and in a flash three officers grabbed him, roughly shoving him across the kitchen to the table where their combined weight would keep him pinned down, as though the gun brushing Jim's head wasn't enough. They locked both arms behind his back, pulling them cruelly so as to stop any movement.
"No! Stop, please – Sebby!" Moriarty yelled.
John, too, had rushed towards them, shouting, and pulling at the unresponsive officers as they tightened their cuffs around his powerless wrists. Moran's teeth were gritted, his eyes closed against the sight of the employer he had failed. The friend he had not protected. With the gun still to Jim's head, it had not taken long for the two outlaws to be led to separate police cars parked haphazardly on the curb outside.
Moriarty continued to scream Sebastian's name until one officer threatened to knock his teeth out if he didn't stop squalling like a puppy for its mother.
He could see John Watson leaning out of the flat's window as the cars pulled away, his usually kind, warm face taught with the knowledge of betrayal, and fear for two people he barely knew.
John turned back towards his flatmate. Sherlock had leant against the kitchen counter, sipping his tea. Striding towards him, John swiped at his hands, a second mug smashing on the kitchen floor.
"Why the hell would you do that, Sherlock?" He raged. "They came to us for help, they trusted us. He-" John turned away momentarily, breathing heavily out through his flared nostrils, "he may still die, Sherlock."
His boyfriend – ex-boyfriend, John internally snarled – said nothing. His face remained cold and impassive, as unfeeling as marble and twice as inhuman.
"You really don't care, do you? You don't give a damn about anyone other than yourself."
Sherlock gazed straight back into John's fiery blue eyes, his own grey as steel. "You did your duty, John. I did mine."
John's mouth opened, in the vain hope of spitting out a scathing comment about Sherlock being a machine, about where he can shove his duty. But he could do nothing but stare, speechless, at the creature whom he had convinced himself cared for him. Sherlock Holmes cared for no-one.
John Watson grabbed his coat from the hook, sprinting down the stairs two at a time, Sherlock's frustrated calls of his name echoing behind him, unheard.
The two criminals had reached the police station, and were unceremoniously manhandled along the corridors towards the cells. Jim did not even attempt an escape, too preoccupied with the fact that Sebastian could barely stand, his captors dragging him to his incarceration. He tried to tell them of his injuries, tried to make them understand. But none of the policemen listened to the frantic shouts of a psychopath.
As Moriarty was turned into an open cell, he saw Sebastian writhe once more in a final, futile attempt to break free. Just as the pair lost sight of each other, blood blossomed across Moran's jerking chest, and the psychopath screamed with raw terror.
After Moriarty's cell door had been locked firmly behind him, and the man himself had been hammering on the thick iron door for what seemed like hours, he saw Dr. Watson crash through the double doors at the end of the hallway. Relief crashed through the criminal.
"John!" He yelled, his voice hoarse. "Dr. Watson, please, Sebastian – his stitches opened again – he's bleeding – please – he'll die-"
While he had been speaking, John had reached his cell door.
"I need you to calm down," the doctor said levelly, out of breath yet still soothing, "You'll only injure yourself if you remain this anxious."
"But Sebby – he's going to die, isn't he?" Salty tears began to fall from his eyes once more.
"No, I swear. He's going to be fine, I'll keep him safe, ok?" John promised, passing a pure white handkerchief through the hatch for Jim to dry his tears.
The man on the other side of the door nodded, roughly scrubbing away any evidence of his grief with the scrap of cloth.
"Can I help?" He asked, desperately. "I shall worry if I'm stuck in here with nothing to do, please, I need to see him."
"I think it's best you stay here Jim, I'll look after him, you have my word. Just… write some poetry or compose a vi- a piano concerto, anything. You don't need to worry he'll be safe with me."
Moriarty nodded again, dejectedly, hearing the heavy boots of DI Lestrade rushing along the corridor towards John.
"John, you're not allowed in here, you know that, let alone -" He pulled the doctor away from the door, "talk to the prisoners."
"One of your prisoners is gravely injured, bullet wound to the chest. I fixed it earlier, but now – because of your officers – the stitches have torn open. I need to see him now."
"Look, mate, I can't let you in there, he's -" Lestrade began.
"Damn it, Greg, I'm his doctor. That man requires urgent medical attention if he is to survive your prison which, last time I looked, criminals are, by law, entitled to. So unless you want to lose your position, Detective Inspector, and gain a lengthy stretch in prison yourself, let me treat my patient."
Gregory Lestrade for a moment tried in vain to resist the doctor's glare, but soon pulled out a bunch of keys which he began to fumble through, looking for the one which opened the sniper's cell. Finally, agonisingly slowly, the inspector turned the key in the lock, and John barged immediately past him, running out of Jim's line of sight.
"Christ." He barely heard John murmur.
"What? What is it? Is he ok, John? John!" Moriarty began to scream again, the yells almost uncontrollable. John said he'd be fine, Jim thought, he promised. Clinging to this thought, Jim was able to calm himself enough to listen.
Several more police officers had run down the hallway. Someone was calling for an ambulance. John was yelling for someone to put pressure on the wound. Paramedics soon arrived, crashing through several sets of doors before they rushed past Jim. He called out again, trying to find out what was happening.
Then there was a moment of silence. Jim caught Dr. Watson's whisper.
"Time of death… 12:09."