The seconds that had passed seemed to be have been infinitely longer than what was considered usual. They were stuck at a stalemate, with neither Sherlock nor Moriarty moving. They both knew it was unlikely that they'd leave the swimming baths alive that night. Sherlock's hand still gripping the gun pointed at the duffel coat bomb, one little pull of the finger and they'd all be blasted to smithereens. Jim certainly knew how to source effective explosives, Sherlock would give him that. He glanced up at the clock, he needed more time. Sherlock was going to have to wait till the latest possible moment; the snipers' marks still clustered across his and John's bodies, he was only going to have one shot.

Sherlock was still as cool and collected as ever he was in the face of his imminent destruction; while John's heart was racing, looking back and forth between the two great minds. He could almost see the cogs of their brains clicking into place as they formulated and then discarded ideas of how to escape this dire situation with their own life still intact. John could feel the beads of sweat running down his face but he did not wipe them away, scared that any movement would set either Moriarty or Sherlock off. In moments like these John though of his family; his parents had died not long after he had left for Afghanistan, a car crash. He only had Harry left now. True he was still angry about her leaving Clara but she was his sister and he no matter what happened he would always care for deeply. Sarah… he was never going to be able to apologise properly about everything. She was never going to know, she would just hear about his blown up body on the news.

John doubted deeply that Sherlock as thinking of his family; Mycroft, the mother he had mentioned, was his father still alive? John once again realised how little he knew about the man who had dragged him into this world. Did Sherlock have any friends who would cry at his funeral, any ex-girlfriends or boyfriends for that matter who would lay flowers on his grave?

John was right; it was not thoughts like those that filled Sherlock's head. His mind that was forever formulating or deducting was doing so even in what may be his final moments. The cogs still trying to click into place, to find a way to stop Moriarty. Without, if possible, his and John's lives being forfeit.

"One question." asked Sherlock. "One single question." His eyes not faltering from the duffel coat. "Who were you to him?" It took John a few seconds to connect the dots, Sherlock was asking about what was most likely the first blood on Moriatry's now filthy stained hands. Sherlock Holmes even in the most deadly of circumstance could not let something go. Not something that eluded him, not something that may have stopped the game before those people had died. "Who were you to him?" he asked once again; his voice still incredibly steady and precise, barely louder than a whisper. "Who were you to the boy you drowned?"

John turned to stare at Moriarty, who like his opponent was still completely collected. There was no appearance of him being nervous or concerned at all. It was almost as if this was still just a game to him; he hadn't cared at all about the lives he had destroyed while he played his next move, took his next step and waited for Sherlock to respond. He had enjoyed tormenting them, watching them squirm. "I was the boy in the swimming club, the slowest. The one they all laughed at."

John spoke up for the first time since Moriarty had returned, "I can't believe it. You killed a boy because he laughed at you." John knew Moriarty was mad but to kill someone for such a trivial reason.

Sherlock breathed deeply; almost sighing, "Little boys do stupid things. They ridicule each other and play stupid games." It was almost like Sherlock understood Moriarty's reason, almost. This silenced John; he guessed that Sherlock too had experienced his fair share of ridicule growing up; it wouldn't have been easy growing up that brilliant.

It seemed that Moriarty was getting a tad impatient; he had expected this whole affair to be wrapped up by now, "I'd say your goodbye's boys. As this is the final act." He was smiling eagerly; obviously he was going to enjoy their deaths. John turned to face Sherlock. It was then that Sherlock Holmes did something John had not been expecting. He winked. Dropping the gun, he let it clatter onto the pool side tiles but it did not fire. What was Sherlock playing at? This left John completely bewildered. He stared down at his own chest and saw the red marks from the snipers' guns. "Get ready to fire." Sneered Moriarty, "It has been a pleasure playing with you." John closed his eyes and prepared to die, the snipers wouldn't miss. It would be quick. Thirty seconds later and still he had not heard any shots fire. John opened his eyes slowly to see Sherlock smirking. He stared at his Sherlock's chest and watched as each single sniper's mark move to cluster all over Moriarty's body. Looking down at his chest, he realised the same had happened.

"What?" exclaimed Moriarty who had finally lost his cool and looked completely out of his comfort zone.

"I'd say more like who." came a voice from the shadows. John and Moriarty stared confused as the person to whom the voice did belong emerged. She was tall, easily as tall as Sherlock even without the black stiletto boots she was presently wearing. It was no surprise that she had not been previously seen, she was dressed entirely in black. A black jacket and a skirt that hit her leg a couple of inches above the knee. This allowed some pearly white flesh to be seen. Her hair was a honey blonde, fairly long falling over her shoulders. She did not carry a bag of any sort, unusually and she walked in a very confident manner.

"Took you long enough." quipped Sherlock not making eye contact, his eyes now scouring at Moriarty.

"I thought you wanted to ask your question. You would have complained if I'd come in earlier." she said tapping him on the cheek as she passed.

"Who are you?" asked Moriarty. The blonde continued walking towards him until she was close enough to see the whites of Jim Moriarty's eyes.

"I, Mr Moriarty, am what men like you meet in their nightmares and the one thing would didn't count on. And unless you'd like my boys up there to turn you into piece of Gruyere I'd run. I'd run now." She had a gleam in her eyes that him know that she was deadly serious and had no qualms with having his death on her hands. She slowly raised her arm, "When I drop my arm, they shoot." Her face remained straight; there was no evil smile or victorious smirk. "One… two…" She didn't even reach three as Moriarty turned and ran.

The blonde turned to face Sherlock and John. She pulled a blackberry out from within her jacket and held it up to the side of her face, "Keep an eye on JM. We still need more on his associates, tail him but give him a head start. I want daily updates and contact me immediately anything goes down. Send his men to…" She looked at Sherlock mouthing Lestrade. Sherlock nodded John looked on amazed. "Send them to Lestrade at Scotland Yard. I'm going to need a car out front, oh and a bomb disposal unit and actually bring me a towel and a complete change of clothes." she said glancing down at the memory stick lying at the bottom of the pool. She put her blackberry away.

"It's been too long Sherlock." she smiled.

"It certainly has. John sit down, you look like you are going to collapse."

"Shut." The blonde walked over to John, who certainly did look like he was going keel over. She held on to his shoulder, "John. I'm just going to put you under, you need to sleep." John nodded slowly as she stabbed his neck with a pen of sorts. She lay him down on the floor and then proceeded to walk back over to Sherlock, "Sorry sweetie but so do you." as Sherlock was stabbed from behind by one of her men. "Have them taken to 221 B Baker Street. They need to rest."

The last thing they saw as their world turned to black was their blonde now slightly blurry saviour strip down to her camisole and dive into the swimming pool with a splash.