Summary: How does Moriarty match up to two shape-shifters?

Author Notes: Final part, and a bit shorter than the previous parts, sorry. I rather liked the idea that their ability is the reason they survive a bomb-blast.

"Sorry boys! I'm sochangeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed you mind!" Moriarty's voice rose obscenely at the end, a teasing lilt that turned John's stomach.

He looked at Sherlock, who was watching him steadily, the red laser dots dancing sickeningly across his chest.

Could they survive this? They were harder to kill than the average human, doubly so if they shifted, but did Moriarty know that? Had he accounted for that, made sure shifting wouldn't save them? The snipers would definitely kill them. Direct shot to the head or heart and even shifting wouldn't save them. Was it better to take their chances?

All this passed through John's head in a flash, and just as fast he knew what his choice was.

He gave Sherlock a small nod, heart in his throat but head shockingly clear.

Sherlock's gaze never left his as he replied, "Probably my answer has crossed yours."

Sherlock turned slowly, finally breaking his gaze to level the gun at Moriarty. The madman smirked, and Sherlock slowly lowered the gun toward the vest- that damn vest he had just ripped off of John- and time seemed to stop, the three of them, locked in an eternal stalemate.

Until Sherlock pulled the trigger.

John leapt up almost instantaneously, throwing his arms around Sherlock as the momentum carried them side-ways. They had shifted before they even hit the water.

John was a soldier. He knew explosions, knew how the shockwave could feel like being in the middle of a thunderclap, leave you aching and your ears ringing.

But this. Nothing could have prepared him for this. He must have blacked out for a few moments because when he came to, he became aware of three things: one, he was laying on his side in only a couple centimeters of water (what was left of the pool), he ached, all over, in every way, and three, he couldn't see Sherlock.

He found the strength to stagger upward, his fur uncomfortably matted, caked with the thick powder that filled the air, threatened to choke him along with the smoke and he realized his ears were ringing.

The debris shifted off him as he pushed himself upward, panting, as his body screamed in protest.

Even over the ringing in his ears and the crackling of fire he could hear his packmate's whimper, found him trapped under debris too heavy for either of them to manage and John collapsed next to him, pressing their faces close and praying to be rescued.

0 0 0

John was warm. The kind of warm that made your limbs heavy with comfort and lazily objected to opening your eyes.

For several long minutes he let his sleep-fuzzy brain do just that, breathing in the comfortable smell of clean sheets and Sherlock; who smelled more like home to him now than anything else in his life.

Sherlock. Sherlock. The pool, the gun, Moriarty. It all came back in a flood of memory and he panicked for a moment, heart pounding as he opened his eyes, the light in the room blinding for a moment as he struggled to sit up. He grunted in pain as his body protested the sudden movement rather painfully.

"Easy John," Sherlock's low voice murmured gently, hand on his arm to press him back down.

John breathed a sigh of relief, seeing his packmate lying next to him in the bed as he settled back down.

"You're ok," he breathed, reaching out to touch his shoulder, running his hand over his arm, down his side, needing to feel for himself that Sherlock was alive, was ok.

"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock replied gently, "And so are you."

John nodded, finally looked around, frowning at the unfamiliar room.

"Where are we?"

Sherlock huffed irritatedly, "Mycroft," was all he had to explain.

"Ah."

John was quiet for a moment, looking interestedly around the room. That would explain the posh-ness then.

He looked back at Sherlock, almost dreading to ask, "And Moriarty?"

"Unknown," Sherlock sighed, clearly annoyed.

John nodded again, swallowed uneasily.

"We're safe for now," Sherlock assured him, reaching out to take John's hand gently in both of his long, slender ones, "Mycroft will make sure of that."

John nodded, gripped Sherlock's hand gently.

"Go back to sleep John."

John chuckled, looked at him sternly, "You know, I'm the doctor here, shouldn't I be telling you that?"

Sherlock grinned, squeezed John's hand, "Quite right, Doctor Watson."

John couldn't help but laugh, sliding an arm around Sherlock's thin shoulders, "Come here you cocky bastard," he chuckled, and Sherlock laughed as they both simultaneously slid closer, Sherlock shuffling down slightly to tuck his head against John's chest, forehead pressed against his collarbones to sleep.

0 0 0

When John Watson had stepped through the door of 221B Baker Street those months ago, he had no idea his life would lead to this point. He had been threatened by madmen, kidnapped, shot at, done some shooting of his own, nearly blown up, and, quite by accident, made a little pack, a little family, for himself in the process.

And he wouldn't take back a single second of it. Not one. Not even that dark night in Afghanistan, when his life had changed forever.

A/N: Hooray! Once again, any dialogue you recognize is from The Great Game, and therefore belongs to Mark and Steven.

I can tell you now that there is a sequel brewing in my head, and I'm set to sit down and start cracking soon. But being that I'm the type who needs to finish an entire story before I publish it (or else it doesn't get done), it make take a while.

UPDATE! There is now a small prequel to this, titled Trust Issues. Please do check it out, and accept it as at least minor compensation for how long it's taking me to write the sequel!