Disclaimer: I own not a thing. I realize I am repetitive in this, but Sherlock's mind can get into a loop sometimes.

Nobody had calculated the Moriarty variable into their plans. (Sherlock should have seen through him if his death was faked, shouldn't he? Once again, stupid.) But the criminal mastermind wouldn't have reacted well to the loss of his favourite plaything, everyone knew that.

So, to stop Jim Moriarty from escalating in his chaos bringing, Sherlock's exile had been…postponed. (Probably just postponed. He shouldn't delude himself.) Throwing him as a victim to Jim's mad games, rather than Putin's men. It made no difference for the men who had decreed his fate.

It should have made a whole world of difference to him, because he was still in England. He only had to ask for it, and he was sure that he could have John once again by his side in this. Only he didn't want to.

Of course he wanted John, forever; it was etched in his very cells. But Moriarty had an ugly habit of putting John Watson in the crosshairs, and that was simply not acceptable.

Sherlock would keep his…friend out of the investigation entirely (simply out of the loop wasn't enough – look what happened last time). Stage a fight with him, if need be. But he overwhelmingly needed John safe. It should have worked. He'd go without John, painful as that was, but at least he'd be untouched from the danger Sherlock breathed.

Once again, he'd forgotten the most obvious things. Because when Sherlock had followed Jim's polite invitation all the way to Scotland, he'd gotten a show that was a mismatch of mythology, Grimm tales and Poe…with John at the centre of it all.

There was a labyrinth – an actual, bloody labyrinth – and in the midst of it, a tower whose last storey had glass walls – just so he'd be allowed to see what was inside. And that was John Hamish Watson, chained to the floor, with a bloody gigantic, gleaming, utterly sharp sickle oscillating closer and closer to his bound friend.

A hoarse, horrified, "How?" left his mouth unbidden.

"Because he trusts me still, and Jimmikins wanted me to," Mary said with a smirk, appearing from inside the labyrinth. "Though I'd get moving, Sherlock. Clock's ticking."

He'd thought Mary loved John. (Well, maybe she liked him – she just loved Jim more.) But as Mary said, there was no time to ponder that – or his idiocy.

He ran inside the trap – of course it was a trap, obviously Jim had no intention to let him reach John at all, much less exit this alive – blinded by fear. He should have been able to solve it (labyrinths were easy to work out) but remotely controlled walls kept shifting around him, blocking his path. Hidden blades sprang out, trying to cripple him or tear him apart, but only managing to graze him (multiple times) due to his reflexes and sheer, blind luck on his part.

He needed to get to John – he needed to – he never would. Unless… The labyrinth had no ceiling (he needed to be allowed to check John's status – to be distracted by it). If he could just fly up to John…But he couldn't fly. His wings were useless decorations.

But he hadn't tried – not since these barely remembered days when the lead scientists kept pushing him into what he wasn't ready for. His wings were bigger now, looked stronger – and above all, he needed to get to John in time. A few meters. Come on. It didn't matter if he fell again – he'd at least be closer to his target. Gain time.

He furiously shed his clothes, and started flapping nervously his black wings. Up. Up. Up. To John. Now! Maybe it was the strength of desperation, but finally Sherlock was flying. Not gracefully, of course, he must have looked like a ridiculous, overgrown, awkward baby crow at his first flight, but he was nearing the tower more and more. In the end, he crashed inside it in a shower of sharp glass fragments. The sleuth stumbled in a clumsy landing.

"Sherlock!" John called, shocked by his unexpected entrance.

"I've got it," the detective assured. Thank God that he had stored a set of picklocks in the inseam of his trousers. He started to work on John's chains, furiously quick. It might still not be quick enough – the sickle was frighteningly close now – but at least while he worked the blade would have to go through him first. That was good.

Blogger finally free, they rolled away together with no time to spare at all. The blade cut away the endings of some of Sherlock's longer quills, and he winced.

A hidden speaker – somewhere above them – startled them booming, "Tut, tut, tut, Sherlock. You cheated, you know. It was beautiful, I'll give you that, my swan prince. But still, people who don't play by the rules get punished." Moriarty.

Sherlock didn't stay to hear anymore. He hugged John, told him to hold on and flew away by the same way he'd come, hoping for the best. No sense being sitting ducks or facing a building Moriarty had obviously rigged in many ways.

"I thought you couldn't fly!" John blurted out, his grip almost painfully strong.

"I thought so too!" Sherlock replied, and laughed, high on adrenaline and the sensation of flying, while trying to land them outside the labyrinth. Not even the tower exploding behind them could scare him. They landed unsteadily, amidst Mary's bullets.

"She's toying with us," the detective pointed out. If she wanted them death, they would be.

"Exactly," John agreed. "All you want is to bloody play," he yelled then, "and we can't play anymore if you kill us. Are you so anxious to get bored?"

Mary laughed. Jim, finally, appeared and exclaimed, "Oh, fine! Off you go! But you still cheated!" Two quick bullets hit Sherlock where his wings met the shoulders.

"You've just burned your second chance, Mary," John said coldly. "I'll be there for the baby -"

"Oh, don't bother, it's mine," Jim chimed in gleefully. "Now shoo, before I change idea."