*There is a hidden reference to one of my favourite (and relatively obscure) bands in this chapter. If you find it and post about it in a review or message or something, I will love you forever and possibly write you a drabble or something.

Also, as always, John's thoughts are in bold. Sherlock and Moriarty (yes yes, he's here) will both be in italics, but I've done my best to always specify and make it clear who is thinking and who is hearing it. Seriously, this whole mind-reading thing is way more convoluted to write than I anticipated it being. Warnings below contain spoilers, keep going if you want to read them, otherwise skip the next line.

Warnings for massive deviation from canon (but if you're reading this, I assume you are okay with that), mild gore, and secondary character death.

*thump* *thump* *thump* Sherlock's draped sideways in his chair, his heel pounding rhythmically against the side. John's been making an effort to obfuscate and muddle his own thoughts all morning, and Sherlock's given up trying to listen in. So when John comes and sits on the arm of the chair Sherlock is not currently abusing and lets the strong, determined cant of his mind flow, Sherlock is actually, genuinely taken aback.

"You're bored, aren't you?"

Two thuds of his foot and roll of his eyes make the answer clearer than any words would.

"I've been thinking..." John says. Sherlock sits up straight, suddenly alert. "I've been thinking you're ready. Maybe it's time. To go after..." the tacit weight of Moriarty's name hangs in the air like a sulphurous fog. After several weeks of waiting for John to realise he's ready, Sherlock is nearly vibrating with excitement as he skims through the flow of John's thoughts. He's stopped making any attempt to hide them, having told Sherlock exactly what he was dwelling on.

Are you positive, John? The question has a bit of a smug edge to it, Sherlock's just showing off now by projecting rather than speaking.

"Yes, you git. I'm still not crazy about the idea, but I'm not crazy about potentially being kidnapped again." Or worse, something happening to you. The words are silent, but clear to both men. "I'd much rather take care of this on our terms than his."

Sherlock nods, agreeing vehemently. Nobody's going to take John away from him again, not like this.

"So how are we going to go about this?" Sherlock asks. If it were up to him, they'd just run off right now, but he's promised to let John plan this out, let him control the situation as much as possible.

"Well, I was thinking you could ask your bro-" Nope. John's cut off by Sherlock's petulant frame of mind. Not getting him involved.

"Fine. Never mind Mycroft then. We will find some neutral enclosed space ourselves, and you can send him a text, arranging to meet him alone. Inevitably, he won't be. But he doesn't know you can... talk to me, for lack of a better term, so even if I follow you from a distance he'll think you're genuinely alone."

Sherlock nods, oddly proud of John for planning this all out without him. Even though he's not intentionally projecting, John seems to catch the drift and flushes.

"It's really not that good a plan, it's still leaving a huge amount up to chance. But I figured, you can fish around and listen for any men Jim's brought with him, and I can dispatch them quickly and quietly. I hope."

"It's a fine plan, John. It's loose enough to leave room for improvisation, if necessary, but the framework is all there. Thank you for trusting me. I'm positive he'd never show up alone, not on unfamiliar territory, so I'm looking forward to beating him at his own game. We'll just have to make sure we're not spotted leaving together."

Startled, John grins artlessly at Sherlock. "No, Sherlock. Thank you, for listening to me. For waiting. For not running off again."

The remainder of the day passes in a flurry of activity. John cleans, oils, and re-cleans his gun, loading it and unloading it three or four times before he's satisfied. Sherlock has spent the afternoon scouring the internet and badgering his contacts looking for a suitable venue for their confrontation, before settling on a disused dry goods warehouse in Barking.

It's well after midnight when all is said and done, and John grabs Sherlock by the arm, guiding him towards the main-floor bedroom. In unspoken assent, he gets up and follows. They fall into bed together, a tangle of anxious limbs, unsettled but eager. John cards his fingers idly through Sherlock's curls, as much to relax himself as Sherlock. Eventually, they both fall into a solid slumber, secure in their decisions and preparations.

The next morning, Sherlock's glowing in anticipation, and John can't help but think of a child at Christmas. He's had the decency to stay under the covers until John woke up, but now he's bounding out of bed, leaving John feeling oddly cold and bereft as he watches his partner bounce around.

Soon they're both ready, sitting at the table in the kitchen going over last-minute details.

"Remember, John-"

John rolls his eyes. "Yes, yes, Sherlock. I know. I'm going to head to the Asda and make a point of doing some shopping, and eventually follow you to the warehouse, let you know I'm there."

Sherlock eyes his phone, obviously eager to send the text that will start it all.

Oh, go ahead. I'll head off to the supermarket.

John stands up, pushing his chair back anxiously, before checking the gun tucked into the back of his jeans for the fourth time that morning. In an oddly childlike gesture, Sherlock leans against him, resting his head on John's hip, nuzzling. It's likely more for John's comfort than Sherlock's own, and the gesture is appreciated. He ruffles the mop of dark curls.

"We're doing the right thing, aren't we?" We're sitting at the kitchen table discussing killing a man.

"That's a rather subjective question." Besides, he's an exceptionally terrible man.

"Fair enough. Hurry. I'll see you soon."

With that, John bustles out, heading off on his fake errands, giving Sherlock a moment to compose a short but vital text.

Dry goods storage, Barking. Right now. Come alone. -SH

He tucks the phone into the pocket of his coat as he slides it onto his shoulders, sweeping out the front door and down the stairs. The cab ride to the warehouse is interminably long, and Sherlock amuses himself by eavesdropping on John as he drums his fingers on the seat of the taxi next to him.

What should I get? Milk? Milk, yeah. That seems plausible. Is that guy following me? Good, I think he is. Hmm, sale on tomatoes. Do we need tomatoes? Sherlock would probably squash them. There he is again, he's absolutely tailing me. Excellent. I wonder if Sherlock's listening in. Hi Sherlock! This feels silly. Better make sure that guy sees me paying...

Sherlock can't hold back the smile that dances across his lips, listening to John's strange but oddly charming stream of consciousness. It calms his nerves, and soon the cabbie's trying to get his attention.

"Oi, mate." Fucking nutter, sitting there grinning to himself... "We're there. Pay up."

Grumbling, Sherlock throws a few bills at him and stalks up to the warehouse, standing square and tall. His hands hang open, loosely, at his sides, body language virtually shouting "I'm here, I'm unarmed, I'm alone." He pushes the door open, stepping into the dim filth of the building. It's obviously fallen into a state of disuse, empty grain containers and rusted equipment littering the floor. The light is sparse, a few bare bulbs hanging at random intervals from a high ceiling, criss-crossed with narrow walking platforms.

James Moriarty, ever the sucker for drama, is standing in the middle of one of the pools of light being thrown onto the floor. His hands are in his pockets, his stance seemingly casual, but Sherlock can sense that he's as on-edge, as unstable as ever. His mind is frustratingly impersonal, he's apparently familiar enough with Sherlock's ability that he's devised tricks to get around it. Every time Sherlock tries to hone in on his thoughts, he's confronted with strains of Bee Gees music or an irritatingly bland Turner painting of a waterfall, instead of the usual stream of subconscious noise he gets from the average person.

Sherlock, welcome, welcome. Make yourself at home. There's a sickening edge to his thoughts. Where's your precious little pet now? Did you really think I'd believe your text? He feels slimy and unctuous in Sherlock's head, unpleasant and unwelcome.

"Talk to me or I don't talk at all. Not going to let you invade my head like this."

The look on Moriarty's face is an uncanny imitation of a childlike pout, made all the more unnerving by the fury in his eyes. He clutches a fist histrionically to his breast. "You wound me, Sherlock. If you just accept what you are, just let me in, we could be fantastic..."

"Never. And John isn't here - he didn't want me having anything to do with you, so I had to sneak out while he was running errands. I suspect he'll be livid when he figures out where I've gone." The lies come smoothly and easily, but then, they always have.

He grimaces, an eerie sneer and a mockery of a sympathetic frown. "Poor, poor Johnny. Poor Sherlock. Do I sense a lover's quarrel in the works?"

Tuning him out, Sherlock scans the room, hearing two faint threads of concentration coming from the walkway above him, and one more over his shoulder. He has to keep up this verbal dance, keep Moriarty engaged and occupied until John arrives, so it's a huge relief when he hears John approaching from a distance.

Sorry it took so long, Sherlock. I'm fairly certain I was being tailed at the supermarket, so I made certain to hang around for a while, picked up a couple of things. I lost him on the tube, but it took a while and I had to double back to get over here.

Glad you could make it. Sliding in silently from a back door, John can see Sherlock and Jim engaged in a verbal standoff. He's awed to see that despite the fondly sarcastic tone in Sherlock's thoughts, his face is impassive, neutral.

Where do we stand?

Two to your left, on the catwalk, John hears Sherlock's deep voice resonating in his head, clearly but faintly. Either Sherlock's feeling nervous, or he's still apprehensive about projecting loud enough for Moriarty to hear. Either way, the message comes through.

Got it, he lobs back.

One more. Top of the packing machine.

Swift, silent, deadly, John dispatches the three men. He snaps the necks of the two men suspended on the rigging, wouldn't do to have blood dripping from above them and draw attention to the situation. The man on the bundling equipment barely has time to register the slight shift in the machine's weight before John buries a heavy hunting knife into the back of his neck, severing his spine. Sherlock can hear John fighting with himself for a moment; despite his army years, despite his history with Sherlock, the good doctor's moral code still makes him apprehensive about literally stabbing another man in the back.

All clear, but you knew that already. Now I just have to figure out how to get to him.

He's doing a pretty decent job of masking himself from me, but what little snippets I get are cocky, over-confident. He doesn't seem to have any awareness of you just yet. He's made the grievous mistake of under-estimating you.

The mockery of badinage is still taking place in the cavernous centre of the warehouse, too far for John to hear clearly. It's obvious by their body language that somehow Sherlock has managed to keep up the pretence of a conversation while still carrying on a silent one with John. John realises suddenly that Sherlock's been ready for this for quite a while, that it was his own fear and apprehension holding them back.

Ha. I heard that, John Watson.

Oh, do shut up, you smug wanker. We've got work to do.

John disappears into the shadows again, years of training and a natural, innate stealthiness coming in handier than he'd ever have thought possible after leaving the military.

Sherlock's attention snaps fully back to Moriarty, still spewing forth drivel about the two of them working together.

"Think of it, Sherlock. Moriarty and Holmes." He spreads his hands theatrically. "Our names in lights. With you by my side, I'd be completely unstoppable. Nobody would ever be able to get the upper hand on me with a freaky little genius mind reader at my feet."

"I told you, never."

"Then why did you come here? I'm not in the mood to kill you today. Not without little Johnny here to watch."

From deep within the shadows immediately behind Moriarty, John winks, the bare bulbs overhead glinting off his deep blue eye.

NOW, SHERLOCK! VATICAN CAMEOS!

Sherlock spins immediately on his heel, veering abruptly to the right as he drops to the ground, barely even registering the shock and panic emanating off of Moriarty for a half-second before he hears the sharp crack of John's handgun and feels the warm, wet splatter of blood hitting the side of his face.

He stays on the ground for a moment, the echo of the gunshot reverberating through Moriarty's brain, through his own brain, rattling him more than he'd like to admit. John's rushing towards him, his mind a steady flow of ...

He drops to his knees, hands cupping Sherlock's face, seemingly oblivious to the spray of gore coating his cheek.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, it's just always unpleasant being very close to someone as they're dying. The mind does strange things as it shuts down. It's certainly not the first time I've experienced it, but his mind was more complicated than most."

"Was? We're positive then?"

"Oh yes. The man who got him must have been a crack shot."

At this, John's tension breaks in a fit of giggles, and it's not long before Sherlock joins in. John lays down, joining him on the filthy floor of the warehouse, the two of them graduating from chuckles to full-on guffawing. Eventually, gasping for breath, Sherlock's hand finds John's and their fingers twine together as they calm down.

"We should leave. I know you didn't want him involved, but maybe let your brother know. Let him clean this up."

"Mmm, I think I could consent to that. He's got to be good for something, after all."

John turns over so he's facing Sherlock. "Oh god, Sherlock. You're filthy. Is that blood?"

"I assume so." He runs a finger through it, smearing his cheek. "I think I could use a shower. Let's go home." Sherlock makes a few half-hearted attempts to wipe the mess off, before rolling over onto his knees and pushing himself up off the ground. He holds a hand out to John, pulling him up alongside and keeping their fingers firmly knotted together. They turn in concert, backs to the mangled remains of the criminal genius lying broken on the ground, and head off for Baker Street.

Ugh. Wow. The main plot arc is over. I'm still not sure how I feel about all this, but what started as a fluffy angsty experiment turned into way more plot than I'm used to handling.

Now that this part is resolved, I am going back to my original plan, writing little one-shots and short individual fics in this same universe. They will be published independently of this story, so if you enjoy this series and want to read more, I suggest you subscribe to my author alerts. Also, if you have ideas for situations or things you'd like to see mind-reading Sherlock deal with, feel free to let me know. I can't guarantee I'll be able to write them all, but I'm always up for prompts. Things already on the idea list include Sherlock learning to project to others, specifically to fuck with Mycroft; the boys getting laryngitis and needing to rely on alternate methods of communication; and last but certainly not least, a wedding. There will likely be references to the main story in here in those, but they'll definitely be fluffier, brighter, and more stand-alone.

And now, the really important part - thanking you so much to all you, dear readers, for your feedback and encouragement. In particular, massive love to chasingriversong, skyfullofstars, Mirith Griffin, the ladies and gents of the Inner Circle, floppybelly, DarthJackie, consultingdepressive, Madrona8, Mildly_Neurotic, thesullengiraffe, TheMuchTooMerryMaiden, charliebravowhiskey, thebrokenangel, and belovedmuerto for your continual, unflinching support even when I repeatedly dragged my sorry ass with updates. Thank you for sticking with me!