I O U Much More (Post-Reich) Chapter 13

WARNING: This story will contain mature themes including male on male sex, violence, and swearing. If you don't like those things then this story is not for you.

Please read the AN at the bottom

*~~~*

The next few days were spent in a combination of planning, preparing, and worrying for Sherlock. They had everything just about set for their trap from exactly what John would wear to hide the wire and bulletproof vest, to the basics of what he would say during their 'fight'. Sherlock was getting very anxious, however, the day before they were to execute their place. He paced the flat, played loud, cat-screech-sounding notes on his violin, and started experiments that never got finished, leaving the chemicals wherever. And he was clingy. Very clingy. He rarely let John stray even one room away from him, as if he would suddenly drop dead if Sherlock couldn't see him anymore.

This, of course, started to get to John after the first hour. "Sherlock!" he huffed in irritation the third time that the man followed him into the kitchen when he went to refresh his cup of coffee. "Please, go back to the sitting room and just...sit. You're driving me up the wall." While he understood very well why Sherlock was acting this way it didn't make it any less bothersome.

Sherlock pursed his lips, wanting to protest, but if John was already getting testy then that was only likely to lead to an argument. Besides, John was right, he was being ridiculous. He wasn't going to just disappear if there was a wall between them. Hopefully. He moved back into the living room, though he had too much energy to sit, and picked up his violin instead. Everything came out sounding like screams of bloody murder.

John groaned, setting the coffee pot down. "Sherlock," he sighed, marching back into the room and standing in front of the other man. "Put the violin down. Stop thinking. Sit. Or at this rate, we're definitely not going to have to fake the fight."

Sherlock stopped playing but didn't put the violin down, fingers clenching and unclenching around the neck and bow. "I can't sit. I can't just stop thinking, you know that." He dropped the instrument unceremoniously into a chair and started to pace. "Where are my cigarettes?"

"You are absolutely not allowed to smoke," John said, moving to sit down in his chair, as any other spot in the living room would be in Sherlock's path. "There's a fresh box of patches in the medicine cabinet."

"Patches don't do anything anymore," Sherlock retorted, stopping and pulling up his sleeve to show he was already wearing four.

John's lips pulled down into a frown. "First of all, that's probably why you're so worked up, that's way too much nicotine. Secondly, I keep telling you it's going to be fine. You know that. We've planned it all out so there's no way I'm can get hurt. I promise, I'll be fine. Lestrade's made sure of it."

This didn't seem to reassure the taller at all. "Nothing is guaranteed and I don't need to remind you why I'm acting this way." He then spun on his heel and continued his pacing, mind whirling with scenario upon scenario of how things could go wrong. This was a horrible idea, why had he ever agreed to it?

"Sherlock." John made a frustrated sound and pushed himself up again. "Sherlock!" He grabbed the man's arm and spun him around so they were face-to-face, his eyes firm as they held the detective's gaze. "Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. I am going to be fine."

Sherlock looked down at John, into the dark, calming blue, and while he was still feeling like ripping his hair out, he relaxed slightly. His leaned down a little, forehead touching John's. "I'm sorry. But...you know..." He wound his arms around his husband's waist.

"I know," John assured him, automatically returning the embrace and pressing close. "I know. But I'm going to be okay. I won't let him hurt me again, and neither will you, or Lestrade, or Mycroft. Everything's going to be fine, and then we'll be done with Moriarty forever."

Sherlock nodded. He wasn't at all convinced, because there were just too many possibilities for things to go wrong, but for now it would have to be enough to put him at ease. His hold on John tightened. "Yes. The world will finally be rid of that odious man, and we'll be free."

John smiled and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. "Yes. Free to have our happy ending," he said.

For a moment, they were silent, just holding each other, as if this might be their last chance to do so. Then Sherlock spoke, pulling back enough to look down into John's face again. "I think it's obvious that I'm nowhere near ready for this...But are you?"

John took a deep, steadying breath. "Yes," he said firmly, decisively. "Yes, I am absolutely ready."

"I suppose that's a good thing. One of us needs to be," Sherlock said, examining John's face. Such bravery, such determination. He always admired that; the world was just another battlefield and John was always ready for the next challenge.

"You'll be okay, too," John said, smiling a little, and reaching up to brush back a few curls from Sherlock's face. "And remember, we don't take offence to anything the other says while we're arguing."

"Right." Sherlock nodded once. "Because it's just for show and we're supposed to be vicious."

"Exactly," John chuckled. "And I swear, I don't mean a word of it." He gave him another peck on the cheek, gentle and loving.

Sherlock grinned a little. He still got a warm prickle on his skin wherever John kissed him. "I know," he said. "Don't worry, I'm quite used to verbal assaults. I've learned to not let it get to me."

"Good." John hugged Sherlock tightly, reluctant to let him go, when he knew what would soon transpire. John was putting himself in the thick of things. But he was willing to risk it all if it meant getting rid of Moriarty, putting Sherlock's mind at ease, and giving them hope for a peaceful future.

I.:.O.:.U

The next day they acted as normally as possible. Perhaps even a bit too normal. The only thing out of line of their normal routine was John's putting on some additional garments and wiring under his normal clothes (this he did in the bathroom, where there were no windows to be seen from). Otherwise, there was nothing suspicious about their activity. They went out to dinner, Sherlock trying to ignore the fact that they would soon be screaming at each other (doing it in public was the best place to be sure that Moriarty would see). It was somewhat surreal, and Sherlock was barely holding his composure for all his nerves.

John kept a firm grip on Sherlock's hand throughout dinner, reaching across the table, twisting their fingers together. He desperately hoped things would turn out the way they were supposed to, that everything would go according to plan, but he had to face the reality that this was, possibly, the last moment they would ever be spending together. There was a chance John wouldn't make it through this, or even a chance that Sherlock might die. They were making a leap of faith. For all the reassurance he had given Sherlock, it was hard to believe those words himself.

After a reasonable amount of time, he gave Sherlock's hand one last squeeze, then released. The silent profession of love and the attempt of reassurance in that squeeze was not lost on Sherlock. But it didn't really help when he was impossibly worried still and scared. They had reached the cue in their conversation to begin the argument, and that meant now there was no going back. It was kill Moriarty or die trying.

"I can't believe you're taking another case," John began. "You know, when I agreed to marry you, I thought, stupidly I guess, that we might actually be spending some time together."

Sherlock kept his face impassive, hiding the torrent of emotions inside. "We never agreed that I would stop taking cases. That has always been a part of me and I was under the impression that you understood that."

"I do understand that," John huffed, playing off his frustration well, because deep down, it had some base in reality. "But you go running off at all hours of the night, and you don't sleep or eat or talk for days at a time, and you leave me to trail behind you like some helpless puppy, and it's irritating."

Sherlock kept his demeanor cold, like he used to. It was actually quite easy to slip back into. His defence mode naturally kicked in like it always had when someone started yelling at him. "Isn't that how it's always been? It's only bothering you now because you let your sentiment get in the way."

"Well, excuse me for feeling sentiment toward my husband!" John said, raising his voice now. "I just want to spend a bit more time with you. You, and not the dead bodies you're examining. You're married to me now, not your work!"

"You knew what you were getting into so you can't blame me for going on as usual." Sherlock shrugged, keeping calm in spite of John's 'rising anger'.

"Yes, I can," John barked. "I can blame you for it. I can blame you for all of it. I can blame you for every bad thing that's ever happened to me because of your stupid obsession with these cases, with being right all the time and showing off and proving to everyone just how damn clever you are!" He stood. Saying these words made him feel sick to his stomach. Sherlock already blamed himself enough, John knew, and he didn't want to be saying these things, because they weren't true. None of it was Sherlock's fault. But it had to be believable...

For just a split second, just because it was John's voice saying those things and because he could see John saying them and he looked so convincing, Sherlock felt it. A sting in his heart, even though he knew these words were planned and that John didn't mean them. Anyone else saying such things to him would have had no effect, but John...it hurt. But as quickly as he felt it, he could also feel his walls building, the defence that was programmed into his brain kicking in automatically to protect him. He lifted his chin in defiance and his next words came too easily. "Again, you knew how I was, how I am, and you still agreed to marry me. I can't help that you're an idiot for letting yourself get involved with me."

"And there you go, calling me an idiot again!" John cried. "Honestly, Sherlock, if I'm such an idiot, why the bloody hell did you agree to marry me? It's clear you don't think very highly of me, or consider me a priority! Why did you ever think this might work out between us?"

Sherlock hated this, every second of it. He wanted to call the whole thing off and hug John and take it all back. But he didn't have a choice. It was time for the clincher. "If you're so unhappy then go. I'm not going to stop you."

John clenched his fingers into trembling fists. It's not real, he had to remind himself. They were acting. Both of them. They were bringing John's worst fears to life, but it was all an act. "As if I would want you to stop me!" he snapped. Violently, he pulled his wedding ring off of his finger and hurled it at Sherlock. Then he grabbed his cane, turned on his heel, and limped out of the restaurant as quickly as he could. That was it. They'd made a scene. They'd split up. And now John was out in the open, without Sherlock, and completely vulnerable. Just what Moriarty would want.

Sherlock easily caught the ring and watched John leave, face still just as stoic, just barely hiding the pain inside. Phase one complete. He closed his fingers tightly around the little gold band and stood up, walking out of the restaurant and ignoring the stares they had garnered with their performance. Yes, it was just a performance. So why did it feel like John had just ripped his heart out and crushed it underfoot? He barely made it to the cab that Mycroft arranged to conveniently have in the area before tears started to fall.

I.:.O.:.U

In the opposite direction, a black car with tinted windows rolled up next to John. The back window opened just a slit, enough for a voice to slip out saying, "Helloooo, Johnny~.”

John froze where he stood. Even though he'd been expecting it, that voice still chilled him to the bone. And at the same time, it made him feel nothing but rage. Moriarty was the bane of his existence, the thorn in his side, the only thing that posed a threat to his and Sherlock's happiness, and if they didn't have a plan to stick too...After a moment of hesitation, John kept walking, saying nothing. Best not to jump into it and risk making him suspicious.

The car easily kept to John's speed. "Oh, is that any way to greet an old friend? How rude!"

"I'm definitely not in the mood," John said, scowling. His heart pounded. This moment could make or break their plan. Any moment could. Any move by John, or any word he said, ran the possibility that Jim would realise this was a set-up.

"Yes, I couldn't help but overhear your little spat. Dreadful business. I guess Sherly hasn't changed after all." Jim tutted a little. "Too bad. You do make a lovely couple!" The car stopped and the window rolled down further to reveal his face. "Feel like a little revenge?" he asked with a grin.

"Leave me alone," John said firmly. "Just because I'm pissed at Sherlock doesn't mean I'm going to team up with you for some sort of sick revenge. So go away. I'm not interested in your games."

"Oh...Still such a good boy even after all this time. How dull." Jim shrugged. "I didn't want to have to do this but if you're not going to cooperate..." He snapped his fingers and someone from an alley nearby dashed out and put a rag with chloroform over John's face.

John dropped his cane, and it clattered to the ground with finality. He struggled as best he could, but he was no match for his assailant's strength, and the chloroform overwhelmed him. His body slowly sagged as he lost consciousness. The man threw John into the back of the car, leaving his cane behind, and it took off.

I.:.O.:.U

John regained consciousness and immediately doubled over and retched, vomiting on the floor of the warehouse. How many times now had he had chloroform used on him to aid in his kidnapping? Certainly more than the average army doctor, and he wasn't even serving anymore.

Moriarty was sitting on a crate nearby, legs crossed and phone in hand. He looked over when he heard the sound of John getting sick and made a face. "Nuh uh, that will never do." He clapped once and a few men moved John over and cleaned up. "Don't want my suit to pick up the smell. It's brand new, Armani." He smoothed his lapels.

"Armani?" John managed to slur. He felt light-headed and his ears were ringing, but he had to fight the side effects of the chemical. He needed to be focused. "Thought you were a Westwood bloke? Either way, it doesn't suit you. You look hideous."

Jim frowned thoughtfully at that. "I like all designers! But Seb picked this out for me. Before your precious detective offed him." He sighed. "He never did have a good fashion sense."

"You don't seem very upset that he's gone," John said. He tried to move, only to find his wrists tied. He tugged unhappily at the bonds, for show, but he could tell that it was possible for him to untie himself. He'd have to work at it a little, but he had time anyway. He was supposed to stall to allow Sherlock and the others to catch up.

"I'm not foolish enough to have a heart. The people that work for me are disposable." Though something in Moriarty's face showed that he wasn't being completely honest. He giggled at John's struggling. "You should know better than that."

"You should know that you're wasting your time. Sherlock's not going to come and get me," John said. "Not after that fight. He doesn't care."

Jim tutted. "That's not what this text says." He waved the phone teasingly in front of himself, and then pocketed it.

John made a frustrated sound. Texting Moriarty hadn't been part of the plan, but he was sure Jim was well prepared anyway for Sherlock to come, with or without a heads up. "You're wearing this game out, you know" he said, trying to keep him busy. "The same thing, over and over. All you do is capture me and tie me up, or try to hurt me from a distance. Too much of a coward to do it up close and personal, aren't you?"

All the joking died from Jim's features and he took a few long strides till he was right in John's face. "You don't want me to be up close and personal," he said, dangerously low. "You wouldn't like it."

"What, as if I like it now?" John snarled, not fazed. "Because believe me, I don't."

Jim's demeanor easily returned to giddy. "I'm sorry, I thought we were having fun! I'm a terrible host. Bad Jim!" He giggled and went back to the crate and sat delicately. Checking his watch, shook his head. "Sherly's taking his time. Maybe he doesn't care after all. Wouldn't that be a sad end to the story."

"There is no story, Moriarty," John said. "Just you and your twisted mind. You don't even have a guarantee that Sherlock is coming. That text could have been a trick, making you think he's on his way when really, he has no interest in saving me. I'm not of any use to you as bait anymore, so why don't you let me go."

Jim shook his head. "A nice attempt at logic, Johnny, but no can do. You really don't know your own husband, do you? No wonder your relationship is failing~," he sang. "If there's one thing I know about Sherlock, it's that when it comes to his favourite toy, he's predictable. He'll be here. And I've arranged a little welcoming party outside so we'll know when he's coming."

"Welcoming party?" John echoed. "What do you mean?"

Jim grinned like the madman he was. "You'll like this one. If he can get past the security outside, I've got a few surprise guests inside who have been told to capture him if they see him, bring him in here, and then force him to watch me kill you." He pulled out a gun that had been in his pocket and aimed it at John's head. "And you said I never do anything myself."

"As if I've never had a gun to my head before," John muttered. At least Lestrade and the others had an idea of what awaited them when they got there, thanks to his wire. "So, what if Sherlock really doesn't come? Kill me anyway?"

"Hmm...Yes, I think so. If he doesn't come, which I'm sure he will, and then he finds out that I broke his toy, I think he'll feel bad enough to come to me on his own." Jim smiled brightly. "But for now, all we can do is wait. Though this is getting a little tedious. Maybe I'll just do it now and get it over with." He clicked off the safety.

John tensed in his seat. This was bad. Very bad. Typically, he would egg Moriarty on, encourage him, just to piss him off, but in this case, Moriarty actually seemed to be reaching the end of his game. If he pushed it too far he would be dead before Sherlock would get there, and it would ruin everything. But his silence would seem suspicious. His thoughts came to a grinding halt. What was he supposed to do...?

"What's wrong, Mr. Chatterbox? Nothing more to say? Well, that's boring." Jim twirled the gun around his finger. "Alright, how about this. I'll give Sherly ten minutes. If he doesn't show up...Well, you know the rest."

John held his breath. Ten minutes. Certainly Lestrade had heard. They knew the deadline. Hopefully, Moriarty wasn't feeling changeable.

I.:.O.:.U

The cab took Sherlock to where Mycroft, Lestrade, and a few other Yarders were in a surveillance van. The detective wiped at his eyes and stepped out of the cab, trying to get a hold of himself before having to face them. His brother glanced at him as he climbed into the van, and offered him a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Naturally, he didn't hesitate to begin chaining them.

After hearing the sound of a scuffle through John's wire, and seeing his phone's GPS signal start to move on the map, they knew that Moriarty had taken the bait. They waited a few minutes to give a head start, and then made their way towards the location, not wanting to be spotted following them. The van stopped outside of a different abandoned warehouse, the kind of place it seemed Moriarty enjoyed doing his business these days.

Sherlock wanted to charge in as soon as they arrived, but Lestrade held up a hand to stop him. Instead, he signaled to his men to go out first, so that they could take out any security that Moriarty had planted around the outside of the building. The detective could only wait anxiously, sucking in more tar than he must have ever done in one day before.

Another few minutes, and his phone buzzed with a message.

'Tsk tsk, Sherlock. You shouldn't leave your things lying around. xJM'

Sherlock's reply was rash and immediate.

'I swear on my life, if you touch one hair on his head I will destroy you.'

Then it was a game of waiting. There was silence on John's mic, save for the occasional command from their favourite consulting criminal, which meant that for the time being, John was likely unconscious. By the time they heard the sound of him vomiting, Sherlock was nearly done with his pack of cigarettes.

"John won't be happy when he smells the smoke on you," Lestrade pointed out, only earning a glare in response. Sherlock purposely took a long drag before letting it out, relishing in the familiar feeling that he had been craving for days now.

"When can we go in?" he asked impatiently.

"We have to wait for signal that it's all clear. Then we can get inside and find the sniper or whoever and disarm him." Lestrade turned up the volume of the speaker where John's feed was coming through. Just as Moriarty began to explain about his 'welcoming party'.

Sherlock and Mycroft both turned and listened as well, the horror clearly written on the former's face. "Dammit!" Lestrade cursed, grabbing his radio from his belt to tell his team to keep looking inside for more targets. As for Moriarty being the one who would pull the trigger...They hadn't been counting on him planning to get his hands dirty. A hidden sniper was one thing, but sneaking up on Moriarty himself would be much more challenging. How could they disarm him?

It was the last straw for Sherlock. He had to get in there and do this himself. No one else would be a match for Jim. "Let me know when they clear out the extras. I'm going."

"Sherlock," Greg said in a warning tone. "One wrong move..."

Sherlock took a deep breath and bowed his head. He'd already decided what he was going to do if they failed. "One wrong move, and I'll be firing two bullets."

Greg's eyes widened and he shared a look with Mycroft. "We wouldn't let you," he said sharply. "Don't even say that. John wouldn't want that, and you know it." But just then he heard Moriarty give the ten minute countdown. "I don't want to hear any more about this," he said, before rushing off to set a timer and inform the others.

Mycroft, however, stayed where he was and fixed Sherlock with stern gaze, his normally indifferent exterior breaking. "You're being irrational."

"Oh, and I'm sure you're so very happy that you've been proven right once again. But have no idea what it's like!" Sherlock snapped at him. "You don't know what it's like to care about someone so much that you can't imagine life without them, so don't try to tell me that I'm being irrational!"

Mycroft held his gaze, silently, calmly, trying to show him through his eyes how wrong he was. Sherlock's eyes opened just a fraction, reading the truth in his expression, and then suddenly it dawned on him. He swallowed thickly, and averted his eyes.

"Sherlock, we're clear," Lestrade said, grabbing his belt and putting his gun in its holster. He glanced at the timer. Six minutes. It would take three to get in there, and a few more to assess the situation. "Let's go."

Sherlock didn't look up as he moved to follow Lestrade out of the van.

I.:.O.:.U

Moriarty glanced at his watch again, checking to see how much time he had left before he could be naughty. "Almost halfway done. How are you holding up, Johnny boy?"

"Fine, Jim," John drawled back. In reality, his heart was pounding against his ribcage. Would Sherlock make it in time? Would the police be able to handle Moriarty's henchmen? Would Lestrade be able to disarm his potential murderer before he could shoot? He had to get that stupid rope undone just in case. He'd been working at it the whole time, and he felt pretty close.

"Oh good~!" Jim clapped. "We don't have much time left now. Just want to make sure you're comfortable."

"Oh, yes," John said. "So comfortable. I could take a nap." He glared at the man.

"You wouldn't want to fall asleep now! There's only two minutes left til the show!" Jim stepped closer and gave his cheek a little pinch.

John pulled back sharply, though he couldn't go anywhere near far enough. "Don't touch me!" he snapped.

"Oooh feisty!" Jim shook his head looking a little sad. "It's quite a shame that you played for the other team. I think we could have been great friends." Looking at his watch again he grinned. "Too bad for you. I guess Sherlock doesn't love you after all..."

I.:.O.:.U

Greg took the lead as they crept inside, Sherlock right behind, followed by a few of his men. While the inside was mostly one big room, there were plenty of old scraps of wood, boxes, crates, and other various piles of trash that gave them cover. The DI signaled for them all to group behind a stack of pallets, and he and Sherlock peered around the corner.

The situation was obvious and dire. Moriarty was a few metres away, his gun in hand, the safety off. He could shoot point-blank in a split second. Sherlock's heart dropped into the stomach. They didn't have any time to spare. "Why don't you just shoot him in head?" he hissed into Lestrade's ear.

"I'm a good marksman, Sherlock," Greg whispered back. "But there's no guarantee I'll make the shot." John would make it, he thought. John would never miss. He'd never said anything, but he knew he was the one who shot that cabbie. But of course, John wasn't available at the moment. "If I don't make the shot, that's it. John's dead."

Sherlock winced at the 'd' word. "Well, someone has to do something or he's going to be...that anyway." He looked around them, trying to come up with a plan. "I can distract him if I climb on those crates over there. Then you can get closer and make the shot."

Greg scanned the room, then gave a quick nod. Right now it was their best plan. "Alright," he said softly. "Go." He readied his gun.

Sherlock crawled over to a pile of crates that was to Jim's side and climbed to the top. With him turned that way, Lestrade could sneak around the other way and get him from behind. By the time he was at the top, their ten minutes had nearly run out, and he heard Moriarty's twisted voice telling that lie. He couldn't stop himself from being dramatic. "What would you know about love anyway, Jim?" he called from his perch at the peak of the pile.

Jim whipped around just as he had hoped. "Why if it isn't the great Sherlock Holmes! A bit late, don't you think?" John looked up as well, and relief flooded him. He worked double time at getting the knots undone, Moriarty now unable to see his hands moving.

"As long as John's alive, I'm not late."

Jim giggled. "Well, no. But you might find that someone else is quite soon..." He moved his arm to point the gun at John again, and the doctor froze. Sherlock's expression broke for a moment into panic, though he didn't dare to look at Lestrade and see where he was, for fear of giving away his position. Instead, he quickly locked eyes with John, begging him silently to stall.

His husband got the message. "That's a horrible pun," John blurted. "Sherlock may be a complete dick all the time, but at least he can come up with better ways of insulting people. He's more clever than you."

"That really hurts, John. Just when I thought we were getting closer." Jim put a hand over his chest, feigning insult. "Better watch what you say, or I might just have to take out my pain on you."

"Are you getting bored already?" Sherlock cut in, hoping he didn't sound too desperate to keep him talking. "I just got here. I thought we'd play a while longer."

"Well, I did have to wait for you for a while," the criminal said with a little pout. "I don't know if I feel like playing anymore."

"I think you're just afraid you'll lose," John suggested darkly, his glare fierce and hateful.

Just as the man opened his mouth to reply, there was a thud, and all of them turned to see Greg on the ground, gun out of his reach, and a man above him. He hoisted him up by the arms and dragged the stumbling and dizzy policeman out into the open.

"What's this? The good old Detective Inspector. Ah, Sherlock, I underestimated you!" Moriarty wagged a finger at the detective. "But now I see what's been going on. You almost had me fooled! I guess John was right; you are more clever." Jim turned back around, face stoic, and pointed the gun at Sherlock. "I'm sorry. I just can't have that."

Sherlock suddenly felt as a heavy weight had been placed on his shoulders. Lestrade's shot was their absolute last hope, and now even that was gone. There was only one way they could end this. If he died, if Moriarty made sure he won this time, John would be safe. Along with Lestrade and everyone else that he would only grudgingly admit to caring about. He bowed his head and took a deep breath. His only hope was that John would be alright without him again.

But John was not about to let Sherlock take the fall, not again. He'd finally, finally, managed to get those ropes undone and with a great leap he was out of the chair and tackling Moriarty to the ground. The surprise attack caused the Jim to pull the trigger, the bullet whizzing through the hair and grazing Sherlock's ear. This in turn brought the rest of Lestrade's team out from their hiding places, and the man himself elbowed his captor in the ribs and grabbed his radio to call in backup.

It was all a flurry of movement and sound, but once the Yarders had their guns aimed at the criminals, Moriarty let out a laugh. "Well, this is a surprise!" He grinned up at John. "Excellent work, Johnny boy!" John just glared, and so he turned his head to look at Sherlock. "I'm gonna miss our little game, Sherly. It was fun while it lasted." The remainder of Lestrade's team burst in then and handcuffed Jim and the other man at gunpoint, pulling them away.

Sherlock had been still through most of this, blood pouring from the hole in his ear, but he hardly felt the pain. John had done it! His wonderful, perfect John had managed to somehow defy everything and save the day, the most spectacular bit of serendipity he'd ever been fortunate enough to have. He jumped down the crates and ran to him once Moriarty had been taken away, throwing his arms around his darling husband. "You're amazing! Fantastic! I love you so much! I'm sorry about everything I said, you know I didn't mean it. I love you." He punctuated each sentence with a kiss.

"Mmmf, Sherlock!" John managed between kisses. He pushed the man back, his hand going quickly to his ear. "Damn it, Sherlock!" His eyes shone with worry, and lingering fear, and also complete and utter relief.

Sherlock was almost crying at this point, the tears pooling in his lower lids. But he had a huge smile on his face. "Who cares about that? It's easily fixable." He grabbed him by the shoulders. "We're finally safe!"

"We will be," John said, trying very hard not to smile. "Just as soon as you're not bleeding." He took Sherlock by the arm, shaky as the adrenaline already was starting to wear off. "Come on. Let's get you outside so I can patch you up, yeah? You great idiot." They stood and moved to start to find their way out of the building, both of them for the first time in a long time letting their guard down.

And that's when the explosives went off.