"It's all going to be fine, Molly, I've been kidnapped loads of times. And look at me, I'm still here with all my limbs. Look at me, hey look at me, Molly..."

The talkative leader of the armed men had been dragged out of the room for other urgent matters. Despite his ominous threats to Molly's person, he remained gone. The leftover forces had relaxed their attention enough to let John whisper comforting nothings to the poor frightened girl.

"John, I... I know things," Molly whispered so softly that John could barely see the movement of her lips.

"Know what?" asked John gently.

"Secrets. Things... Dangerous things. They questioned me in my flat, before bringing me here. And I didn't say anything, but... Maybe if I tell them, they'll let us go."

"Oh. Wow. How, how did you learn..." he shook his head slightly. "No, look, don't tell me anything. And don't tell them anything either."

"Are you sure?"

If they were no longer useful, chances were that they would be killed sooner rather than later. John forced a smile. "Hey, if I'm in the dark, then at least I don't have to lie, right? Look, Mycroft is going to send help very soon. He's not going to abandon us, even if he's a twat sometimes. So we can't abandon him either, all right?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Help is coming," Molly whispered with more conviction than John truly felt. "He's going to save you, John. He would never let anything happen to you..."

Molly hesitated as if she had more to say, but decided against it. John hoped Mycroft wasn't holding a grudge about their last meeting. Perhaps the elder Holmes had more pressing things to worry about than two civilian deaths.

"Can't we go any faster?" Sherlock asked for the fourteenth time. His remark was greeted with eye rolls and exasperated sighs.

"Look, sir," the driver of the van bellowed, "I assume you were allowed to tag along on our rescue mission for a reason, but if you don't stay quiet, my team is going to throttle you. You can bugger off and take a cab if you don't like it. Is that clear?"

"Yeah mate, we're not even sure if the hostages are really there yet, just chill out" added another. He patted Sherlock's shoulder in a helpful manner.

"Sir," snapped Sherlock as he swatted the hand away from his person, "if we fail to rescue John Watson in time because of your piss-poor driving, I will destroy everything you hold dear, starting with your marriage. But that won't be hard, will it? You've done most of the work already, what with the irregular hours, the riskiness of your job, and your recent erectile dysfunction. You are in fact a complete stranger to your child, and will likely be an inadequate father. Besides, the reason why I did not take a cab is because I was told I would arrive earlier with you, so I suggest you drive faster."

The van was deadly quiet. The driver accelerated.

The smell of burning tobacco preceded the return of the man into John and Molly's room. He looked defeated. His subordinates, who had been engaged in hushed arguments, immediately snapped to attention.

"Well, I suppose this is it, boys," he sighed. He flicked his cigarette butt at John. It bounced off on John's shoe. "Someone gave up our location."

"So what do we do now, chief?"

"I guess you can always try to run, though I wouldn't recommend it." One thug immediately fled. "Ahem. But as I was saying, we're in the process of being surrounded. Holmes is pulling all the stops. We've spotted at least seventy fully equipped men, and more are coming. Our numbers can't withstand such firepower anymore, and our remaining contacts have decided to jump ship. I suppose your choice is between death and surrender."

Molly looked at John, eyes blazing. "We're saved. It's finally over," she whispered feverishly.

One of the armed men stepped up. "I think we all agree that surrendering sounds like the more sensible option, sir."

"Hmm. I never pegged you for a coward, Forester. Would you dare say that out loud if Jim Moriarty was still in charge?" The man said absently. His gaze moved back to John.

"We didn't stand a chance after Moriarty left us anyway," said Forester nervously. He seemed to expect his leader to dole out retribution for his backtalk.

The man angrily stared at his men, with an expression that bordered on disgust. "You're all useless, the lot of you. I hope you all die and go to hell."

He pointed at John. "Untie him. Stand up like a proper soldier, Dr. Watson."

John stood, rubbing his wrists. The ropes had chaffed his skin, and some flakes of old blood from one of his would-be kidnappers remained on his fingers.

"Well, John. Did you think you'd win so easily? Were you ready to gloat about it?" asked the man. He rammed his pistol against John's chest. Molly gasped. "Surely you don't expect me to let you go now. No, you mistake me for a much more charitable person. I remember you, and I should've killed you right then and there in that swimming pool. But Jim had to play his little games, didn't he? I never approved of his stupid infatuation with Sherlock Holmes, but he made your little boyfriend a promise and I must help fulfill it, even if it's the last thing I do. Though if I were to be honest, I mostly want revenge."

John heard Molly begging for mercy. He heard his own ragged breathing. He heard his heart pounding madly. He was going to die. Truly, this time. He felt something akin to relief.

It was finally over. One way or another, he was glad.

"So you see, you couldn't win," said the man. His voice shook but his hand did not. "You know why? Because Sherlock Holmes has a heart, and Moriarty doesn't. This is for him. This is for James Moriarty. Goodbye, John."

Sherlock tumbled out of the van, a mess of panicked long limbs.

"... two more have surrendered, also confirming the presence of the hostages. Mr. Holmes, please stay back. You might get hit by a sniper. Um... What was I saying? Ah yes, so back-up will be here in ten to fifteen minutes, it'll include two choppers and five..."

A single gunshot sound was heard.

"Huh. You hear that?"

"It sounded like it came from inside."

"Hmm, but none of our units have gone in yet..."

In a flash, Sherlock started sprinting towards the building. Bullets ricocheted behind him.

"Holmes, come back! You can't go in there! Come back! Oh, for Christ's sake... All right, gents, I suppose we're following the crazy guy. Boss said he'd have our heads if anything happened to him."

The gunshot might have been nothing, a few idiots starting a mutiny perhaps, but nevertheless Sherlock could not quell the unspeakable terror that had gripped every fibre of his being. With his shoulder, Sherlock slammed into the locked door with all his strength. It gave in with a resounding crack. This had to be it. The two morons he had talked into surrendering were guarding this opening for a reason, surely? If taking into account the volume of the sound, the configurations of the building, the dimensions of this room -

John was bleeding on the floor.

"John? John?"

He was too late.

Even Molly, who was screaming in horror, was momentarily struck dumb by Sherlock's surprise appearance. She was struggling in the grasp of a burly captor, and Moran had apparently decided that he should kill her as well. Without sparing a single glance at his slack-jawed onlookers, Sherlock stumbled next to John's limp body.

"No... John, you can't die. Not now," he whispered falteringly as he checked for a pulse. The wound had perforated the left lung, possibly high enough to hit the heart. He ripped off the thin layer of soaked dress shirt that covered John's chest. So much blood, John's blood was everywhere...

"Sherlock Holmes?" asked Moran incredulously, all thoughts of murdering Molly forgotten for now. Sherlock ignored him completely. "My God. I can't believe it. What are you doing..."

Sherlock's heavily armed reinforcements thankfully chose that moment to burst into the room. Screams of "put your hands in the air! Hands in the air!" followed. Some of the thugs obeyed. Others opened fire. In the chaos that ensued, John and 'the crazy guy' were momentarily forgotten.

Sherlock tore off his jumper and used it to stench the blood. "I'm so sorry, it's all my fault, please, just for me John, please don't die. It can't end like this. We're finally together again, after all this time, and you're just going to die?" Sherlock was trembling. His brain was frozen. He needed to think, why couldn't he think? But all he could manage to do was press the reddening cotton into John's wound and listen to the pounding in his head. John was dying. John was dying. John was dying...

Molly, who was curled in a ball on the floor, eventually realized she couldn't hear the bullets anymore. She looked up to see one of her rescuers kneeling next to her. His face was kind. "Are you all right, miss?"

"John is going to die," she blurted out. "That monster shot him in the chest."

"Right. Don't worry miss, you'll be safe. We'll get him help right away. Alpha, this is Romeo Echo Three. Jericho is down, request immediate assistance..."

Sherlock frantically paced in circles in the cramped waiting room of the hospital. He had spent the last ten minutes trying to calculate the exact volume of blood John had lost, and had found himself utterly unable to do so. He couldn't focus at all. He needed to move, he needed distraction, he needed to quiet the roaring horrors in his mind. He didn't want to think anymore, never wanted to be able to think again. If he started thinking, he would feel John's pounding blood seeping between his fingers. No, don't think about that, never think about that again.

His flimsy white undershirt was soaked in blood. Tiny drips of blood followed his every step, landing on the sterile beige tiles, smearing under the soles of his shoes.

How could John die now, so close to victory? Everything, it had all been to save him. The whole idiotic charade. He had only devised such a plan to keep everybody safe, had hung onto a semblance of sanity because he thought he could go back to his old comfortable life when it was over. He had dreamed of Baker street and John and the interesting cases they would investigate, rolled the familiar thought over and over in his mind like dough in his palms, clung to it while he destroyed fraction after fraction of Moriarty's web. It was his fault, he should have predicted Moran's pettiness, the bloody imbecile. He should have known John would be taken, should have guessed their desperation. John's life was on Sherlock's hands. No, no, John wasn't dead, he wasn't going to die. John would live, he would live. What was the point if he died?

He did not pay the slightest bit of attention to his immediate surroundings, despite the horrified stares that were thrown his way, until yet another nurse decided to get in his face.

"Um, I'm sorry sir, but are you all right?" she asked carefully.

"My friend is in the surgery. Leave me be," he mumbled.

"Yes, but..."

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" Sherlock roared. She promptly obeyed.

"Honestly," intervened Mycroft, who looked disapprovingly in the direction of the vanishing nurse who was probably going to alert security about Sherlock for the fourth time, "you need to calm down. Here, have a seat..." Sherlock had not at all noticed his brother's arrival. How long had Mycroft been there?

"Mycroft, they won't let me in." His tone turned pleading. "The surgeon said he wouldn't operate unless I waited outside. Can't you do something?"

"No. Out of the question. Even if you were on your best behaviour, I very much doubt that the presence of a frazzled genius bleeding on the linoleum would be beneficial to any medical professional's concentration. Do trust me for once, Sherlock, I've pulled some strings to acquire the best trauma surgeon in London, and you've done all you humanely could for John. We can only hope for the best now. Please sit down."

Sherlock kept pacing.

Mycroft decided to sit on one of the uncomfortable pieces of plastic to set an example. "Would it kill you to have your injuries looked at?" he said calmly. "You do realize that you are bleeding rather a lot," He pointed at the bloodiest spot with his umbrella.

Sherlock irritatedly pulled up his shirt to reveal a nasty gash on the right side of his abdomen. "Huh," he said. "Didn't notice that." This meant John had in fact lost less blood then he'd... No, he didn't want to think about it, not about John's blood.

He suddenly felt dizzy. Heavily, he sat down, smearing blood all over the shiny plastic. His side started to hurt. His shoulder was rather sore as well. He closed his eyes, but everything smelled like blood. He could feel the wet jumper under his fingers, he could see John's pallid face. He couldn't escape from it.

Mycroft glared at the obvious needle marks on his brother's pale forearms. He swallowed the icy rage quietly. He could imprison his brother in a rehabilitation centre soon enough. One crisis at a time.

Sherlock's tiredness was entirely forgotten when he saw the surgeon approach. He immediately sprung upright, tense as a violin string, incapable of articulating a single question or thought. He simply stared at the doctor in silent plea.

"Calm down, you two," the surgeon said with kindness. "He's alive. We'll need to monitor him until he's stable, but we think he just might make it. He's a stubborn chap, your friend is. He won't leave us without a fight."

John was alive. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath he did not realize he was holding. They could have tea and watch crap telly together. They could sit down at little dinners, and then Sherlock would watch John eat, and they would talk about Sherlock's brilliant observations on their current case. He could steal a hundred, a thousand more ashtrays for John...

Sherlock saw the floor going up towards him rather fast, followed by a flash of white. For a while, he saw nothing else.