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John woke with a groan, his eyes blinking slowly in an attempt to clear his spotty vision. His chest felt heavy, like he couldn't get a full breath of air in, he was unbearably hot, and he had an itch in his ear. He was sitting on something unyielding, his back against something as equally hard. His vision cleared, and he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Doctor Watson, I was beginning to worry about you!”
John started. The voice didn't come from the man in front of him; on the contrary, it seemed to come from inside his own head.
“Now now, don't get jumpy. Sebby is awfully quick to pull the trigger, and we wouldn't want you dead before we could play a little game first!”
The stone faced man behind the gun didn't look like a Sebby, but he did look like someone who wouldn't hesitate to shoot John if he so much as blinked too long. Without moving his head, he glanced around in an attempt to find the source of the voice, but all he could see within the dark confines of the small room he seemed to be in was the man with the gun and the door behind him.
“I'm afraid I can't let you see me; the show isn't over yet, and I would just hate to spoil the ending for you.”
There was a camera somewhere, then, and—though John dared not move his hand to confirm—he was sure that the itch in his ear must be from an earpiece where the voice was coming through.
“Seb's not one for conversation. I'm not quite sure if he even knows how to speak, actually. I only keep him around because he looks so pretty with a gun in his hand.”
John looked between the barrel of the gun and the face of the man holding it and wondered if Seb could hear the voice as well, because his expression didn’t change.
“Now. Let's lay our cards on the table, shall we? Unzip your jacket, Doctor.”
Jacket? John looked down at himself for the first time and noticed the parka he was dressed in—hot, that explained the heat—but his mind was still a little sluggish and due to his surprise at finding himself in an article of clothing he'd never owned, he forgot the voice’s request until it spoke again.
“Come on, don't be shy! Show me some skin.”
John glanced up at Seb again, and the man hadn't moved a centimeter—had he even blinked? He looked away and turned his attention to the parka. Slowly, he reached his hand up and started to unzip the jacket.
He wasn't a third of the way down before he froze, his fingers going clammy against the zipper pull. A rainbow set of wires shined up at John from his chest, the wires disappearing into compartments across the vest he wore under the parka and now the heaviness made sense: bomb.
John was strapped to a bomb.
The tightness in his chest from before intensified tenfold; his lungs felt like they were collapsing, as though someone had stomped on his chest. It took everything in him to keep from hyperventilating, and the medically trained subconscious lurking in his mind hissed calm down, don't go into shock, this isn't hurting you, but those warnings couldn't keep his heart from racing and his breaths from coming in shallowly, couldn't keep his mind from flashing back to the terrified woman and the man in Piccadilly Circus and the blind old lady christ the blind old lady whose voice trembled and whose voice cut off and whose body exploded into a million pieces—
“You're a smart boy, aren't you, Johnny?”
John could almost feel the glee in the voice—in Moriarty's voice, he amended—and he swallowed thickly. So this was it, then. He was so stupid to have wrapped himself up in this; he should’ve just stayed away from Sherlock, from the madness of these investigations. If he had just kept to himself like he had been, he wouldn’t be sitting here right now, a gun pointed at his head and a bomb strapped to his chest, about to die.
No. He had chosen this. Despite the fear paralyzing every fiber of his being, there was a sick part of him that thrilled at the danger.
“So you know the rules of the game. I say repeat, you say what I say. The man you've been playing detective with—” the word playing injured something in John, “—is on his way, and going off script will spoil the game and make me very cross. Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty said, then paused, letting the name hang in the air for a moment as though he were tasting it. “Ooh, Sherlock Holmes is on his way, Doctor Watson, on his way to play the hero.”
John still felt disoriented (the remnants of being drugged, he wondered?), and all he could focus on past his fear and his inability to breathe was one word: “Sherlock?”
John heard Moriarty sigh, and he sounded impatient when he replied, as if John were ruining the lines he’d prepared. “The one and only, Johnny boy.”
John's stomach dropped. Stupid, stupid Sherlock, why did he always have to think he was so clever, why did he make the call and ask Moriarty to come to him... Another thought crossed John's mind, one that made him feel even worse: did Sherlock know John was there? “Does he—”
“Know that you're here?” Jim laughed, and it was a grating noise that made John feel sick. Mirth returned to his tone. “No no no, he waited for you to leave before he asked me out on this date—he thinks that he's keeping you out of it, isn't that positively pedestrian?”
A bead of sweat creeped down John’s back.
“He thinks he's solved my puzzle, that he's seen the end of the little game I made for him, but he hasn't seen the director’s cut. Do what I say, Johnny, or you’ll have to be relieved of your role. You understand me, don't you?”
John couldn't speak, his mind too consumed with dread. He knew that Moriarty had already killed countless people, and that he wouldn't hesitate to add John to the list—and Sherlock to boot.
The lack of response tripped Jim’s temper, and he growled, “I won't ask twice, Doctor.”
Moriarty’s voice in his ear was so loud that it filled his entire skull, and the intensity made a shiver run up his spine. John swallowed the lump in his throat. There was no foreseeable way out of this. He could try to disarm the man in front of him, but even if he managed to do that without being shot at point-blank range, Moriarty would likely flip whatever switch it was that controlled the bomb he was stuck inside of and blow him to smithereens before he could take another step.
He once again became hyper aware of the weight of the bomb strapped to his chest. His heart threatened to hammer straight out of his ribcage, his mind automatically flashing back to Afghanistan—Please, God, let me live—and so he instinctively shut his mind off and detached completely from his emotions. It was the only way he was going to make it through this. He had to soldier through.
“Yes,” John croaked in a voice that was technically his own but no longer sounded like him.
“Yes, what?” Warning.
“Yes, I understand.” Tone even, thoughts silenced.
Moriarty practically purred. “Good boy. I see why Sherlock keeps you around; you're so sexy when you're obedient.”
John closed his eyes and breathed out slowly through his nose.
“Sebby is gonna go up to the gallery to join all my other little crows, but I'm sure I don't need to tell you what happens if you try something stupid. You dying now would be so boring.”
By the time John opened his eyes again the man was gone, and he could almost pretend for a moment that he was alone.
“Unzip the rest of that jacket, pet. Lemme see what you're working with.”
John hadn't realized his hand was still on the zipper of the parka. He forced himself to take in a deep breath even though all it did was remind him of the oppressive fabric constricting him. He unzipped the jacket slowly, trying to pretend that he was at home, preparing to take his jacket off before sitting down in his armchair with a cup of tea and the newspaper.
The sheer amount of bomb staring back at him rendered his mental efforts useless.
“Oh, aren't you pretty in that. Semtex suits you.”
John grimaced, thankful that, at the very least, Moriarty wasn't standing in front of him.
“Put your hands in the pockets and hold that closed. I don't want Sherlock to read ahead.”
John obeyed, happy to have the bomb out of sight even if it did nothing to ease the weight off his chest.
There was silence for a few minutes, but John didn't feel the time pass. He was at 221B Baker Street listening to Sherlock play the violin; he was at tea with Sarah; he was breathing in dirt as he lay belly-flat on the ground in Afghanistan; he was running practiced hands over patients, over soldiers, over friends; he was everywhere and nowhere and anywhere but here.
“Ooh, he's at the front door!” Jim stage-whispered. John tried to take a steadying breath, but it came out shaky. “Remember the rules, Doctor Watson.”
Seconds after Moriarty issued the warning, John heard a door click open from a little distance away. Next came footsteps, slow but deliberate, as they clipped across the tile floor. John's heart leapt into his throat. Why did Sherlock have to come—
“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present,” Sherlock called, projecting his voice across the empty pool. “Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance… All to distract me from this.”
Sherlock's last word hung in the air for a long beat.
“The curtain rises, Doctor,” Jim said. “Show Sherlock you're here.”
He wanted desperately to stay, his legs heavy as lead, but Moriarty's words from before replayed in his mind—I won't ask twice—and residual fear forced John forward and out into the open.
Sherlock heard the noise and snapped his head towards it instantly, and the emotions that flashed across Sherlock’s face when they locked eyes were something that John immediately wished he could forget: shock, confusion, disbelief, anger, betrayal.
“Oh, OH, do you see his face! He thinks it's you!” Moriarty all but moaned. John pushed a deep breath out through his nose, trying to ignore the comments until he was ordered to speak.
“Repeat: evening!”
John took another steadying breath that came out trembling. “Evening.”
The word came out stale, and he heard Jim laughing. Sherlock's eyes took stock of every aspect of John's being; despite being buried under the parka and enough explosives to level the building, John had never felt more naked. He prayed that Sherlock could see that something was wrong.
“Repeat: this is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherrrrrlock?”
But John's throat felt like it was stuffed up, like someone had taken a gag and shoved it halfway down his neck. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch, but his eyes were drowning in emotion that John couldn’t begin to process from across the room. He knew that the best course of action was to ignore it, to steady up and soldier on, but with Sherlock in front of him all of his own emotions came rushing back.
He was afraid, so afraid: afraid of dying, afraid of Sherlock dying, afraid of the confusion and the betrayal still swimming in his flatmate’s—his friend's—eyes, and that combined with the constriction of the vest and the physical weight on his chest he felt like he was going to burst, bomb or no.
He needed to get on with it. “Repeat,” Moriarty growled.
Soldier on, if only for the moment. He blinked his eyes rapidly and swallowed a few times, anything to keep his emotions from boiling over and to keep him from collapsing to the ground. He struggled to keep his voice steady. “This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?”
Sherlock found his voice again, but it was so soft, but it was also an accusation. He seemed in disbelief. “John. What the hell...?”
“Oh, this is orgasmic! Repeat: bet you never saw this coming. Say it like you mean it.”
John tried to dissociate from the situation entirely. He pretended that Moriarty’s voice was his own, so that way he could work the words out of his mouth while his friend stood in front of him, potentially about to die. “Bet you never saw this coming.”
He forced a tight smile across his face. Sherlock hadn’t seen this coming, and neither had John; he had never expected anything to go this far, to find himself in this deep. He hadn’t expected to get swept up in a world where people kidnapped and murdered other people for fun, for the sole purpose of making puzzles for other people to solve.
Sherlock seemed at once both disarmed and on alert. He lowered his hand—he had brought the plans, the absolute idiot—and took a few steps closer, but kept his eyes locked onto John’s.
“Time for the big reveal, Johnny boy. Hold open the jacket.”
John locked his knees and started to pull his hands out of his pockets, trying to keep his whole body from trembling. It was so much, it was too much, this was all a game to Moriarty and he was living for it. John reached up, got a hold on both sides of the jacket, and shakily began to hold it open, revealing the bomb that had been strapped to his chest for what felt like hours.
Sherlock’s jaw went ever so slightly slack.
“Repeat: what would you like me to make him say next?”
His breaths were coming in shallowly again. The betrayal in Sherlock’s eyes had melted away, replaced completely with concern, and if John wasn’t mistaken, a little bit of fear.
He felt useless. He was a pawn, a toy. His throat worked furiously to get the words out.
Breathe.
“What…”
Breathe.
“Would you like me…”
Sherlock’s eyes moved from John’s face down to the bomb.
He looked down at himself, which was a mistake. A glowing red dot appeared on his chest like a laser pointer, an added threat on top of the physical one he already wore. He swallowed, looked back up again.
Breathe.
“To make him say…”
He knew he was going to die.
“...Next.”
Watching Sherlock realize what was happening ratcheted his emotions up to a new, startling level. Sherlock steadily began to close the distance between them as he scanned the pool, looking for something, anything, anyone. Moriarty cackled in John's ear, whining, “Oh, look at him, look at him John, isn't that incredible!”
He wasn't sure if that was a command, but regardless he couldn't have looked away from Sherlock if he’d wanted to; Sherlock's presence, despite being panicked, was his rock. He knew that if he looked away right now he would look at the bomb, and it was all he could do to keep from collapsing as it was.
The excitement in Moriarty’s voice was sickening. “Repeat: gottle o’ gear!”
John felt a hollowness in his chest. He was a puppet and Moriarty was his master. He had no choice but to let Moriarty play with him, humiliate him, use him as an instrument to show off the power he possessed—all to wind up Sherlock, and the increasing concern overtaking Sherlock's expression only fueled Moriarty's amusement. “Gottle o’ gear.”
Before John could even finish the first phrase, Moriarty repeated it to him again, this time mimicking the tone of an old timey TV show host.
Sherlock turned his head to look back where he entered.
Breathe.
“Gottle o’ gear—”
“Isn’t this fun, Johnny, say it with me now! Gottle o’?”
He couldn’t do this. He felt as though the stress was shutting his body down. He could hardly find the breath to finish: “Gottle o’ gear.”
“Stop it.”
The way Sherlock said it was somewhere between the annoyed tone reserved for those keeping him from thinking and the severe tone reserved for someone doing him wrong. He had spun around, but he walked backwards, still trying to get close to John.
Moriarty continued on, speaking over Sherlock’s command to stop. “Oh he’s getting angry, isn't he? Repeat: nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him.”
His emotions had crescendoed so much that he felt like he had reached a plateau. Surely he had finally crossed over into shock. “Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him.”
He hadn't finished the sentence before Moriarty continued, “Repeat: I can stop John Watson too.”
Again, there it was, laid plain. Moriarty was going to kill him, all for the amusement of riling Sherlock up. All for the game. “I can stop John Watson too.”
While he spoke, Moriarty crooned, “And I can, Johnny, you know I can, look down and see! Repeat: stop his heart.”
John looked down at himself, spotting the sniper's dot that hovered on the bomb just as Moriarty gave him his next line. He wasn't sure if the tremor that ripped through his chest was caused by the sight of the dot or the sound of the venom in Jim's voice. He looked away from the dot quickly, naively hoping that if he didn't look at it, then it wasn't there.
“Stop his heart.”
Men weren’t made for stress like this. He felt like his heart could stop at any moment, even without Moriarty's assistance. Sherlock was getting increasingly agitated, his spinning almost dizzying to watch.
“Who are you?”
Then, Moriarty’s voice called out, but this time not through John’s earpiece. It came from behind him somewhere, and Sherlock’s head shot towards the sound.
“I gave you my number. I thought you might call.”
John watched Sherlock’s face, watched his eyes scan over Moriarty to absorb as much as he could as quickly as he could. Moriarty called out again, “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”
Sherlock drew the pistol then, replying easily, “Both.”
John looked away. These two were made for each other. Their conversation was a dance, a tease, and evidently it was going to be the death of them all.
Jim began to go on about himself, but John couldn’t focus on it; his mental energy was spent on keeping himself calm and completely still. Remember the rules, Doctor Watson. Moriarty wasn’t giving him directions anymore, but the bomb was still strapped to him and the sniper—Seb—was still in the rafters somewhere, and he didn’t want to do anything that would risk that trigger being pulled.
John glanced at Sherlock, who was clinging to every word Jim said, fascinated by the new piece of the puzzle placed before him. He looked to the floor again, but out of his periphery he saw Sherlock glance over at him, then to the dot that still hovered on his chest, then back to Moriarty.
“Don’t be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”
Moriarty’s voice got ever closer, Sherlock watching with interest. Their back-and-forth was exhausting, too much for John to try to keep up with, and he shut his eyes in an attempt to calm his somehow ever-increasing nerves. He managed to block out their conversation, and he allowed himself to retreat into his mind for a moment. Surely it had only been a few minutes since Sherlock arrived, but it felt like he'd been standing for hours. He prayed that this banter was Sherlock buying himself time to plan, to escape.
The gun cocked. They went on, volleying as if in a tennis match, back and forth, Moriarty’s voice lilting like a song, Sherlock unable to stop himself from engaging with his antithesis. If Sherlock didn’t shoot Moriarty now—John knew that Sherlock wouldn’t, he couldn’t pass up on the promise of a threat like Jim—then something else would have to escalate the confrontation. These two men couldn’t last for long on this conversation alone; their verbal volley was catapulting faster by the moment.
“Although I have loved this, this little game of ours,” Jim said. John grit his teeth, shook his head. No, this game—kidnapping, murder, guns and bombs and threats—wasn’t enough for them. They were going to boil over.
“Playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”
“People have died.”
“That’s what people DO!"
Unwillingly, John flinched; Moriarty’s voice boomed, filling the room, echoing across the tile. It was coming. The moment of release, the moment of truth, it was coming. John resigned himself to it.
Please, God, let me live.
Sherlock looked to John, his focus as sharp as a laser. “Are you alright?”
Just as suddenly as Moriarty had shouted, his voice came into John’s ear from right behind him.
“You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead.”
He jerked his head away. Sherlock’s gaze stayed on John, but his eyes narrowed in anger. John’s eyes looked into Sherlock’s and, not sure if he’d physically be able to muster himself into speaking, he nodded sharply.
Satisfied, Sherlock’s attention switched back to Moriarty. He offered up the missile plans, and Moriarty edged around John to approach Sherlock. John watched him move. He thought back to the red dot on his chest. There was one sniper, then, facing John; if Sherlock tried to run, even if something went wrong with the bomb then the sniper would just shoot Sherlock in the back of the head.
But he couldn’t just stand there. John’s fate had been sealed, but he could help Sherlock. If Sherlock couldn’t escape, even if he had to die here in this room, by this pool, then at least John could do something to flip the control into Sherlock’s hands.
Time to be a soldier again.
Moriarty flicked the plans into the pool and John charged forward, seizing Moriarty around the neck and yanking him backwards.
“Sherlock, run!”
Sherlock stuttered back a step, surprise and fear working across his face as his mind rushed to analyze this change of events. John’s height was a disadvantage; due to the few inches Moriarty had on him, he felt like a child tugging at his parent’s leg. Jim jolted a few times in resistance, but it felt less like he was trying to free himself and more like he was testing the limits of John's strength. He felt the amusement rumble in Jim's throat as he laughed.
“Good!”
John looked to Sherlock, to the rafters, and back to Sherlock again.
“Veeeery good!”
Sherlock’s gaze followed John’s up to the rafters, searching for a moment but unable to see anything. He adjusted his grip on the gun and looked to John and Moriarty again.
“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up,” John said, breathing sharply, barely able to hear his own voice over the hammering of his heart.
“Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around,” Moriarty sneered, and hot anger shot through him. He snarled, tugged on Moriarty in retaliation, and Moriarty continued on as though John’s tug was just an annoyance.
“But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets—”
John yanked again, this time almost managing to cut Moriarty’s last word off. He tightened his grip; he wanted to choke this man, kill him, make him pay for his taunts and his cocky bravado and his disregard for those he deemed beneath him.
Moriarty turned his head to look at John as best he could, his nose almost brushing John’s cheek. “They’re so touchingly loyal,” he snipped, all amusement gone from his voice. “But, OOPS!”
Sherlock just stared at him while he struggled to maintain his grip on Moriarty, and damn it, Sherlock, stop looking at me and run, you idiot—but John barely had time to finish that thought before a red dot appeared on Sherlock's forehead. Moriarty craned his head around again, and John could see the grin on his face as he said, “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.”
What an idiot he had been, he had forgotten what Moriarty had said about his other crows in the rafters, of course Moriarty would have thought everything through. His hold on Moriarty began to slacken immediately as he stared, wide eyed, at the threat of death on Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock stared back at him, understanding what had happened just through John’s expression.
Moriarty turned his head to look at Sherlock for a silent, smug moment, then moved again to look at John, his smirk ever-present, his face practically caressing John’s own. Sherlock deflated, keeping his eyes on John’s, his expression as if to say that he knew John had tried his best, but Moriarty had out-classed him. They shared a moment of understanding, and then Sherlock looked away, shaking his head both in disbelief and as a means to communicate that this attempt wasn’t worth it.
“Gotcha.”
John released Jim and stepped back with his hands raised, defeated and humiliated. His hands dropped as he returned to his previous position, the psychological stress of his failed usurpation coming over him all at once, crashing into him like an ocean wave. His breath stuttered as he tried to keep steady.
He couldn't have repeated whatever Jim and Sherlock said next if his life depended on it. He was consumed by the realization that he was incredibly, crushingly, obviously out of his depth.
“Well, I’d better be off,” Moriarty said lightly, as though they had just met up for a cup of tea and he didn’t want to be too late getting home. He turned around briefly to glance at John, but John looked down at the ground, unable to look Moriarty in the eye. Moriarty turned back to Sherlock. “Well, so nice to have had a proper chat.”
“What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?” Sherlock said, and John looked up to see Sherlock adjusting his grip on the gun once again. He looked more curious than determined, as if this were a test, a continuation of the puzzle.
“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. ’Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would. And just a teensy bit . . . disappointed.”
Sherlock’s expression remained unchanged, but his thumb readjusted once more. Moriarty knew Sherlock wouldn’t shoot him, just as he’d known John wouldn’t follow through once the red dot appeared on Sherlock’s head. No matter how they tried to modify the situation, Moriarty was always coming out on top.
“And of course, you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long,” Moriarty said, reasserting his dominance, making sure they remembered the snipers and the bomb—John hadn’t forgotten that, its weight constricting his chest.
“Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.” Moriarty began to turn away, and John cast his eyes down once more, lest he have to look into the villain’s eyes again, but Moriarty’s gaze stayed on Sherlock’s as he walked.
Sherlock took small steps forward, following his path, bringing himself closer to John while keeping his sight and pistol trained on Moriarty. “Catch you . . . later.”
“No you won’t!” Moriarty called as he slipped out of the room, through the door John had come through.
Sherlock stayed suspended in stillness for a long beat, unmoving, waiting to see if Moriarty was gone for good.
He moved his gaze to John.
Then he was rushing forward, sitting the gun on the tile, fingers flying to John’s torso to remove the vest. John stumbled backwards, all of the air whooshing out of him, and it was like all sensation had returned at once. He felt Sherlock’s thin fingers fumbling at the fabric, heat from all the layers, sweat running down his back, tingling in his hands and feet, stress, and he was gasping in air as if he’d been stuck underwater, in the pool, and he could finally breathe again—
“All right?” Sherlock said, concerned, the most concern he’d ever expressed condensed into two syllables, but John hardly even heard him, so grateful was he to be breathing again—
“Are you alright?” Sherlock said, urgently this time, and the vest finally released from around his stomach.
“Yeah yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine. Sherlock . . .” He was fine, really, shockingly; he hadn’t expected to make it out of this alive, both of them were okay, but Sherlock was still electric with tension. He had whipped around behind him, tugging the parka and vest off as quickly as he could, tugging John who was practically limp on his feet.
A final hard tug, one that made him stumble backwards again—“Sherlock!”—and he was free. He turned his head back and saw Sherlock throwing the bomb away. It slid across the tile a good distance away.
“Jeez,” John said under his breath, his hand coming up to pull where the earpiece was still in his ear; it now felt like too much, since the weight of the parka and the bomb were gone. He took deep breaths still, trying to steady his heartbeat, and remained unfocused on anything in particular. Moriarty was gone, they were going to make it out of this, Sherlock darted past him to check the doorway to make sure Moriarty was gone.
Out of nowhere his knees buckled—“Oh, Christ”—and he stumbled with a hand held out as he stuttered forward to catch himself against one of the changing room walls. He brought himself down into a crouch with his back against the wall. He breathed out through closed lips, sighed. His back cracked, and a grimace crossed his face briefly before fading away. His heartbeat was slowing down. Despite it all, he felt okay.
He became aware of Sherlock pacing to his left. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Me? Yeah, fine. I’m fine. Fine.” Sherlock answered in the same way John had just moments ago, obviously distracted and overwhelmed. Neither of them made eye contact, still in their own worlds, recovering.
Sherlock struggled along with the next bit, trying to sound sincere but hindered by the billions of thoughts that must have still been whizzing through his mind. “That, uh . . . that thing that you, uh . . . that you did. That, um,” he cleared his throat quickly, “you offered to do, that was, um . . . Good.”
John didn’t want to think about Moriarty anymore, or about anything that had happened over the past hour of his life. He wanted things to be back to normal again—whatever normal was with Sherlock around, anyway.
“I’m glad no one saw that.”
“Hmm?” Sherlock replied, finally stopping his pacing to look down at John.
“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”
“People do little else.”
They looked at each other then, and a smile flashed across Sherlock’s face. The final notes of anxiety in John’s body vanished, and he laughed quietly. All he needed now was a hot shower and a hot cuppa and he’d feel normal again.
He started to get up from his crouched position on the floor, but in an instant Sherlock’s happy, relaxed expression flickered back into something much closer to fear, his eyes shooting down to John’s chest. John looked down.
A red dot had appeared once more, and it was dancing across his torso, and he could feel his chest tightening again in fear as though Moriarty had never left. He stiffened up against the wall. “Oh—”
“Sorry, boys!” Moriarty called from somewhere behind them, and John screwed his eyes shut. “I’m sooooo changeable! It is a weakness with me but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness.”
Foolishly, he had thought Moriarty was gone. Foolishly, he thought they were going to make it out of this alive. He looked down at himself again and saw multiple dots aimed at his chest, then glanced up at Sherlock and saw two, three, four dots aimed at him.
“You can’t be allowed to continue.”
Sherlock locked eyes with John, and John locked eyes with Sherlock. Their gaze, their expression, contained multitudes: I’m with you, you’re with me, we have each other, this is all we need, this is what we have to do. They understood each other.
“You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”
Sherlock looked away, steadied himself. John watched him. Had Sherlock never actually considered the possibility that he could die? Would he be able to go through with it?
Sherlock looked down at John for reassurance, for permission.
John nodded once, tightly, confidently. He was afraid to die, but if it had to happen like this then it was okay. He gave Sherlock the right to his life.
He kept his eyes on John. “Probably my answer has crossed yours.”
Sherlock, in a fluid motion, turned around to aim the gun at Moriarty.
John watched Sherlock lower the gun to aim at the bomb.
He took a small breath, swallowed, watched the bomb.
Waited.