AN: I absolutely loved the BBC show Sherlock and I thought the ending was great as well. However, I would have preferred it if Moriarty's identity had remained a secret. Therefore, I decided to write this story where Sherlock does not meet Moriarty but is given one more mystery to solve otherwise John will die. I hope you enjoy.

I've no idea where my ideas come from. Evil plot bunnies are devouring my soul. Blame it on them.

DISCLAIMER: Obviously I don't own this. Conan Doyle came up with Sherlock Holmes. The BBC owns the modern version and I got the idea for the mystery by watching The Mentalist.

The Fifth Pip

Sherlock Holmes walked into the swimming pool room, through the double doors of the emergency exit at the end of the room, brimming with confidence as the clock struck 12. He looked as smart as ever in his long flowing coat with his favourite scarf wrapped loosely around his throat. Anyone who knew Sherlock well, granted he could count those people on one hand, would be able to see the excitement in his normally expressionless face; his grey eyes shone with the challenge that awaited him and the corners of his mouth turned up very slightly at the edges, giving his almost porcelain pale face a rare glow. He walked forward with his hands behind his back in a relaxed manner, hiding the memory stick from the view of anyone in the apparently empty room. Reaching the edge of the pool Sherlock spun of the spot and looked around the 'empty' room with interest.

'Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present,' Sherlock declared holding up the memory stick in his right hand and turning back to the room at large. 'That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this,' he said confidently and slightly condescendingly… basically his normal voice. As he turned around again, Sherlock heard a door open half way down the room. He smiled briefly turning round expecting to meet Moriarty face to face for the first time. He was wrong. From the doorway set half way down the room, between the changing cubicles and on the left side of the pool entered the last person Sherlock had expected; John Watson.

John stood there, face expressionless with his hands in the pocket of a thick green coat with a fake fur lining hood. Sherlock's reaction was for once complete surprise and confusion. The last time he had seen John was him leaving their flat in Baker Street to meet his girlfriend Sarah. What was he doing here?

'Evening,' John said with no expression in his voice. Sherlock stared opened mouthed at John not saying anything. As the arm holding the memory stick lowered slightly, his brain could not come up with any reasonable explanation for what was happening.

'This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock,' John continued in a flat voice standing perfectly still.

'John! What the hell…?' Sherlock asked all the cockiness and self-assurance gone.

'Bet you never saw this coming.' Sherlock lowered his arm completely and took a few small steps towards the one person he had ever considered a friend. This was all wrong and for a single second Sherlock wondered if John was Moriarty all along but then reality returned in the most horrible way possible as John continued to speak.

'What… would you like me to make him say… next?' he asked removing his, black gloved, hands from his pockets and pulling back the coat to reveal what was hidden beneath. John was wearing a boom jacket like Moriarty's other prisoners and the red dot of a sniper rifle moved onto his chest pointed at him from someone Sherlock could not see hidden above and behind him. Sherlock was seized with fear for his friend. It didn't bother him at all that if the bomb went off, he would die too. Before John had entered his life Sherlock had longed for death, for a release from the boredom of his life. But after John had become a part of his life this had changed. He had something to live for apart from the next case and, though he still did not fear death, he no longer longed for it. Sherlock walked towards John searching the room quickly for signs of anyone else.

'Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear,' John said his voice breaking slightly with fear on the last words.

'Stop it,' Sherlock commanded the person controlling John in a firm voice, a slight hint of anger. Whoever was controlling John ignored him.

'Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him.' Sherlock had almost reached John now. 'I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart.' He froze a few metres away. He could hear the slight quiver in John's voice now and see the fear on his face. He felt sick. How could this have happened? Fact; Sherlock had let John leave earlier without telling him his plan to protect him. Deduction; Moriarty or one of the people had captured John to use him against Sherlock. Conclusion; if Sherlock had not cared about John he would be in less danger or, better yet, if they had never met, John would be safe. In that moment Sherlock hated himself. His life was dangerous and he had let one of the few people he cared about get involved. If John died, it wouldn't be because of Moriarty. It would be because of Sherlock. Sooner or later, someone would have used John to get to him. Moriarty had simply been the first in line.

'Who are you?' Sherlock asked as he turned around searching the shadows again. His voice was strong despite the fear he felt.

'You already know who I am,' John said repeating the words that were being spoken to him though a small ear peice.

'Stop using John to talk to me! Face me properly,' Sherlock almost yelled and for once he sounded truly angry.

'Temper, temper Sherlock,' came the reply. 'You don't get to meet me yet the game's not over. Five pips, you know how it works.' John's voice was steadier now. Despite the fact that John was wearing a bomb jacket and had to repeat everything, a mass murderer wanted him to say, John was not that scared. No, that was a lie. He was terrified but he as in Afghanistan and the case of The Blind Banker, he was more worried about other people's lives being in danger rather than his own.

'But I found the Bruce-Parington plans. That was what this was all about, wasn't it?' Sherlock said, a note of something that could have been desperation entering his voice as he held up the memory stick.

'Oh… the missile plans,' said John in a flat tone but his face showed how scared he really was. His face was pale and sweaty and his eyes were full of dread, 'Boring. I could get that anywhere. Throw it in the pool for all I care.'

'Then what do you want?' Sherlock asked in confusion.

'I want to watch you dance Sherlock. You're so entertaining. I have one more mystery for you to solve. Can you save your loyal lap dog, Sherlock? Are you up to the challenge?

'I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you. I've been kind up until this point. I've given you clues and easy tasks so far but this time you're on your own, as people like us always are, no more help from me. Can you solve the case Sherlock?'

At that moment the pink phone in Sherlock's pocket beeped announcing he had a message. Sherlock pulled it out. The message was a single pip and the picture of a severed hand. As Sherlock looked at the image on the screen John started talking again.

'I have loved this, this little game of ours. Did you like the little touch of using a child last time?'

'People have died,' said Sherlock angrily. He had told the truth earlier when he told John that he didn't care about the people whose lives were in danger but he hadn't explained what he meant. People's lives were inconsequential. He had not cared about any of the people as individuals but life was important and trying to save them had been important to him even if emotionally he did not care.

'That's what people do,' Moriarty answered though John. It seemed terribly wrong to Sherlock that the words came from John's mouth even though they were not his words. John cared about everyone and he was being forced to say things that went completely against his nature.

'I must say I'm glad I saved John Watson for last. I got by far the best reaction from you this time. Doctor Watson is so much fun. I can make him say anything like- I hate you Sherlock Holmes if it wasn't for you ruining my life I'd be happy right now. I wish we had never met.' John's eyes widened in horror at the words he was being forced to say and he shook his head slightly to show it wasn't true. 'You hurt people Sherlock. Everything you touch dies and you don't even care.'

'Stop it!' Sherlock almost shouted. He knew that this was all his fault and even if John would never say something like that and probably didn't even think it, it didn't stop the words being true or hurting.

'You know what Sherlock? You're right. Your faithful little pet dog would never say something like that. How about- Sherlock I'm sorry. They attacked me from behind and knocked me unconscious. When I woke up I tried to fight but there was nothing I could do. I was told you'd be shot if I disobeyed. I'm sorry. Does that sound more like the good doctor?'

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and gave himself a moment to get his emotions in order. 'Stop playing Moriarty. If you have something to say then say it,' he said in a firm voice.

'Fine. Sometimes you're no fun Sherlock. You have two days to solve the case. No more and no less. It is not the bomb you need to worry about, Sherlock. I will let you get rid of it in a minute. I have injected Fido with a biological weapon when he was unconscious.' Sherlock was horrified. 'It is a new sort of disease. Don't worry, it's not contagious. I got it from our good old friends in the USA. They really are quite creative when it comes to weapons.' Sherlock looked closely at John again and this time wondered if his pale and sweaty face weren't just to do with fear.

'You were right, by the way, I have been repeating myself. This will be the third poisoning but I just couldn't resist. It's a very nasty disease. He has two days to receive the antidote. You will get if you solve the case but after that it will be two late. If he dose not receive the antidote within two days, he will die slowly and painfully. He could live up to five days after the original two but my guess would be two or three days tops as his immune system has been weakened by his time in Afghanistan. If you ask me, the kindest thing to do if it gets to that stage is kill him. That's what people do with sick animals, after all; they get put down.'

'I will stop you,' Sherlock vowed. This man could not be allowed to continue no matter what.

'No you won't. Anyway… rules- you can't tell anyone about the disease. If you do then the antidote gets smashed. You're not to try and find me in any way during this case. If you do the antidote gets smashed. Do not take the good doctor to a hospital or try to find a cure. You will fail and the antidote will be smashed. The rest is up to you. You can tell the police anything you like about the bomb, you can use their help to solve the case if you like, you can even use Doctor Watson's help if you want… while he can still help that is. I really don't care but break my rules and he dies.' Sherlock nodded excepting this information.

'Your time starts now. Good luck and goodbye.' The red dot disappeared from John's chest. Sherlock waited a moment before racing forward and started to yank the bomb vest of John.

'All right? Are you all right?' he asked, panic in his voice as he no longer bothered to try and hide his emotions. John was breathing a sigh of relief.

'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,' John said his voice of no longer devoid of emotion. Sherlock continued to pull at the straps of the jacket feverishly. 'I'm fine. Sherlock…Sherlock!' He finally succeeded in getting the bomb off John and flung it as far away from them as he could. Sherlock was breathing heavily. He turned and ran to the door that John had first entered through and looked though it for some sign of who had been controlling events. There was none. John took a few steps forward to follow Sherlock and stumbled.

'Oh, Christ,' John muttered as he staggered and then collapsed against one of the changing cubicles. He leaned against it trying to catch his breath. As Sherlock came back John winced slightly in pain at the pressure behind his eyes and the pounding in his head.

'Are you alright?' John asked, which to him seemed the most important question.

'Me? Yeah, yeah. I'm fine,' Sherlock said in a rush. He moved towards the bomb and kneeled down beside it as he started to disconnect it. John could tell Sherlock was anything but fine so to lighten the mood he said,

'I'm glad no one saw that.'

'Mmm?'

'You ripping off my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk,' he said.

'They do little else,' Sherlock said in a slightly calmer voice as he disconnected the last wire. John gave a weak grin and laugh but Sherlock didn't. He felt miserable John was dying and he was still the one trying to cheer up Sherlock. By all rights, John should hate him. The fact that he still cared about Sherlock made everything somehow worse. At least if John hated him would be being punished in some way.

'I will get the antidote,' Sherlock vowed and then he said something John had not expected Sherlock to ever say. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's not your fault,' John said fervently as he struggled to his feet. John ran a quick check of his health; heart rate raised probably caused by the adrenaline in his system, a pounding headache and pain behind his eyes probably caused by being knocked out and he was exhaustion but then he hadn't slept much recently. Apart from that he felt fine.

'What are we going to do with the bomb?' John asked.

'Hide it,' said Sherlock promptly. 'If I show it to the police it will only waste time. I need to solve this case.'

'You can't just hide it Sherlock! What if it goes off?' Sherlock rolled his eyes. Even at a time like this he couldn't resist a condescending lecture.

'It won't go off John, I've deactivated it.' At that moment Sherlock's normal phone beeped a message. On it was the message-

Sherlock.

Need ur help.

Found severed hand by London Eye.

Lestrade

'It looks like the hand has been found. So at least I have somewhere to start.'

AN: Thanks, as always, go to my sister who somehow manages to make sense of my crazy ramblings and now hopefully you can too. If not, I blame my sister :p I'm not sure if this story is any good. If you want me to continue, please comment. If not, then comment anyway and tell me why you don't like this story. So long as it's got constructive criticism in, I don't mind you commenting to say my story is rubbish.