Disclaimer: Do I look like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat or Mark Gatiss? (The answer to that is no)

A/N: Okay so, I loved the Sherlock modernisation and literally screamed at my television at the cliffhanger ending of The Great Game and I just couldn't let it lie like that for a year. This is just an idea I came up with after much deliberation and thinking and has been written and re-written several times over. I would like to just point out that RedBrickandIvy (aka Burkle :P) was my test reader for the first semi-complete draft and thank you to her for giving me valuable feedback (even if we did get a bit distracted in the end). Also I should point out I got a bit of help from the Twitter community as well so thanks to them too. Anyway let me know what you think and whether it is worth continuing. Thanks

WARNING! SPOILERS! - Spoilers for The Great Game

This contains a large proportion of the last scene from the last episode of the series so if you don't want to know what happened then. DO NOT READ THIS YET!

Endgame

Chapter One: Endangered

"And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." Jim Moriarty's harsh smile was so cruel, so shameless and so terrifyingly sincere it made Sherlock ill to look at it, but it disappeared as he spoke now replaced by an unrelenting smugness of someone who knows he's won, whatever else happens.

Although Sherlock had remained detached from the thought of peoples' lives in danger people had still been threatened, people had still been hurt, some people had actually died and that wasn't something that he could just dismiss. This...thing before him had performed cold-blooded murder lord-knew how many times before and right now Sherlock was the only one standing in the way of a new victim joining the body count. And in all truth that responsibility did not rest easy upon the man's shoulders.

Partly it was because people who had once depended on him had been killed, although it was an incident that he would never admit to anyone; partly it was because he could quite clearly see the 'next victim' just in his peripheral vision stood behind Moriarty watching their discussion with a combination of fear, anger and regret; but mainly it was because said person, currently the latest to be strapped into a jacket loaded with explosives, was John Watson, friend and flatmate to Sherlock. This personal aggravation gave more reason to the already more-than-well-justified gun that was directed at the criminal's head. Yet one wrong move and John, and more than likely himself, would be but the first in a continued killing spree and yet this man, this 'consulting criminal', simply stood there grinning away as though it were some great game to him.

Sherlock's finger was resting against the trigger and he knew that just a simple squeeze with his finger and the whole thing could be over but both he and Moriarty knew he would never do it, knew he wouldn't dare, not while he was using John as a form of human shield. The explosives on the jacket into which John had been forced would be detonated before that smarmy git ever hit the floor. No, Moriarty currently held the winning hand and executing the man would do nothing but worsen the situation for all parties involved. Maybe it was the knowledge of this fact, and there was no doubt that Moriarty knew it, which had given the criminal his self-assured swagger as he'd slowly sauntered his way towards Sherlock.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch you...later." He made perfectly sure that the barrel didn't waver from the centre of Jim's forehead ready, and more than willing, to squeeze the trigger should the need arise as the man turned and began to exit through a side door to the pool.

He called out in a ridiculously high and mocking, almost sing-song, voice just before the heavy metal door slammed behind him. "No you won't!" The resounding clang echoed round the room, mixing somewhat haphazardly with the splashing of water as it lapped at the edges of the pool.

The gun sight didn't move, nor did Sherlock; he wasn't wholly convinced that their 'friend' was gone for good. It took a glance at John's bulking coat and his very pale face to convince the man to move. Less than a few seconds and he'd crossed the space between himself and John, discarding the gun on the floor. Sinking to one knee he began to undo the buttons of the death jacket. If Moriarty was coming back, and something was telling Sherlock he would, having John in a slightly less dangerous position would certainly make things somewhat easier. "Alright?" The buttons were sticking and it was all Sherlock could do to stop himself tearing the thing apart to free his friend; and as much of a sociopath as he was, Sherlock did consider John a friend.

"Are you alright!" John's knees were beginning to buckle slightly; most likely because all the adrenaline was rushing out of his system, give it another minute and he'd possibly be close to collapsing. Mind you, noticed Sherlock, he didn't look far from that now.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Once he'd opened it, Sherlock grabbed at the collar and harshly dragged it off John who protested somewhat at the force, but he ignored it focusing instead on getting the man free. Once John's arms were clear of the sleeves, the doctor staggered forward slightly and Sherlock threw the coat, flinging it as far down the poolside with as much strength as he could physically muster. The weight of the thing helped to propel it across the wet floor before it came to a stop at the far end of the pool where Moriarty had been walked moments before. Convincing himself that that position would have to do for now, Sherlock picked up the gun and darted down the short corridor the criminal had left through. He wrenched open the door but saw nothing; as he suspected.

It was pointless to go after him; if he was going he'd have some sort of getaway vehicle set up and could be miles away in mere minutes. Chasing after him would be ridiculous and a pointless waste of time. He turned and walked purposefully towards the pool before turning to head towards the entrance Moriarty had come through. He gave up on that thought quickly though. This man was maticulate in his 'art'. There would be nothing to go on.

Part of him ached to go after him, to stop him before things got further out of hand and more people died.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock turned from his pacing that he'd started to see John half crouched by one of the changing stalls looking less pale than before but breathing heavily. He'd almost collapsed, as Sherlock had suspected would happen, and now seemed to teetering on the edge of hyperventilation.

"Me? Yeah. Fine. Fine." He wasn't fine. Moriarty couldn't be gone. There was something that didn't fit in this picture. Something wasn't right. "Fine." He took the gun away from the back of his head as he realised he'd been using it to try and calm himself down a bit; it wasn't working. "That, er...thing that you, er...that you did with..." he cleared his throat. "...you offered to do, that was, um...good."

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hmm?" He was still pacing; more on the spot than before but still pacing, partly to work off the adrenaline that was still in his own bloodstream and also to try and reassure himself that they were okay.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool." he drew his cardigan closer round himself. "People might talk."

"People do little else." Sherlock glanced at John leaning back against the stand between the cubicles and smiled. They'd made it. They were okay.

John had begun to stand up when the laser sight appeared on his chest again. Seeing it the doctor slid back down while a sound behind Sherlock proved his instinct to be correct. He hadn't gone.

As the door opened, an all-too-familiar voice called out, drowning out John's curse. "Sorry, boys!" Loud, shrill, obnoxious; it was almost as though it had never left. "I'm sooo changeable."

Another laser sight had appeared pointing at Sherlock's own chest. His eyes traveled up to the gallery where he'd reasoned the first sniper had been when he first knew of their presence. The second had to be up there. Taking two steps towards the swimming pool he scanned the darkness in an attempt to make them out. With the small gun in his hand he could at least take one of them out before the other one could fire giving either himself or John that little extra chance of survival.

"It is a weakness with me but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

There were more than two laser sights coming down from the gallery and a small sideways look at John confirmed he had three of them trained on his chest. No doubt the other three were making a similar pattern on his own chest; they were both in this until the end; no magical escape.

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." Moriarty's voice sounded the most serious it would probably ever get and Sherlock saw the mild panic develop on John's face as he raised his head. "I'd try to convince you, but..." he let out a slight laugh and Sherlock searched frantically within his own head for a solution. It was just another problem and every problem had a solution; there was never an exception to that rule, it just sometimes took longer to figure it out and time was definitely something he was running out of. "...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

And that was when he found it. The solution. It wasn't perfect; it wasn't ideal; and it certainly wasn't clever; but it would work.

He turned to John. The former military doctor recently returned from Afghanistan had a job. He had a sister, a girlfriend...a life. If this went wrong, it was John who had the most to lose.

There was no way he could communicate his idea without speaking out loud and alerting their attackers but he'd been reliably informed that when an idea entered his head an unmistakable glint sparkled in his eye. True, that had been under less strenuous circumstances when his own life, as well as the life of someone he didn't consider entirely idiotic, wasn't in dire jeopardy but he really needed the element of surprise in this.

John's eyes met his for barely a small second. Then... It was so small, so slight that anyone who wasn't looking for it wouldn't notice but there was no doubt that that...was a nod...and that was all he needed.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock swung round and pointed the handgun at Moriarty once again, feeling all too wary of the laser sights on his back.

As he lowered the gun he saw Moriarty's smirk grow until Sherlock's gaze fell towards the bomb situated four feet in front of the villain's feet.

The amount of explosives on the jacket would most likely be small, designed to just kill John in the event that Sherlock didn't 'behave' or decided to call Jim's bluff. There was no way that he would risk his own life by coming that close to John so long as there was a possibility that Sherlock wouldn't be fazed by John's predicament.

But then again, Moriarty may have got a bit cocky. Put on enough to take out both of them should the need, or worryingly, the opportunity arise.

Either way there wouldn't be enough explosives within the jacket to cause more than minor structural damage to the swimming pool. There shouldn't. Sherlock could be wrong; but it was too late for that now.

He looked up at Moriarty. The criminal was smirking at him, trying to call his bluff.

His smug look of confidence began to fade as Sherlock squeezed the trigger.

The heat was intense and the power of the blast shook the ground with a resounding BOOM! that tore up the tile floor and threw the shards high into the air while tossing the water over the other edge of the pool.

Sherlock, who had been stood within five feet of the jacket, was thrown back with such force that he knew instantly, he had greatly underestimated Moriarty's arrogance.

Intense pain erupted in Sherlock's left shoulder as it made contact with the concrete edge of the pool before he was plunged into the water. He was quickly swallowed up by the water as he sank like a stone touching the bottom in mere seconds. Swimming ought to have been high on his list of priorities but he was somewhat preoccupied by another more pressing thought.

Snipers.

Six of them to be precise, all of them in the gallery, around twelve to fourteen feet above ground level and save being slightly shaken would be largely unaffected by the explosion. It was only a matter of time before they regained themselves and began shooting.

Seven seconds after Sherlock shot the bomb; five seconds after he made contact with the water; two seconds after he hit the bottom of the pool; and one second after his thoughts turned to the snipers, bullets began to tear through the water, narrowly missing him by inches and embedding themselves deep into the floor.

He had to move.

Paralysing pain seared through his left shoulder as he tried to use his arms to propel himself upwards through the water but he had to ignore it ; he was running out of oxygen. Kicking off from the floor, he thrust himself up through the over-chlorinated water. He gasped at the air once he'd broken the surface but quickly he turned his attention to the snipers. In the water he was too vulnerable a target and could be peppered with bullets within seconds. Except he wasn't.

The gallery was devoid of the red warning lights that had been there barely a minute ago. It was dark; silent; seemingly devoid of life.

Sherlock ran through what had happened in his head again and realised that after the initial wave of bullets there had been no more shots. The fact that he had not noticed this before surprised Sherlock but was understandable/

"Sherlock!"

He twisted in the water at the voice from the poolside. Thankfully John was alive if a bit worse for wear.

A minor head wound; sat with his legs beside him; holding himself up with his left arm, which was shaking considerably; some form of shock most likely. John's cry had sounded muffled; possibly in pain from some injury that wasn't initially visible and trying, unsuccessfully, to mask it.

The doctor seemed a considerable distance away and it seemed that Sherlock had been buffeted by the water to almost the other side of the pool.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." He started to try and swim across. It wasn't a very large pool but when it had to be crossed by a rapidly tiring man it certainly seemed wider than your average swimming pool. It was difficult; his left arm was practically out of action as most attempts to use it in aiding propulsion caused the pain in his shoulder to intensify.

When he reached the side he found John's hand thrust in his face. He looked up at the doctor in a short moment of thought before he took the hand. John tightened his grip and used his other hand to help him haul the detective out of the water.

You had to admire his strength; for one thing Sherlock, skinny as he was, wasn't exactly a lightweight, especially now that his clothes had soaked up at least some water. Thank god he hadn't been wearing his outdoor coat. Also the pool water had reduced a good few inches below what it would normally be meaning John wasn't getting the little bit of extra help that would give him.

Once Sherlock could get his leg up onto the side John grabbed at his back and pulled him up so that Sherlock was on his hands and knees before settling back in a sitting position.

"You okay?" Repeated question. Possible shock, or maybe concussion; then again he could just be worried.

"Fine." Sherlock knew that John wouldn't believe that for a second and sure enough the qualified doctor who had previous experience with explosions and the like was at his side.

"Why don't I believe you?" he said as he helped Sherlock over to lean against the door of one of the closed, locked cubicles.

He had to admit it was certainly more comfortable than the canine-like position he had occupied before. It also gave him the opportunity to do a small self-assessment of his injuries.

There was the shoulder, obviously; his muscles ached from the temporary lack of oxygen and the shock of being thrown into the water; mild headache but little other in the general head area which at least meant he most likely didn't have concussion and Sherlock couldn't help but feel that was a good thing.

"It made an awful noise."

"What?" Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and found John had drawn back having satisfied himself that Sherlock wasn't in need of immediate medical attention.

"Your shoulder."

"Oh." He hadn't heard a noise but it was highly unlike something such as bone connecting with concrete wouldn't make one.

"How is it?"

Incredibly painful. "Fine. Just a bit sore."

John looked almost as though he wasn't sure whether he believed that or not but settled back against the cubicle beside Sherlock and let his head fall back.

"I thought you had a plan."

"What?"

"You could have killed us."

"Whereas if I hadn't acted we would have been perfectly alright?"

John ignored his comment and rubbed his head by the cut he had sustained in the explosion, flinching as he accidentally caught it. "You weren't trying to kill us, were you?"

"What?"

"Oh never mind."

"All that happened was I somewhat...underestimated the threat."

"Yeah." John scoffed. "I can see that."

Following John's gaze, Sherlock saw the sizable pit at the far end of the pool where the jacket had been; the water from the pool had already spread to fill the extra space created. Even a few of the cubicles had been ripped to shreds while two or three had disappeared completely.

Staring at the wall, a wayward thought entered his head. "Moriarty?"

"I didn't see him." The sudden tiredness present in John's voice made Sherlock turn to see the doctor cradling his head.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine. I guess." Suddenly aware of his audience, John took away his hand and shrugged. "Few cuts and bruises. No major damage."

Sherlock looked him up and down and came to a similar conclusion. Most likely his worst injury was the possibly developing concussion. Satisfied, he turned to the wall where the criminal had been stood just minutes before.

Moriarty had got away; and he was going to kill again; and again; and again. And there would be no knowing whether he was truly behind it or not. If he was, they'd never find the proof.

"You really shouldn't go to sleep, John."

"I know, Sherlock." Yet John didn't move to open his eyes which had slowly drawn themselves closed.

"Then wake up."

John didn't respond that time; if he was ignoring Sherlock this was the worst possible time.

"John." he shifted his weight so he was able to tap the man on the face. "Wake up, John!"

Gently tapping him on the face did nothing and even increased pressure heralded the same outcome. From experience Sherlock believed that this was a sure sign that worrying would be a reasonable course of action. Not necessarily helpful, but perfectly reasonable.

"Come on, John!"

"Stand up."

He froze as that horrifyingly familiar voice came from behind him; and it was at this point the Sherlock realised he'd lost the gun in the water. You didn't need to be clever to figure out there was most likely a gun pointed at the back of his head.

"Stand up." Slowly and carefully, he stood up taking care not to make any sudden movements. "Turn around. Slowly!" He did as he was told, feeling a fool for giving in so easily.

He finished up facing Moriarty but found a handgun pointed straight at the middle of his head. Yet there was something he saw that he couldn't help but smile at.

He'd managed to make Jim Moriarty bleed.

Unfortunately the blood running down the side of his head was the only injury he'd appeared to have sustained and it had done nothing to dent that sickening grin of his which grew as his eyes flickered to the still form of John.

"Oh I do hope he's not dead." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as Moriarty laughed. "I mean...that would just spoil all the fun."