***Author's Note***

So, this story started out as a sort of an experiment. Not really a fix-it, because I'm not interested in fixing "The Final Problem," it's an answer to a series of "what if" scenarios my dear friend notjustmom over on AO3 and I discussed very, very late one night. What if "omniscient" characters actually did know more than everyone else, and not just when it was convenient? What if we got to actually see a "Three Garrideb-stlye" canon moment between Sherlock and John? What if things went awry at Sherrinford, more so than they already did? So, well... This happened.

"I'm remembering the governor."

Sherlock grips the gun tight with both hands and presses the muzzle with considerable force under his own chin. He's being torn apart from the inside. Are you having an earthquake? He recalls the stunned look on his landlady's face, surprised at his own capacity for sentimental recollection under the circumstances. He would miss her, if he believed in an afterlife.

Sentiment. For all the effort he had put into building walls and sabotaging his own happiness, the irony of his choice is not lost. Mycroft is his brother. And John is John. He's undeserving of both, and they deserve far better. The choice is a simple one. He adjusts his finger position on the trigger. He's breaking apart from the inside, but his hands are steady.

"Ten..."

"No, no, Sherlock." He isn't looking at Eurus, can't stand the thought of giving her the demented justification of knowing she was the last thing he saw, but he can hear the displeasure in her voice. He sees Mycroft shift uncomfortably; he's looking peaky again. Mycroft's uncertainty compounds his own anxiety. He searches for John.

"Nine..."

Sherlock keeps his eyes trained on John. Soldiers. John breaks the eye contact only long enough to glance at Mycroft. His brow furrows, at what, Sherlock isn't sure. Doesn't matter. He won't look anywhere but to John now. Once steady in all things, and even more so now, John exhales slowly and turns stormy eyes back to Sherlock. Sherlock knows John won't make a sudden move for the gun. John's been here before, watched as comrades broke under pressure. He won't risk startling the madman with the gun if he thinks he can buy a few more minutes by just being present. Being still. Being whatever is needed.

John doesn't believe it of himself, doesn't see himself as Sherlock sees him. Has always seen him. But he understands who it is Sherlock sees when he looks at him, and even if he can't live up to the expectation, he does his very best to be that man. Here. Now. It's exactly what Sherlock needs.

"Eight..."

Sherlock can't help the slight tremor in his voice. I don't want to die. And it's true. He means it. He does. With every fiber of his being. Not now.

But at some level, he cares about Mycroft. He respects him, to an extent. What Mycroft thinks of him matters, on occasion. And there is, perhaps, a thread of brotherly love, though he would never speak the words aloud.

And John. He loves John. He doesn't know what that means, not really, not yet, as he's only just recently indulged his sentimental side and allowed the thought to form coherently in his mind. But he does. He loves John. They're family. He'd meant it when he said it. He hopes John knows. Needs John to know.

Which is why he has to do this. It has to be this way.

"Seven..."

"You can't! You don't know about Redbeard yet." Though Eurus still sounds detached, there is an urgency in her voice.

He considers looking at the screen, assessing her actions, giving context to her words, but he can't. He won't. He tries instead to smile at John. It doesn't work, he knows, but he continues to try.

John shakes his head, ever so slightly, not enough to sever the eye contact. He's breaking apart too. Sherlock can see it in the line of his shoulders and the way his hand is clenched. John licks his lips and mouths silently, Vatican cameos. It's enough to disarm Sherlock momentarily. He has a flash of John in his morning suit. Mary's a spectre at his side, washed out and faded. Yellow. Too much yellow. Mycroft's voice, cold, unfeeling. Redbeard.

"Six..."

Something's wrong. He's missing something. He needs to elicit a response, so he lowers one hand and pushes the muzzle more deeply into his own flesh with punishing, bruising force.

"Sherlock!" He can hear distress, or something that might be mistaken for it, in his sister's tone. It's unsettling, considering the show she's made of proving she has no feelings. Still, he refuses to give her the satisfaction.

John looks away for the second time, and Sherlock sees him go tense. He watches John put out his hand and open his mouth. "Don't." It's soft. And so calm. But it's an order. A command. Sherlock is captivated by John's actions and almost, almost fails to hear the erratic footsteps.

Oh. Oh, fascinating.

"Five..."

"Sherlock! No! You stop that at once!" The mask is stripped away, and Eurus sounds almost panicked. She isn't speaking to Sherlock any longer, and isn't that interesting?

John takes a step forward, but freezes as Mycroft launches himself against Sherlock.

Sherlock goes slack. If he's going to shoot himself, he isn't going to let Mycroft take the credit for it. He has to do it under his own power. He lowers the gun from his chin and tries to duck away from Mycroft's advance.

His brother is deceptively agile. Mycroft gets both of his hands around Sherlock's one hand on the gun, and attempts to wrench it away. He only manages to swing Sherlock's arm wide. Sherlock's finger is well clear of the trigger. He is stunned by the recoil when the gun fires.

Mycroft stumbles backwards, chest heaving, and the gun falls to the floor. Sherlock glares at his brother as he snatches up the gun. He spares Eurus a fleeting glance, and sees something he doesn't recognize in her eyes. He starts to lift the gun back to position under his chin and turns to face John.

"Fou-"

The word dies in his throat as his eyes finally land on his friend.

John isn't looking at him. He's looking down at his own hand pressed to his side. He pulls it away, and his fingers are sticky and stained in crimson. The blood drips down his wrist, languidly toward the floor, and drops silently to his shoe. A dark stain is spreading across John's shirt. Still, he stands staring at the life dripping from his own fingers. His life.

"John." Sherlock breathes the name. It's both reverent and a plea. John's own breath hitches as he finally looks up at Sherlock. He's ashen, his eyes have gone dull. He opens his mouth and closes it just before his knees give out.

Sherlock dives for John, even as his mind replays the effort he made to fall properly when he'd been shot. When someone he thought he knew, thought he could trust, had shot him.

But this isn't that. John falling isn't happening in slow motion. It's not a scenario he can manipulate. He's got no control over John's response. It's over too quickly, and Sherlock barely manages to reach him in time to ease John to his knees. He presses a hand over John's hand and wills the flow of blood to cease. It's too much too fast.

"Get help," Sherlock shouts. "Please, Eurus. Help him. Please." He doesn't know what else to do. John is watching him with eyes devoid of light. He's still, so still. Sherlock can tell he's in agonizing pain, but he doesn't cry out. And he won't. He's soldier strong, and Sherlock realizes the only thing keeping John Watson together is the fact that he's playing the part for Sherlock's benefit. "John..."

Mycroft composes himself, and stands just behind Sherlock. "Oh, dear. What have you done now, brother?" The tone is too casual, verging on mocking, and Sherlock has to swallow back the bile that rises in his rage. Mycroft has the audacity to tsk and add, "You never could care properly for your p-"

Sherlock refuses to let Mycroft finish the hateful word. He leaps to full height with a roar and swings at him with the gun still in his hand. He lands three solid blows before Mycroft can even think to defend himself. "You did this." One more anger fueled hit to the side of his head, and Mycroft drops to the floor. Sherlock has his hand, the one covered in John's blood, around Mycroft's neck when the lights go red. Moriarty is laughing maniacally on the monitors.

"Sh- Sher-"

John's shallow, rapid breathing is enough to snap Sherlock from the stupor of his fury. He turns to see John slump, sitting with his legs folded awkwardly beneath him. He still has only one hand pressed to the wound, and it's doing nothing to staunch the flow of blood.

"John." Sherlock shrugs his jacket off, wads it up, and presses it to the wound. John's groan is devastating, and he leans against Sherlock for support.

"Sher-"

"Shhh, John. I'm going to get you out of here. I just need you to keep breathing." Sherlock keeps his voice low. He speaks directly into John's ear. This close, he can hear John struggling to breath. He sounds as if he's drowning. It's exactly how Sherlock feels, but he can't let it show. He isn't allowed to break, not now.

"'M tired." It's a loaded statement, and Sherlock understands. John sounds truly, soul crushingly, weary. And resigned. He's accepted this bizarre fate to which no one should ever be subjected. It's unacceptable. Sherlock refuses to accept it, and he won't allow John to either.

"I know, John. But you must stay awake." He slows his own rapid breathing, willing John to follow his example. John leans heavy against him, and it feels wrong. Supporting John should never be a burden, but he feels the weight of him pulling them both under. Sherlock closes his eyes against the unrelenting red lights, and tries to ignore Moriarty's grating cackle. "Please, John." He presses his forehead into John's hair, and it should feel intimate, but the nearness only causes something inside him to crack with more earnest conviction. When had the tears started? He feels wretched and a failure, and he's losing John. He's losing his mind. He's losing. Everything.

Without warning the room is pitched into silent crushing darkness. John's breath hitches, and it feels as if an eternity passes before he draws his next. Sherlock sets the gun down to reach for his mobile. He curses himself when he remembers he doesn't have it. The speakers overhead crackle to life, and a small voice is crying for help.

The girl on the plane. He can't. Sherlock doesn't have it in him to divide his attention between the girl and John. He can't. He can't and he won't. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he repeats as the girl's pleas seem to grow louder, impossibly nearer.

"Sherlock, you have to..." John exerts too much effort trying to sound strong. Sherlock shakes his head against John's.

"No, John. You need me." He knows exactly how broken he sounds.

"She needs..." John gasps, and hunches over in a spasm of pain. "Sh- she..."

"You, John. I need you." Sherlock presses his hand more firmly against the blood saturated coat over John's wound. John curses and leans back into him once more. "I'm a selfish man, John. You know this. I am single minded when confronted with a problem, and at this moment saving John Watson is the only problem worthy of my attention."

Before John can respond, two harsh, narrow spotlights are switched on abruptly. One illuminates Mycroft, who moans and grimaces against the overwhelming brightness as he stirs back to consciousness. The second beats down on Sherlock and John, the heat and glare of the light is almost instantly too much, though John still shivers as Sherlock shields his eyes. The unforgiving light does nothing to improve the pallor of John's skin.

The girl on the plane begs Sherlock for help once more before the line is cut, and the unrelenting sound of a dial tone is heard. John sobs once against Sherlock's shirt, and Sherlock is at a loss. He doesn't know how to do this. He couldn't accept the value Mary placed on his own life by dying his death, and he knows full well John will not be able to process the value that has just been assigned him in this terrible game.

A drum roll sounds through the speakers, and on the monitors, Moriarty brushes through a plush red curtain with a flourish. "And for the category of 'Best Performance in a Real Life Horror Story,' the nominees are..."

The monitor cuts to a recording of Mycroft only moments before. "Well, I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me." He pauses long enough to straighten his tie. "I don't imagine it's much of a target, but why don't we try for that?"

"Ooh, that's good, innit?" Moriarty smirks into the camera. "Almost life-like, Iceman."

The next shot is Sherlock holding John. "I am a selfish man..." Sherlock stops listening and watches the scene intently. The room had been completely dark, but the technology used to record them is phenomenal. The images are clear and high quality, as if recorded in broad daylight. Or, they are fake.

"Aww, Sherly found his heart," Moriarty croons and bats his eyelashes. "You are, you are a real boy!"

A live feed of Eurus is next. She stares directly into the camera, unblinking and unmoving. "Sherlock. Sherlock?" She continues repeating his name, altering her own voice as she does. She is in turn John's therapist, then Faith Smith, an assortment of other voices that Sherlock thought only occupied his nightmares, and finally she is the voice of John's unfaithfulness.

"Stop this," Sherlock growls. He realizes he's still acting as a shield to John, and the evidence that John's condition is worsening is that he has yet to make an attempt at fighting Sherlock off.

"But don't you like my game, brother? We were just beginning to have fun." The voice Eurus chooses next is that of a child. Specifically the girl from the plane. "I never get to have any fun with you and your friend." Eurus pouts on screen, but her eyes reveal her treachery.

Sherlock blinks in surprise at her. "My friend?" He looks down at John, whose eyes are unfocused and whose breathing seems too intentional. Eurus laughs, and it's terrible.

"Oh, not that used up old thing." She looks almost manic. "The other one. The first one. C'mon, Sherlock. Don't be dull. He's so ordinary, isn't he Mycroft? It must be just awful."

John is taking short gasping breaths, and his eyes are clenched tight. "I've got you John. Shhh, just breathe, John." He attempts to soothe him and tries to help him shift into a more comfortable position. There is no more comfortable position. "Eurus, please."

"You have to play with me now. And I do not play the way Mycroft does, with tricks and teases." She stares into the camera, and her gaze is directed at Mycroft. He flinches under her scrutiny. "New game!"

"Eurus, enough of this. Doctor Watson is clearly in need of medical attention." Mycroft assumes an air of concern, but it is evident no one, least of all John, believes him.

"Mycroft, I will kill you. Do you understand? If John dies, I will kill you. I may still, even if he doesn't." Seething, the only reason Sherlock exercises any restraint at all is that he's terrified to let go of John, lest he lose him forever. Mycroft rolls his eyes in response.

"The game!" Eurus is eerily calm. "Let's play Name the Liar. The rules are simple. Sherlock, you must recall the deepest, darkest secret in the room. If you fail, Doctor Watson, John, Joooohn, dies right here in your arms. If you succeed, he can die in your arms on your way to get help."

"John's been shot. It's what you wanted. Please..."

"Oh, dear sweet Sherlock," Eurus shakes her head, a look of feigned pity on her face. "Do you still not understand? I'm only interested in data. Human response within carefully planned parameters." She glares into the camera with intensity, eyes wide. It reminds Sherlock of Moriarty, and he blanches when she starts speaking. A flawless impersonation of the consulting criminal. "People are so predictable. You pride yourself on your abilities, but you're the easiest one of all to anticipate." She drops the mimicry then. "So simple. So dull."

"Eurus, please." Sherlock presses his fingers to John's neck. The great heart within John's shattered chest is still beating, though it's weak and a struggle. John's eyes are closed against the terrible spotlight, but Sherlock can tell from the rigid tension in his muscles that he's awake. Still fighting. He whispers low, "Hold on. Please hold on." When the fingers of John's free hand grip Sherlock's wrist, it's almost enough to break him.

"You didn't follow the rules, Sherlock." Eurus tuts in disapproval. "It doesn't count if you don't follow the rules. You didn't pick Doctor Watson, so predictable, and we all know who actually pulled that trigger."

With a gasp, Sherlock's head snaps up. He knows the truth, of course he does. Sherlock wants nothing more than to make his brother suffer. Is going to make him suffer. But he is unprepared for the emotional fallout of hearing the truth put to words. Carefully constructed walls within his mind, load bearing walls, the precarious truths he'd used as a foundation his entire life, begin to crumble and crack.

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes!" Eurus sounds gleeful as she encourages him to recall the awful truth, the real truth and not the one he'd been allowed to believe.

He looks from Eurus on the monitor, to Mycroft who is standing now. The shadows created by the spotlight casts his imperious expression into a deep relief that makes him look unexpectedly threatening. Dangerous.

And Sherlock remembers.

He remembers, and he's angry. He's so fucking angry. He's consumed by rage. It threatens to set him ablaze, to destroy him and everyone in his path. With the last reserves of his restraint, he eases John gently, so gently, away from him.

Forcing his eyes open, John stares up at him, pleading. "Y-you don't have to... Sher..." Drawing a shallow, halting breath, John squeezes Sherlock's wrist. "Don't play... Please..."

Sherlock works John's fingers from his wrist, and places John's hand on the blood soaked jacket. "Keep pressure on this." He can only manage a whisper. Brushing the hair back from John's brow, Shelock presses a soft, chaste kiss there and murmurs "I'm sorry" against his skin. John's breath hitches and there are tears in his eyes. Exhaling deeply, Sherlock forces himself to stand and turn his back to John.

"Let's play, shall we?" Sherlock growls as he takes a step toward Mycroft.

"Always so melodramatic, little brother." Mycroft looks to Eurus for a response, but she's simply watching with rapt attention. He frowns and levels his icy gaze at Sherlock. "What is it you think you've remembered?"

"Redbeard." The infuriating red lights return. With spotlights still trained on them, the tragic scene is fully set. A macabre tableau.

Mycroft's laugh is harsh and unexpected. "That imbecilic dog fantasy? You do recall father is allergic to dogs? Always has been."

"Not a dog, Mycroft, Redbeard." Sherlock's traitorous voice breaks. He closes his eyes for just a beat, composing himself, schooling his features into cool detachment, though when he opens his eyes they flash with tempestuous fury. "My first mate. My friend." He turns his head slightly towards John. He doesn't look, only listens to make sure he's still breathing. "A boy. Vic-" Another break, and Sherlock grits his teeth. "Victor. Victor Trevor."

"Oh well done. It only took how many decades for you to remember him after he abandoned you? A brilliant glimpse into the fate of John Watson's legacy once he-"

Two sure, quick steps, and Sherlock silences his brother with an unforgiving, open palm smack. It knocks him back a step, and there isn't time for him to recover before Sherlock hits him again. "You killed him," Sherlock roars, his anger fully ignited now.

"I don't know," Mycroft rubs his bruising face, then crosses his arms over his chest. "He still looks alive from here."

Sherlock smacks him again. He wonders, only briefly, at the fact that Mycroft isn't fighting back. "Victor. You killed Victor."

"Accidentally." With a shrug, Mycroft brushes non-existent lint from his sleeve. "You three were always underfoot. Always ruining everything. Always in my way."

Burning, angry tears leave tracks down Sherlock's face. They mingle with John's drying blood when he covers his eyes with one hand and stumbles back with an agonized, mournful cry. Mycroft's words are a more precise, more punishing defense than his fists could ever be.

"We found you out," Sherlock grounds out around heaving, erratic breaths. "Eurus found where you hid him. You threatened us. Terrified us."

"She was too clever. It was easy to make it look as if she'd planned it all along. No one ever suspected otherwise."

"She was a child. We were children!" Sherlock can't control the screaming this time. "You were older. Bigger. We trusted you." He closes his hands around Mycroft's neck. "I trusted you."

"You all, with your funny little minds, you do make mistakes, don't you?" Mycroft's smirk is vile. "You worked it out in the end, though."

"I forgot. It was easier to forget..." Collapsing to his knees, Sherlock is wracked with sobs "I forgot my best friend. I let you..." He doubles over and dry heaves.

"You're so easy, Sherlock. You use to be so much fun." Mycroft studies his fingernails and sighs. "Giving you puzzles to solve to keep you distracted. Watching you dance and scurry about. And Richard Brook was a treat, wasn't he? He really was deserving of so many accolades." Shaking his head sadly, Mycroft takes a step towards Sherlock. "But you always ruin things. You let sentiment," with disgust, he spits the word in John's direction, "interfere. It's getting rather tiresome now."

"Moriarty. You..." The air is forced from Sherlock's lungs. "You did this to us. All of us. You..." Sherlock freezes and clenches his hands into fists. "Mary?"

Mycroft laughs once more and crouches down to Sherlock's level, making a show of tying his shoe. "John's fun to wind up, isn't he? I will never understand why you kept him around as long as you have, but he can be entertaining to watch."

With a roar, Sherlock swings awkwardly at Mycroft and misses. "Why?" He's shouting, and nearly senseless in his rage. "Tell me why!" He moves to lunge after his brother, but freezes at the sharp pain that tears across his forearm.

"Don't stand up. This will be quicker, easier if you just stay down." Mycroft stands upright and reveals the knife he had concealed under his trouser leg. The knife dripping Sherlock's blood. He stands very still over Sherlock. "You should have pulled the trigger, brother." He taps his own chest, over his heart. "You might have saved us all."

Mycroft turns the knife over in his hand, and doesn't flinch when Eurus shouts his name. The bright white lights replace the red lights and spotlights, the sealed doors to the room slide open, and an emergency alarm sounds overhead. There are shouts and people running in the corridor.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft glances once at Eurus and then to Sherlock. "I'm so very tired. Let's finish this, shall we?" He smiles and raises the knife.

There is an explosion of gunfire and Sherlock is frozen in place, he watches the knife clatter to the ground. Mycroft cries out, furious, his rage overriding the pain, as he stumbles back into the wall and slides down to the floor.

Eyes wide in shock, Sherlock pants to catch his breath and runs trembling hands through his hair. A shoulder shot. Perfectly timed. Perfectly aimed. Sherlock sobs and turns in time to see John grimace. He's trying to smile, and Sherlock laugh-cries, because John, this ridiculous man...

John's chest heaves and he drops the gun. "Sher- Sherlock..."

"John!" Sherlock lunges for him and cradles him to his chest. His pulse is weak, too weak. "No. John, please."

"He was going to..."

"Shh, John. Just breathe. Listen, help is coming. Shhhh." He's pressing the sodden coat to John's wound, and tries unsuccessfully to calm them both. "Eurus, the medics... Can I trust them?"

"Hmm," she nods but doesn't turn her gaze away from Mycroft. She looks at peace.

"Myc... himself... With the kni-"

"John, I know. He's got to answer for everything now. Because of you. He's a coward. But you? You are brilliant John." Sherlock turns his head and and tries not to sob. "A hero. You are. They'll want to knight you, I'm sure."

John huffs a laugh and swears.

"That kind of thing's not for me, of course," Sherlock smiles down at John. It's tremulous but genuine. "But it will suit you just fine. You must stay alive though. I won't accept it for you."

"Idiot," John smiles with more success. "Jus- just a... flesh wound..."

Sherlock feigns exasperation. "Then what of all this blood?"

"Part of... of the plan?" John swallows and and groans.

"Terrible plan. We can't put this back in, you know." It's morbid and Sherlock winces. But he knows John, and John laughs and curses again.

"Damn... Mus-must've slipped... my mind."

"You call yourself a doctor." He shakes his head and sighs. "And I'm the idiot?"

The voices from the corridor converge on them then. The medical team spots Mycroft first. "Leave him," Sherlock shouts, and within moments medics are assessing John and lifting him to a gurney. "We have to transport him. I saw a helipad..." Sherlock is hovering and generally in the way.

"Mr. Holmes, sir." The lead medical officer places a calming hand on Sherlock's arm. "With all due respect. This is a world class facility..."

"With a world class infirmary. Of course," Sherlock nods, and runs his fingers through his hair again before he realizes too late John's blood still stains his hands.

"We can stop the bleed, retrieve the bullet, and get him set up and stable with pain meds and a transfusion before we move him." The medic waves over a security officer.

"There's a team on the way to take your brother into custody, after medical treatment of course. And your sister..."

"She's not well, but she's not to be imprisoned. Not anymore. She needs help. Safety." Sherlock glares at Mycroft, who sneers and refuses to make eye contact.

"We've a secure block of patient rooms. They're comfortable and heavily monitored. Until other arrangements can be made."

"Good. Very good. Let's do that. All of that. And watch him. He's suicidal. Keep him restrained. He... Yes. Okay." He's nodding and rambling, and shivering down to his core. There's a very strong possibility he's going into shock. At last check, the mind palace was in shambles, worse than Baker Street even. Everything he's ever known has been constructed and set into motion by a madman. His own brother. Sherlock braces his hands on his knees and tries to stop hyperventilating. Gone. It's all gone.

Familiar fingers grab hold of his arm. The grip is weak, but the touch is solid. John. John is not gone. John is alive. John is here. Now.

"All right?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "You're the one who was shot."

"Yes but..." John waves his hand to Mycroft swearing at the medical team, and the live feed of Eurus being lead from the control room.

"Oh, that? That's..." Sherlock releases a shuddering breath. "It is what it is."

"You have to... be the grown up... mature... one now."

"Just because you're injured doesn't mean you get to be a cock about it. That's my thing."

John huffs a laugh without the swearing this time. He is struggling to stay awake. Now that he's got medical attention, Sherlock is inclined to let him sleep. "Sherlock... I..." John slides his hand down to hold onto Sherlock's wrist as his eyes drift shut.

"It's okay, John. I know," Sherlock whispers. John nods once but doesn't open his eyes. Brushing John's hair back once more, Sherlock places another gentle kiss on his forehead. "Me too."