A Frankly Huge A/N: Sorry this took forever – I was hoping to have this finished before my exams started, I had to rewrite most of Chapter 20 because my final version didn't save and I ended up uploading a draft by accident. I've uploaded the new version now; the beginning and end are the same, but John's stay at the hospital is a lot longer, as it would be – the poor thing. As this is the last chapter, I'll be going over the entire story soon, deleting the A/Ns and looking for typos, etc, so feel free to PM me if you've spotted any glaring grammatical/spelling mistakes.

And last but not least, thank you for sticking with this story. I've had such fun writing it and your responses have been the thing keeping me going. You're all amazing.

Thank you for reading. –Shnlock.

xxxxxx

The entirety of the Diogenes seem to freeze in time. Distantly in the silence, Moriarty's voice echoed maliciously – a chilling reminder of his presence.

He never left London.

Of course, of course, it all made sense. The sloppiness of the trails, how when they found who they thought to be Moriarty, his face was bloodied and beaten; swollen almost beyond recognition. Having found him in Beijing at the time, Sherlock had assumed that the Black Lotus gang Moriarty was linked too had finally given him what he had deserved after years of having to smuggle under his iron rule for decades. That now obviously wasn't the case. His face had been mutilated to cover up hi true identity. The man was probably nothing more than a mark picked up off the street due to his resemblance to the real Jim.

The same Jim currently cavorting around the Diogenes.

"Sherlock." John breathed, voice catching slightly in his throat, "Please, for the love of God, tell me that wasn't-"

The sound of a cut-off screech infiltrated the air.

"John? JOHN?"

All the hairs along Sherlock's arms stood to attention, prickling like static. He groped blindly forward, arms outstretched, towards the chair John was sat. All around him the room seemed to pulse and throb, emitting scuffles, the sound of a body being dragged, flesh on flesh, tangible sweat permeating the air. It came from all around; echoes and echoes of noise against the wooden panelled walls until it was obscured and abstruse – until it's source was unknown.

Stumbling, Sherlock reached the armchair, feeling his heart clench painfully as he felt the fabric connect with his fingers. To his left, he heard a door open and close heavily, before the sound of a key being turned in it's lock.

John… John was gone. He was alone in the dark.

"Oh, look at you dance, you are adorable!" came Moriarty's taunt, drawn out in endless echoes. Sherlock cocked his head, trying to attain the origin.

With a tone as steady as he could muster, Sherlock bellowed into the black inky air, "What have you done with John, Moriarty?" Priorities, he thought to himself, curling his hands into loose fists – the mere thought of John back with Moriarty sending his stomach churning violently. And he needed for Jim to keep talking. Buy yourself time.

A long giggle. "Johnny boy? Don't you worry your pretty little head, Shur-lock." Moriarty drawled, "I'm not going to hurt him, oh no. I'm proposing a game."

"A… game?"

"Moran's dead, Sherlock, and since you and that interfering brother of yours destroyed my Houses, I need someone to step up. I need a protecctooooooorrr!" He all but sang. Sherlock could hear the insufferable grin in his voice.

"I need your blonde baby. I broke John once, dear. It won't take much for me to do it again. He's such a good pet."

Sherlock hissed slightly. So John was just a pawn in his game. A catalyst to have Sherlock act to Moriarty's orders… Interesting.

"And the game?" Sherlock queried, still hovering by John's horribly-vacant chair.

"In the room there are three clues." Sherlock's head jerked upwards in interest. "Clues to murders, in fact – I know you do love those. If you can solve the clues, you get John back."

"Well, aren't you the Good Samaritan?"

"Get one wrong and I'll have you killed. Booooo-ring! You'll go up in flames, and little Johnny here will be all mine."

Sherlock gave a roll of his eyes, "Bad Samaritan." He bit, more to himself than anything.

"Just so." Moriarty's smugness was all but evident in his voice. "You have 12 minutes to solve the first clue, Sherlock. Dance for me."

There was a crackling sound, which Sherlock thought to be Moriarty covering up the microphone he was using to project his voice into the room. If he needed a microphone, the criminal could be anywhere; far, far away from the Diogenes with just his cronies nearby to do his bidding. Sherlock gave a smile. As much as he despised Moriarty, the man was intelligent. Too intelligent.

But Sherlock was more so.

Wrenching his mobile from his pocket Sherlock used the small panel of light illuminate the room, his heard pounding furiously in his chest, thumping rhythmically like the beat of a drum. For a moment he considered calling Mycroft to discover his whereabouts but stopped himself. Moriarty would surely call the Game off, should Sherlock receive outside help. His mobile still had internet connection though; three bars worth. That would have to do.

The first thing Sherlock saw was that there were several cabinets lining the walls, oaken and polished. They gleamed gently as Sherlock approached. He bent, mobile outstretched, and began to observe them.

Four bloodied groves ran from one cabinet to the other. Sherlock grinned.

The first clue.

Nail marks, someone with short nails grabbing for purchase. Flecks of pink nail varnish around the groves; a woman then. If she had fallen, the lines would be smooth – a gradual fall, but the groves are jagged. She was dragged.

He followed the lines to the edge of the second cabinet, noting how the groves deepened as they continued – signalling the woman's growing desperation. Sherlock crouched on his haunches, his sharp eyes easily catching the sight of a clump of hair placed dubiously close to the cabinets. A knowing smile grew across Sherlock's cheeks. The scenes were set ups, but clever ones. The clump of hair was likely from the victim – her attacker must have dragged her with a fist in her hair. The flecks of skin and blood surrounding the hair helped his hypothesis; - the attacker must have ripped some hair from her skull in the process.

"Nine minutes, Sherlock…"

Jerking with surprise, Sherlock snapped out of his revere and glanced around the room. So Moriarty was still watching him. No doubt gleefully. The countdown was meant as a distraction to send Sherlock into a panic. He turned his attentions back to the cabinet.

A single rivulet of blood ran from the cabinet top down its side, so Sherlock followed it down, eyes narrowed intently. Oh, oh, brilliant. Oh, this was too good. The trail of blood ended with an almost illegible scrawl, scratched into the bottom of the cabinet.

"Rache." Sherlock murmured, rolling the word across his tongue.

Rache; German for 'revenge' or the name used for hunting dogs in the Middle Ages. Could be missing a letter? Rachet? No. Rachel. Rachel. She scratched the name into the cabinet with her fingernails. She was dying, it would have hurt. Most people in their last moments think to their families, to their God- oh.

Oh. She was clever, yes.

Rachel; the favourite wife of Jacob in the Bible who died during childbirth to her son, Joseph.

"Seven minutes, Sherlock…"

Slowly, Sherlock rose to his feet. He opened the internet browser on his phone and set to work, an ever growing sense of pride swelling within his chest. This was too easy. With a few select, rapid flicks of his thumb, he found the appropriate web-page, before holding it above his head, towards any cameras that were facing him.

"Jenna Adams." He announced pointedly into the darkness.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Sherlock felt thick panic rise in his throat. Did he get it wrong? Was there something he could have missed? The sudden lack of noise sent fissions of fear down his spine.

"Oh, well done." Echoed an Irish voice in the dark. "And with four minutes to spare, I'm impressed. But you're not finished yet, Sherlock. You've got the victim… but who killed her?"

"Jenna Adams died during childbirth to her son Joesph." Sherlock explained, having gleaned that information from his mobile. "But the scratches say otherwise. The cabinets are old, but they're not from the Diogenes. They've been polished within an inch of their lives; the Diogenes is clean, but it's not that clean." He scoffed gently. "The cabinets are from Jenna's house. She gave birth to her son in her home; the only person present was her husband, Richard Adams, who, if you believe the internet, was abusing her. Jenna must've fought with her husband, the stress sending her into an early labour. After she gave birth to her son, her husband killed her – most likely via a blunt force to the head, but he told the ambulance crew he had called she died giving birth. No autopsy was done, and her murder remained unacknowledged. Case closed."

"Oh, that was too easy," Moriarty purred, "I'm going to give you eight minutes to solve the next one, my dear. Chop, chop."

xxxxxx

Mycroft stormed from the kitchens, positively infuriated. Having fired several slacking staff members whom he had found neglecting their positions in favour of watching the Champion League Final or something of the sort, he rearranged his nuptials to be sent to the private room where he knew Sherlock and John to be expecting him.

A tap to his shoulder had Mycroft pivoting on his heels.

One of the Diogenes staff stood before him, a silver tray balanced precariously on one had. The tray held a cream coloured note, 'Mr M. Holmes' inscribed across its length in an elegant hand and beside it – an ornate ivory letter opener. Mycroft dipped his head in thanks and took the envelope from its tray. Hm, Bohemian. With the letter opener in his other hand, he cut it open and unsheathed the letter. Its message was simple.

[Peek-a-boo! I see you! –JM]

Before Mycroft could even widen his eyes in shock he was aware of approaching footsteps behind him. Raising his head, his stomach doubled over in horror.

Two men clad in black uniforms baring the Moriarty insignia were dragging, or trying to drag, a thrashing, enraged, gagged John Watson across the threshold into the Visitor's Room. The blond had hooked his foot to the doorframe, and was bucking ferociously – trying to throw the men off him, emitting blasts of breath through his flaring nostrils, eyes narrowed in concentration, not wide in panic. From one of his wrists dangled a handcuff.

Mycroft was quick to react. He turned back to the stunned servant, whose mouth was hung wide open.

"Code red." He stated simply, breaking the most sacred rule of the Diogenes, but he found himself uncaring. If John was in danger, so was his brother. And damn everyone if a singular rule was going to stop him from helping them. The servant choked in surprise before nodding repeatedly, dropping the tray and sprinting down the coridoor to sound the alarm.

As soon as he was gone, Mycroft advanced on the Visitor's room. One of Moriarty's men was attempting to pry John's foot from the doorframe, but John lashed out and the man pulled back nursing a bloody nose – a scream of pain permeating the air. Mycroft grinned viciously, tightening his grip around his umbrella and wrenching the handle upwards out of its sheath to reveal a glinting rapier.

This was sure to be fun.

xxxxxx

"Two minutes left, Sherlock."

The third murder was ridiculous. Sherlock could feel himself teetering on the edge of hysteria. There was a beeping now, a constant reminder of the time he had trickling away.

There was no possible motive, no murder weapon, and no conclusions to be drawn. He had to be missing something, there had to be something he had overlooked. Drawing his breath in heavy pants, he threw himself back across the room to assess the scene from further back, hoping to gain a new angle.

"I think I'll have John re-named." Moriarty was teasing him now. "'John'. It's so pedestrian. You can't swing a cat in London without hitting a John. Sebastian, see now that's the sort of name he needs. Maybe I'll just call him Sebby." A round of giggles. "Sebby Mark Two."

"A little silence right now would be marvellous." Sherlock hissed, head flicking rapidly from side to side, now on all fours with his elbows bent, chin resting on the thick rug.

"Then I'll leave you with this, darling. One minute leeeeeeft!"

What was it? What was he missing? Think, think. The stain on the rug was blood, of course it was. It'd been overlooked due to its already garishly red colour. But that was it. There were no other marks, no tears or footprints or hidden weapons or traces of hair or skin. Nothing. Frustration reaching paramount Sherlock hauled himself to his feet and kicked at the curled corner of the rug, letting out a long, anguished cry. He bent and in his rage ripped the rug upwards, throwing it across the room before falling to his knees, head against his chest.

He couldn't do it.

30 seconds.

It was over. There was nothing he could do but except his fate. He picked up his phone from where it had fallen not far from where he sat, and unlocked it, finding John looking back at him. The picture he had as his background was the one John had sent him two weeks back, when he was still in hospital. It had been taken by a nurse, and showed John bent double in hysterical laughter, head turned to face the camera as finished off the moustache he was drawing on the lax face of a sleeping Mycroft. John's eyes were crinkled adorably in the way Sherlock loved, his cheeks pink with withheld laughter. Sherlock found himself chuckling. Tears were running down his face, but he couldn't help himself.

But it was the laughter that made him see. It made his mobile tilt backwards and illuminate the room once more.

Where he had ripped away the rug, exactly where the stain had been was a gaping hole in the floorboard.

Ten seconds.

Sherlock delved into hiding place, practically tearing at the masses of documents that settled there.

Nine seconds.

Pulling the first sliver of paper out, he ran his gaze over it feverishly.

Eight seconds.

Names, names. Threats. Words. Blurring. Echoing. Information.

Seven seconds.

Text messages. Threats. Threats. Blackmail. Dukes. Duchesses. Importance.

Six seconds.

Can't breathe. Crown jewels. Moriarty. Murder. Not complying.

Five seconds.

"I hope you like the photo!" John had sent him. "I call my masterpiece, 'Go Compare Man'."

Four seconds.

John laughing. John crying. John saying they'd grow old together. John holding his hand when he was nervous.

Three seconds.

"The Duchess of York's servant, death by a stab wound to the upper body."

Two seconds.

"He was blackmailing the Duchess with his knowledge of her lover to gain money for his family."

One second.

John, please know I love you. I love you. I love yo-

xxxxxx

John gaped, understandably, at the sight of the two men now lying in pools of their own blood. Mycroft was cleaning crimson liquid from his rapier with a handkerchief.

"How did you-?"

"Fencing World Champion 1996, John." Mycroft answered smoothly, resheathing his rapier and pocketing the now dirtied handkerchief deep in the pocket of his well-pressed trousers.

"R-right. Right. Obviously. Obviously..."

"I'm not entirely useless, John, no matter what my brother may inform you." Mycroft smirked, stepping forward and grasping John's forearm to lead him forward.

"Moriarty is behind this," John began to blurt, untying the knot of his gag that now hung around his neck as they walked, "You got a text after you left, Sherlock- Sherlock opened it. It said Moriarty never left London."

"Then we have him right where we want him." Mycroft guided John down the maze of corridors, left, then right.

"Sherlock is still in the Visitor's room," it was clear now, to Mycroft, that John had settled into his Army-mode as adrenaline coursing though his veins, "they dragged me out before I could do anything and locked him in."

Mycroft snarled. It pained him to imagine Sherlock alone and at Moriarty's mercy. Sherlock was strong, but Moriarty was cruel. Psychopathic. Unpredictable.

"Excuse me, sirs?"

Both Mycroft and John looked up in tangent as a heavily armed security guard sprinted towards them, panting heavily from exertion.

"Yes?" Mycroft queried.

"We found a bug in our systems, sir. We believe Moriarty is hacking our computers to control the speaker system."

"Our security levels are military grade, how the hell did he-"

"Jones." John explained, a knowing smile on his face. "Liam Jones, he worked for Moriarty. He can hack anything, the bloke is a computer genius. He must be working for him again."

Mycroft nodded at this before turning back to the security guard. "Get that speaker system off line, no more communicating through them – I think it's safe to assume Moriarty can hear us so we'll have to speak as such. Have the building evacuated. All the men on the second floor need to be escorted out. Have cars on hand to get them as far away as possible."

"Yes, sir."

"And for the love of God, get Sherlock out of that room."

"Of course, sir."

The security guard turned and sprinted back the way he had come, disappearing around the corner. There was silence for a moment.

"I'm sorry, John." Mycroft said before he could stop himself, speaking low so as to keep their conversation private. "I should never have given Moriarty information on your mother. My emotions made me irrational. Sherlock means more to me than I let on. You are a more than worthy partner for my brother."

John blinked rapidly in his surprise. "You don't need to apologise, honestly-"

"No, John, I do." Mycroft interrupted smoothly. "I don't know what I would do if anything happened to Sherlock, and I know for a fact he cares more for you than he does for his own life. What I did, I did without thinking. Hurting you is hurting Sherlock. I know that now."

"He… he means a lot to me too, you know." John confided. "I mean, I love him, y'know?"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to look taken aback. The elder brother cocked his head to the side, "Have you told him?"

"No, no I-" John swallowed thickly. "I was hoping to tell him when he got back, but then we came here and…" Trailing off, John rubbed the bridge of his nose. He hardly wanted to be having this conversation at a time like this.

"I see."

"Sir!" Roared a voice. John and Mycroft looked up in tangent to see the same security guard returning around the corner, face now red and slick with sweat.

"We checked, sir. The private room is empty. There's no one in there."

"What do you mean, 'no one in there'?" Mycroft spat, face contorting in pure anger. He stormed forward to confront the guard. "He can't have vanished; are you and your men blind as well as incompetent?"

"Sir, honestly, the door was wide open and-"

"I don't care, you ignorant fool. I want you out searching my brother and I want him brought here."

"But, sir-"

"No buts!" Mycroft roared. "You will do as I say or I will make sure you never get another job for as long as you live, is that clear?"

"Sir, please! Just-"

"Just what? Pretend the entirety work staff here isn't made up of blithering half-wits? Get to work or I swear I'll-"

"Sir!"

"No! I will not listen to one more second of your idiocy-"

"Sir, he's right there!"

Mycroft's mouth snapped shut with an audible clink. He turned, slowly, and caught the sight of John's ridiculous smile, grinning at something behind him.

"Did you miss me?" Sherlock crooned.

It only took two seconds for John to reach him, and for them to be in each other's arms. Just like they should be. They clung to each other, desperately, ardently, Sherlock whispering endearments into John's ear.

"I solved it, John, I solved it for you." He was saying, burying his face into the top of John's hair, heart in his throat. "I solved it."

John lifted his head from Sherlock's shoulder to press his lips to Sherlock's neck, breathing in his scent. "And Moriarty?" He asked.

"Gone." Sherlock breathed. "He's gone, John. We played a game and I won." Only just, Sherlock almost added, remembering just how close he had been to never seeing John again. Never seeing anyone again, for that matter. Moriarty's mocking laugh at his tears may have cut right through him, but it was worth it.

He'd beaten the consulting criminal. Just.

"Thank God you did," John exhaled a gust of hot air over Sherlock's collarbones. "I happen to need a lanky bastard to do my washing up."

Sherlock shook with laughter, cradling the back of John's head gently. "You can't exactly do it yourself, can you? You wouldn't reach the sink."

"Oh, OK, just make fun of my height why don't you." John snorted playfully, his hands now resting on the juts of Sherlock's hips. "If I didn't love you I'd bloody well punch you. I'm not even that short, you're just abnormally-"

"John, you… love me?"

It took a few seconds for John's brain to get back up to speed, and the full realisation of what he had just said caught up with him. He pulled away from Sherlock, a shocked expression plastered across his face.

"Yes! I mean no- I mean- oh God, I'm sorry I-"

"John, you really do have a way with words."

"Shut up, Sherlock I'm trying my best here!"

"Then I'd hate to see your worst."

"I hate you."

"I love you too, John."

The smile that they both gave resulted in giving each other ended in a long, breathy kiss that neither of them wanted to stop. And it didn't.

Not until Mycroft cleared his throat and suddenly it all become very awkward.

xxxxxx

Jim Moriarty was nowhere. The consulting criminal had sunk back into the shadows, tail firmly between his sickly pale legs. Distantly, Sherlock believed the silence to be too good to be true. Moriarty was a proud creature; it would be paining him to have lost. He would return. But Sherlock would be ready for when he did.

After John's rather impromptu declaration of love, the two of them had been questioned and released, and sent on their way. Back to Baker Street. Back home.

Mrs Hudson had burst into tears at the sight of them. John later joked it was at the sight of Sherlock's face, but Sherlock remained ardent that it was John's smell that had set her over the edge. Mrs Hudson made them both cakes, and the argument was lost amidst the sight of John proving he could indeed eat an entire cake to himself. Sherlock pretended to be disgusted, but ruined his façade by licking the icing from John's lips before he could stop himself.

That night was spent on the sofa, before it migrated to the bedroom. The two of them were too tired to act on any of their desires but instead held each other close. John told Sherlock he loved him – properly this time, and Sherlock said it back. When they fell asleep, they still had those words lingering on their lips; ready to be said again and again when they woke up.

John was being held permanently hostage in Sherlock's heart; and Sherlock in his.

But… neither of them really minded.

-the end-