I hope this doesn't disappoint, I have a soft spot for BAMF!John.

Ah, here is the end.

There will be a sequel eventually but for now, this story is done with.

Still review.

Peace&Love

Sophie

John stares at Mycroft in horror, the soldier in him letting down his mask for a second. The politician gazes back, his eyes wide but his look calm and neutral, the perfect reassurance for John.

The soldier automatically reaches for his weapon, the one that isn't there.

John curses himself for not bringing it along, even though the practically of it is sound. "Why would I need a gun at Mummy Holmes's house?" John thinks to himself.

John slides along the back of the love seat and peaks his head around the corner, just as he hears a click reverberate throughout the room.

Moriarty's back is turned as he shuts the giant doors to the parlor, effectively imprisoning the doctor and the politician. Just as Moriarty turns around, the soldier ducks behind the couch again, crawling back to Mycroft.

John looks at the politician, his mouth open and about to speak of their predicament when he notices that Mycroft's eyes are faintly blurred. John doesn't waste a moment, he grabs Mycroft, whose eyes gape in surprise, and lays the elder Holmes flat. The politician grunts softly at the force and movements.

Once John has Mycroft horizontal, the doctor ghost his hands over the politician's body. He notices the blood right away, soaking through the older man's jacket. John carefully pulls Mycroft's arm out of his suit, hisses and quieted grunts meet the doctor in reply.

"It's nothing, John." Mycroft whispers through gritted teeth.

"Bollocks, you are shot." John remarks sternly once the jacket is off, he probes the wound through Mycroft's white shirt, before apply pressure. It's messy and bloody and John can't get a good look at it.

"It's just the shoulder, non-threatening." Mycroft states, looking from his shoulder to John.

"You missed everything major, including the artery. Just keep pressure on it." John demands firmly, ripping one of Mycroft's white sleeve from his arm.

All evidence of the man in the room forgotten as John tries to make a tourniquet from Mycroft's ripped sleeve.

"Johnny, I know I got him." The sing song voice says, effectively reminding the doctor of the grave situation. "If you want him to get out of here alive, I suggest you come out from behind the couch."

John stares at Mycroft, who is, like always, rather neutral considering the pain the politician is in.

"No," The politician declares, grabbing John's shirt with his good arm, holding firm.

"I have too." John states, tearing Mycroft's hand away, "Stay lying down and keep pressure." The doctor orders, standing up facing the man of his nightmares.

When John erects fully, the site is unexpected. Moriarty had placed himself in one of the chairs, the same one Violet had occupied...good god had it been a mere ten minutes ago.

That's not the most shocking aspect. John is thoroughly surprised by Moriarty's appearance. The normally immaculate and put together man, is now rough and haggard. Moriarty's clothes are wrinkled and dirty, a faint evidence of a stubble upon the man's face.

All evidence of a man whose criminal organization has fallen.

"Ah, there are those pretty eyes." The Irishman exclaims brightly, his gun twirling in his fingers loosely, yet still very threatening. John doesn't respond, he stands his ground.

"Not very talkative today?" The masterminds asks innocently. John turns his head away in disgust.

"Don't be rude, Johnny." Moriarty snaps angrily and John turns his head back, not out of obedience but general interest at the man falling apart in front of the doctor's very eyes.

"What do you want Moriarty?" John asks disinterested, crossing his arms over his chest, defiantly.

"Why don't you come over to this couch and find out?" Moriarty says, reaching forward and patting the couch next to him. John doesn't move, fearing the worse; Moriarty is on the edge of a psychotic break.

Moriarty huffs angrily.

"Johnny, do not make me come over there." The Dublin man warns snidely, "I will not be in control of my trigger finger if I come any closer." To prove his point, the consulting criminal grips his gun tightly and points it towards the couch, clicking the safety off.

John looks nervously down at Mycroft, the politician is shaking his head, the color of his face is good and his fingers are holding tight against his wound. The elder Holmes is in decent shape, but that doesn't mean he needs another bullet.

John slowly, in resignation, moves around the love seat in front of him and then around the coffee table, closing the distance between him and Moriarty with every step. Finally, John stops short, in front of the settee next to Moriarty's chair. The consulting criminal pats the purple fabric encouragingly. John doesn't hesitate, Mycroft and his own life at risk. The doctor sits down obediently, placing himself on the very edge of the cushions, his hands resting firmly on his knees. His entire body tense and in preparation for what could happen next.

"That won't do, Johnny Boy." Moriarty says teasingly and before John can react, the criminal mastermind is upright and then plopping himself next to the doctor on the couch. Effectively placing himself extremely close to the doctor. John winces away but Moriarty snakes a hand around the doctor's shoulder, trapping him. Moriarty leans back and pulls the soldier with him so the both of them are relaxing into the settee. Well, Moriarty is relaxing John is still as tense and slightly disgusted as ever, yet the doctor doesn't struggle. Moriarty's gun is jabbing into John's side, forcing the doctor to remain still as Moriarty manhandles him.

John wants to squirm away, the hands gripping his shoulder repulse him.

"So," John starts, closing his eyes for a brief second, willing himself to remain calm, "I'm closer, are you going to tell me why you are here?"

"It's simply really, I'm here to kill you." Moriarty sings, leaning his head onto John's shoulder, ironically the shoulder that Montague shot more than a year and a half ago.

"Why?" John asks curiously, shifting uncomfortably as the criminal tightens his grip painfully before loosening.

"Why? WHY?" John must have hit a nerve. The gun in his side jabs painfully and suddenly the criminal mastermind is standing, looming over John who remains leaning against the back of the couch. "You want to know WHY?"

John doesn't know what to do, the reaction is nothing like the doctor has ever seen coming from Moriarty, the man is definitely on psychotic break.

"Johnny, I only wanted you, I would have been fine with just you." The mastermind exclaims, the gun pointed at John's chest, swaying slightly as Moriarty's anger ripples through him.

"Now, YOU'VE taken everything from me." Moriarty bellows, and John flinches. Suddenly, a sickening thud echoes the room and John feels a sudden pain on his face, forcing the doctor to list to one side from the force. The butt of Moriarty's gun is bloodied slightly and John forces himself upright, moving a hand to his jaw, massaging the muscles slightly, accessing the cut and the rest of the damage on his face.

"What the hell?" John yells angrily, spitting blood out of his mouth and onto Moriarty's shoe.

The man doesn't notice, instead he looks at John, his body shaking and his face fuming.

"I never had to get my hands dirty. I don't like getting my hands dirty." Moriarty screams and hits John again, the doctor falls to the side of the couch with a painful grunt. The soldier lifts himself up again, but says nothing. He stares with intent at the criminal mastermind.

"Moran is dead," Moriarty cries, using his fist to hit John again. "My empire has fallen." Another fist impacts with John's face, the beating starting to make John a tad fuzzy.

John is too busy cataloging the damage, he doesn't notice when Moriarty leans in, his face directly in front of John. "And it's all your fault." Moriarty states and pummels John with a fist, sending John onto the couch again. This time, John struggles to sit up, his face is bleeding and he is pretty sure his noise is broken.

The soldier lays there for a minute before trying to get up. Hands are on him and he uses all his power to brush them off. John sits up again but before he makes it fully upright, Moriarty straddles the doctor, forcing John to lay horizontally on the couch again, one the doctor's foot planting on the ground.

"Moriarty," John warns sternly, his voice apparently not affected by his bruises. "Get off." John's voice is smooth and threatening.

"No." Moriarty responds simply, jabbing the gun against John's temple. The doctor winces in response but writhes beneath the mastermind. Suddenly, images from the small room are trudged through the forefront of John's memories, which only make John struggle more.

"Do you remember the last time we were like this?" Moriarty entices, leaning down and whispering in John's ear.

The doctor tries to get away but Moriarty forces his gun against John's temple again and the doctor is forced to still.

"I remember." Moriarty says with a disgustingly seductive tone. "I believe I left a mark the last time. Pity I can't see it, with all these clothes."

The consulting criminal's free hand flies to John's white shirt, his dinner jacket already unbuttoned and sprawled beneath him. John's head is fuzzy but he knows where his memories take him and he does not want a repeat. He tries to slap the hands away but Moriarty backhands him again, causing John's head to loll to one side.

"I'm not in the mood for games John." Moriarty says evilly and starts to unbutton John's shirt slowly. One button, then two, then the third, John's chest becoming more and more exposed. John's head is reeling, in memories, in pain, he doesn't notice the door opening. He does, however, notice the voice that rings in the room.

"John, what is-" Sherlock starts, his hands still on the door, pushing it open halfway. Sherlock is frozen in shock at the site. His brother is nowhere to be seen and his arch nemesis is straddling his husband who appears to be slightly dazed and fresh bruises in early stages on the doctor's face.

Moriarty looks up at the intrusion with glee.

"Get off of him." Sherlock spits acidly Moriarty stops unbuttoning John's shirt and lays the hand lazily on John's exposed torso, his fingers circling the skin absentmindedly. The doctor attempts to wriggle his body, turning it and twisting it so he can set eyes upon his husband, but Moriarty is to heavy and John is getting weaker from his pain and numerous hits to the head.

The doctor gives up, his head throbbing and his memories in control. Brief flashes of John in the room, the fluorescent bulbs blindly the doctor, Moriarty on top of him. His face contorted into a hallucinated monster. John has to blink a few times to bring himself back to the present.

"Its so nice of you to come and play, Sherlock." Moriarty sings, "You are a tad bit late, I expected you about a minute ago. Getting rusty?" Moriarty cries with glee.

Sherlock pushes the door open fully and enters the room, his hands behind his back, his face blank.

"It's very stupid of you to be here Moriarty." Sherlock deadpans and John is forced back to the hospital, those exacts words coming from John's mouth. The doctor wonders if it's on purpose.

"This may be, but I don't intend
to make it out of here alive." Moriarty remarks, his fingers moving to the next button on John's shirt.

Sherlock instinctively takes a step closer and John can feel the gun pushing into his temple harder. The doctor lets out a faint yelp in response and tries to struggle against the metal object.

Moriarty makes the tsk noise and Sherlock stops suddenly, his eyes darting between John and Moriarty in cold fury, Sherlock is forced to watch as the consulting criminal moves on to John's next button.

Through the pain and haze of his brain, John tries to shoo the mastermind's hand away but Moriarty's free hand pushes John's away, the doctor's muscles weaken.

Something has to be done, Moriarty cannot win, not after all of the shite John has had to survive in the past year and a half, but the doctor is at a lost of what needs to be done. No ideas come to him.

Keeping his eyes on Sherlock, the consulting criminal dips his head down to John's ear, the doctor jerks away but Moriarty continues.

"I do, however, intend to take as many as you out with me." The psychotic man whispers, low enough where Sherlock can't hear.

"Just me." John states thickly through his fog. "Just take me." The doctor is sort of pleading, willing to protect the genius by all means necessary.

"Your nobility will be the death of you John Watson." Moriarty exclaims, moving the gun to John's chest.

The doctor's head lolls to one side, turning away from the man on his body.

Something has to be done.

With one quick movement, John's hand, finding adrenaline and strength, reaches for Moriarty's gun. The doctor effectively pushes the offending object of his chest just as a shot rings out milliseconds later, the bullet embedding itself into the floor.

John doesn't see it, but Sherlock flinches as the gun goes off. The detective just stands frozen in shock, staring at the bullet hole in the carpet.

The soldier is too busy to notice as he wrestles the gun out of Moriarty's clutches.

"Sherlock, duck." John screams and the gun is propelled upwards, in the general direction of Sherlock. The detective hides, crouching with agility behind the nearest chair while John's hand stays firmly on the gun whilst the other tries to find Moriarty's neck. With a shove of John's upper body, against all odds, the doctor is able to force the two of them up into the sitting position. Moriarty falls backwards slightly but makes up for it by throwing a punch in John's direction. In order to avoid it John has to let go of Moriarty and the gun.

The mastermind is standing up before John can readjust.

"That. was. very. rude." Moriarty says through heavy breaths and gritted teeth, raising the gun, once again to John's chest.

The doctor is growling now, the adrenaline in control.

John, without thinking, launches himself off the couch and into Moriarty. The mastermind's face widens in surprise, so much so that the gun doesn't fire. Instead, John knocks the gun out of Moriarty's hand with a swipe of his hand, sending it across the room. With the gun gone, John rams his shoulder into the consulting criminal's midsection.

The pair fall backwards, suspended in midair for a second before falling onto the coffee table. The force and weight of their bodies instantly shattering it, glass flying everywhere.

John grunts in pain and can feel the slicing of the glass pieces breaking his skin. The force of the impact takes the wind out the doctor, John gasps in breaths and tries to roll upright, away from Moriarty who remains immobile. His back shoots pain signals through John as the soldier successfully makes it to one side, unfortunately, the doctor is facing Moriarty. John attempts to roll onto his knees, getting ready to propel himself at the criminal when Moriarty starts moving.

The Irishman's head lolls to one side and John is up before he realises it. The doctor straddles Moriarty and a fist hits the lanky form with force. John hands connect with the glass littered carpet at the force of the punch, John having to brace himself against he solidity of the carpet, before he pulls back for another punch.

Suddenly, a hand is on John's neck, squeezing and constricting John's airflow. The doctor's hands fly up to his throat trying to pry off the hands.

Moriarty takes the moment of John's distraction to grab the soldier and flip them. With a thud, John is on his back, the doctor grunting in pain and Moriarty using both his hands and his weight to choke John.

The soldier is gasping for breath and his eyes start to blur, he vaguely sees the flash of white and purple, before he closes his eyes.

Suddenly, the weight of Moriarty is gone and the fingers around his throat disappear.

"Don't move." Violet's voice echoes in John's mind. The mother Holmes had torn into the room and ripped the small Dublin man off of John.

The doctor rolls to the side away from Moriarty, the glass sharp and his coughs racking and throaty.

"John." Sherlock's voice calls and John's eyes are squeezed shut, trying to calm his breathing.

Hands are on the doctor and John flinches away.

"John. It's me." The worried baritone calls and John smiles, opening his eyes. Sherlock pushes the doctor onto his back again and John's head lolls to the side involuntarily. John is looking at Violet, in her evening dress. The mother Holmes is holding a gun firmly, aimed directly for Moriarty's head. John gapes in surprise before turning his head back to find the detective.

Actual tears stare back at him, the wetness settling in the man's eyes and John's face softens at the site.

"It's okay, 'M fine." John slurs and wheezes slightly, his head fuzzy and his nose bleeding. Not to mention the glass cuts on his back and chest smart. John tries to sit up, but a firm hand on his chest stops him.

"Don't. John. Just stay still." The detective commands, his tone weak with emotion.

"Sherlock-" John starts, turning to face the detective.

"Just stay still." The genius says with annoyance, his hands ghosting over John whilst angry tears fall.

"It's okay." John states, bringing his hand to cup the younger man's cheek. "Just a flesh wound."

Sherlock shakes his head wordlessly and John feels tiny, harmless pressures on his face, the pads of Sherlock's fingers caressing John's bruises.

John catches Sherlock's wrist with a wince, the detective stops and looks at the doctor laying on the ground.

"It's okay, really." John states nodding very faintly. A scuttle beside John catches the doctor's attention. John lazes his head to one side in time to see multiple men in black suits, hauling a bleeding Moriarty up and dragging him out. Violet, in all her diligence, follows silently, the gun still aimed.

Somehow, John feels that the fragile yet strong woman is a bit under qualified for the job but through the fog John chalks it up to motherhood. Anything to protect her sons, and John smiles warmly when he realises that includes him too.

A sudden thought streaks across the doctor's mind.

"Mycroft." John suddenly wheezes and is up before Sherlock can push him down again. Glass cuts through John's exposed hands and wrists as the doctor pushes himself up, running over to Mycroft behind the couch.

"John. Stop." Sherlock calls behind him, still kneeling over the spot John had just vacated.

John ignores the detective and rounds the back of the love seat.

"Mycroft." John exclaims forcing himself down next to the politician wincing at the pain and pounding in his head. The man looks far worse than the last time John saw him. The politician's face is pale and there is a pool of blood below his arm.

"Nice to see you John." Mycroft answers weakly.

John's hand finds Mycroft's shoulder and pushes his hand onto the politician's tourniquet.

"Shite." John exhales, taking his hand off of Mycroft's wound.

"What? John, what's wrong?" Sherlock's voice calls, the detective kneeling down beside John, looking at the doctor.

John stares down at his bloody, cut up hands and then stares up at Sherlock.

"I can't put the right amount of pressure." John says frustrated.

"I got it," Sherlock states pushing his hands down onto his older brother.

John checks Mycroft's pulse while Sherlock pushes firmly onto the wound.

"Behind the couch, Lestrade." Sherlock shouts suddenly and John is startled out of his doctor mode and looking at the doctor quizzically.

"Sherlock, how could you possible know that I-" Lestrade starts, his voice echoing throughout the room. Greg stops once he sees Mycroft, his husband bleeding on the floor.

"Bloody hell." Lestrade exclaims and falls to the floor beside Mycroft's head. "Oh my god."

The politician smiles feebly. "I guess it's my turn now." He states and Lestrade chuckles humorlessly with thick emotion.

"It doesn't work like that, Love." Greg responds, cradling Mycroft's head in his lap, tears starting down his face.

"I'm okay, Gregory." Mycroft reassures, "It's not that bad."

Mycroft coughs suddenly and Greg looks helplessly up at John.

"He'll be fine, Greg. He just needs an ambulance." John says, fumbling for his phone, the blood making his movements slippery and clumsy.

"What happened to your hands?" Greg shouts abruptly and John looks up at the DI.

"It's fine." John says but Greg continues to start in exasperation. "It's a long story."

Finally, John manages to get his mobile out when Violet enters the room again.

"The ambulances is here," Her smooth voice says.

Sherlock pokes his head above the back of the couch and motions for his mother to come over, the paramedics following behind her.

"You called for them yourself?" John asks incredulous, looking down at the politician.

"How do you think Sherlock reacted so fast?" Mycroft remarks, wiggling his mobile with his good hand.

John chuckles before he and Sherlock back away, letting the paramedics work on the politician.

Sherlock grips John's waist as the doctor stands. The adrenaline and the force of will are leaving John quickly, and pain and blood are mixing with John's thoughts. As soon as they are standing upright, John's knees buckle.

"John." Sherlock calls loudly, worry and anxiety evident in his smooth baritone.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." John answers, holding on to Sherlock so he doesn't careen to the floor. The detective stares at him with disbelief and panic.

"John you can't hold yourself up." The detective remarks sternly, proving a point by shifting John's weight so that Sherlock is in control.

"I just need to sit." John calls, feeling suddenly dizzy. The doctor feels them moving and soon the cushions of the love seat are beneath him.

John sighs in relief, leaning against the soft fabric, closing his eyes.

"John, you need to go to the hospital." Sherlock states, sitting next to the soldier, his hand wrapped protectively around the doctor's waist.

John raises a bleeding hand dismissively. "Hospitals are boring." The man says, opening one eye and gazing smugly at the genius.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and glares at the doctor. John chuckles.

"Nevertheless, you need one." Sherlock says frustrated.

"No, what I need is a few bandages. Maybe some stitches that I can apply myself." John states stubbornly, the pain from the glass and his headache meshing into one.

"John." Sherlock pinches the bridge of his noise in warning.

"Please." John pleads, looking straight at Sherlock. "I'd rather not spend a night in the A&E."

Sherlock stares at the doctor, accessing his injuries and ghosting fingers across the bleeding cuts in John's hands.

Who is Sherlock kidding? He can't resist John, never has been and probably never will.

"Fine." Sherlock agrees and John smiles complacently, leaning into Sherlock, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Soon, a paramedic is in front of them, John doesn't know at what point Sherlock had beckoned the uniformed men in front of the doctor, John must have dozed a little bit.

Sherlock helps John sit up and shrug the bloodied dinner jacket off the doctor's shoulders. Then John fumbled with the rest of his white shirt's buttons, shivering and shuddering at the memories of why the shirt had been unbuttoned that far to begin with. Finally, John's torso is bare and the paramedics go about bandaged and accessing John's injuries, both uniformed men taking turns applying antiseptic and even some stitches under John's insistence.

During this time, the other paramedics had taken Mycroft out on a stretcher.

Sherlock stares at John throughout the entire time the medics are working on the doctor. The cuts on John's torso are expansive, but not deep. The shallow wounds mix in with John's white scars that Leonard left. The soldier purposefully doesn't look down, he instead stares across the way, watching idly, as men in suits and occasionally the Holmes's staff pass by the door.

Sherlock doesn't move, he grips John's wrist as the paramedic stitches and bandages.

"Your nose isn't broken, but I wouldn't get into anymore fights for a couple of weeks." One the paramedic states, placing butterfly bandages on the cuts that Moriarty's gun had left.

John sighs in annoyance, and the paramedics laughs, thinking the doctor is being sarcastic. If the uniformed men only knew the truth.

John's hands are a different matter, the paramedics takes out all of the glass but the cuts are deep. "You should really go to the hospital." The paramedics urge, dabbing the cuts with antiseptic and preceding to wrap them carefully.

"Thank you, but," John states warmly before Sherlock can interject, "I'm a doctor, I can take care of them at my flat."

"If you say so." The man remarks just as Violet enters the room. "You should be good to go, you don't have a concussion, but just take it easy."

Sherlock nods at the man and John smiles in thanks.

The uniformed men grab their bags and leave the room. John watches them go and meets his mother-in-law's eyes somewhere in between the paramedics leaving and her entering. The doctor suddenly feels a pang of guilt.

"Violet, I'm so sorry." John cries with blunt force, not even bothering to word a thorough apology in his haste.

The mother Holmes shakes her head in response and walks over to the doctor, kneeling in front of him. John stares at the woman with shame.

"Nonsense, John." Violet says, gripping John's bandaged hands gently. "I'm just glad its over with. Mycroft had been telling me about that horrible man for months."

John stares at the woman with awe. This woman, not only raised two of the smartest and most intimidating men in the world but she also pointed a gun at one of the most dangerous criminal as well.

It's all very Holmesian.

"I guess it is over with." John states finally, staring at Violet in shock.

"Yes, John. Moriarty has nobody left to help him, he will sit in one of Mycroft's top secret jails for the rest of his miserable life." Sherlock says with finality and all John can think is happiness.

And the doctor is finally happy, like a huge weight that Moriarty held is gone, and the soldier may still have nightmares and he will fight with his husband and resist Mycroft's kidnappings but one thing will be certain.

He will be happy, and no one will be able to take it away from him.

The end.

Sniff sniff. I never thought I would be sad to see the ending but one gets so wrapped up in their own writing that it just tears my heart out that it's end.

But don't worry, there will be a sequel, it will be a while, when I'm bored or I have no other stories going on, but there will be a sequel. I'm thinking dealing with John's flashbacks more and what Moriarty did to him in that room. What do you think?

Don't forget to review and alert so you guys know when I post it.

Also, if you find yourself missing my writing, check out Don't Touch Me, which is still in the works.

Ta ta for now.

I can't express how grateful I am for each and every one of you.