Sherlock had always believed that the effects of a traumatizing event on a person's mind was not the fault of the event, but of the person. Some chemical defect in the brain made them give in to their fear and let it rule them, kept them on a leash and watched them crawl on all fours.

But, then again, Sherlock had never been really, truly scared. That is, until now.

In his panic, he didn't even get dressed. He just grabbed his gun and left the flat in his dressing gown, with no shoes to speak of whatsoever.

The thing about running somewhere with no shoes on is that you don't realize the pain you're in until you actually stop running. But even so, he ran there. All the way there. He wasn't going to sit in a cab and twiddle his thumbs, his heart aching every time they reached a traffic light, and wonder what was happening while he did nothing. His feet bled and his chest was void of air but he ignored it and just ran.

He ignored the pain when he arrived at the sport center, ignored the droplets of blood he left behind and walked straight and true to where all of this began for him and John. To the place where he realized he was human and broken and seven different kinds of love struck.

But when he got to the door, the only door separating him from John and the imminent danger that they were about to be thrust into, he hesitated.

He was terrified.

Now he understood what John must have felt like every day: hearing the deep beats of gunfire everywhere, on television, in the cars that sped by the flat and in the footsteps of the living outside; feeling the hot sting of a bullet through his flesh when he looked at his scar.

But he would have worse than that if Sherlock didn't do something, and quickly. This was no time to let his emotions rule him. His heart, after all, was sitting in the other room, bound and gagged and who knew what else. Sherlock only had his head to guide him now, so he let it guide as he pushed past the door.

Moriarty was on the edge of his patience when Sherlock walked in, but his agitation quickly switched to giddy excitement in a flash of white teeth.

"Ah! There you are, darling. I was afraid we wouldn't be expecting you this evening!"

Sherlock snorted. He didn't even look at Moriarty, and instead looked straight to John, his eyes darting rapidly as he assessed the damages. He appeared unharmed for the most part, save for the grenade clenched in his teeth, but he would soon fix that.

"Frankly, I'm insulted," he said. "You knew I was coming, so don't pretend to think otherwise."

"Oooooh, touchy!" Moriarty leaned down and pressed his lips to John's left ear, tugging at his heart strings further. John whimpered. "Have I hit a nerve?"

"Oh, most certainly." With that, Sherlock raised his hand gun and cocked it, aiming the barrel directly at Jim's forehead. He found his strength returning to him as rage quelled and subsequently replaced his fear. Anger was much healthier than fear, and much more useful.

"You've had your fun, now let him go."

"Let him go? Now?" Moriarty pulled away and lifted his gun again, cocking it with tenderness and care. He didn't aim it at John's head this time, though. This time, he aimed for his shoulder, his left shoulder.

Then, placing the barrel squarely against his skin, he fired.

John's cries were muffled by the hardness of the grenade, but nevertheless they echoed around the room and made Sherlock's eyes burn with tears. While his gun was still held firmly, his hands were shaking. This couldn't be happening, it just couldn't.

"The game has barely begun, Sherlock Holmes!" Moriarty circled around John's limp form, not even flinching as quiet sobs slipped through his teeth, and placed the barrel of the gun onto John's kneecap next. "If you want your little Johnny-boy alive – and at least slightly intact – then you have to solve a little puzzle for me!"

Moriarty pointed to the strings that crisscrossed in the air between them, swaying gently with each breath they released.

"You have ten seconds to decide which string connects to the grenade. If you can't figure it out in the time allotted, then… boom." He made a motion with his free hand that indicated an explosion of great magnitude, and chuckled quietly. "Is that clear enough for you, dear?"

Sherlock was quivering uncontrollably now, watching John with uncanny intensity as his eyes rolled back and his nostrils flared, pain taking up the entirety of him. But his voice was surprisingly calm and flat.

"Yes, Jim. Crystal."

"Alright then. Ten."

Sherlock's mind was already racing. His eyes started at the grenade, to the string attached to the pin, and he tried to follow it, trace the line through the frenzy and the chaos of the bundle before him, but his gaze remained fixed on John. He couldn't focus.

"Nine."

He stared at the contours of John's face, tracing them up until he met his eyes, and was unable to tear himself away. He was wasting precious time, time neither of them could afford to lose, but he couldn't help himself. He was stuck.

"Eight."

'John, stop looking at me like that.'

"Seven."

'I'm so sorry, John. This is all my fault…'

"Six."

'I should have been awake. I should have watched…'

"Five."

'Please…'

"Four."

'Please forgive me…'

"Three… Two… One…"

And that's when Sherlock saw it. In the reflection of John's gaze, he saw the answer to the problem. And not in the figurative sense, of course. He really did see it, and all he had to do was move his gun an inch to the left, a little more, a bit further…

And he fired.

In the darkness, there was a fluid thump, a weight of about 210 pounds hitting the floor, then a quiet slush as the body sunk into the pool water and turned it red with blood.

The string that held the pin of the grenade went limp, while the other dozens of strings remained intact.

Moriarty's mouth closed, and with a disappointed frown he lowered his gun and reached out to take the grenade from John's mouth. He let out a huge gasp of relief and spit once or twice onto the ground. It would be a while before he'd get the taste of metal out of his mouth.

"How did you know?" Moriarty stepped back as Sherlock ran forward, pushing through the strings, tearing at them, clawing like a wild animal and tossing them into the pool, just so he could get to John. "I made the darkness stretch so perfectly. There was no way you could have seen him… So how did you?"

By this time Sherlock had already untied John and was cradling him in his arms. He pressed his fingers deep into the wound, despite John's sharp outcry, to get it to stop bleeding, and shushed him gently before addressing the question.

"John's my answer to everything…"

"Pardon?"

"His eyes…" Sherlock's voice was soft, almost uncatchable. Moriarty had to strain to hear him. "You made sure to keep the rest of the place dark, Moriarty, but you were a little too keen on your choice of lighting. All I had to do was look at the reflection in John's eyes and I saw the man standing there in the dark behind you… He was holding the correct string. The rest were just a ruse, a red herring, to make me waste my time and therefore John's precious life…"

Moriarty was silent, and Sherlock was growing impatient. He needed to get John to the hospital, and quickly.

"Leave us."

Still, nothing.

"You got what you came for, now leave us." And that was the trigger.

"I got what I came for? Really now?" The gun twitched in Moriarty's hand as his voice grew progressively louder, and soon he raised it again. Walking forward, he pressed the barrel firmly to Sherlock's forehead.

"I've only gotten a teensy piece of my prize…" he hissed. "I did what I was supposed to do: I grabbed your little boyfriend and I made him hurt. I made him bleed, I made him SCREAM for you and what do I have to show for it? I told you I'd burn you, and all I've seen the flames do is lick your sides like kittens lapping at milk. I want to watch you turn into a pile of smoldering ASH, Sherlock! You WILL fall before me and beg for your lives! DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU. WILL. BEG!"

Sherlock was quiet. The only sound in the room was the slush of the pool and John's ragged breathing.

"You want me to beg?"

"I want you to squeal."

"…Please…" Finally Sherlock looked up at him, and Moriarty's jaw went slack. He saw in his eyes and heard in his voice that this time he was being genuine. The hot tears forming in the corners of his eyes were not ones of the crocodile variety; they were real. "Please, Jim, let us go. I'll get on my knees if I have to, just… please…"

And with that, Moriarty lowered his gun.

He felt sick, inches close to vomiting. This was not the Sherlock he knew. This breed was much weaker than the first generation. Spineless, fluffy and full of feeling.

"You're no fun anymore, Sherlock… Not worth my time."

And like a child Moriarty stomped off, throwing the gun into the pool and disappearing from view.