Welcome to the sequel!

I apologise first for this short chapter, but I like them to end certain ways. On Moffat Hooks...which is a term I just made up. Actually I made it up halfway through the other story...

Anyway so we have this and then the next one should hopefully be a bit longer.

So..um..enjoy!

EDITED: Fixed spelling mistakes.

He gently lifted his brother's body to rest against his own, watching as his men began to comb the area for Sebastian Moran, who had conveniently disappeared the moment the two men had fallen. A helicopter was to be sent to pick up himself and the bodies, first to a local hospital and then back home. Mycroft knew that when he returned to London he would have to make the heartbreaking decision on whether or not to tell Sherlock's friends the truth. Molly and Irene would find out anyway, but how could he tell those who believed his brother to have died over a year ago, that he had been alive and now..now he had..he'd. He didn't want to say it. He couldn't say it.

He kept his eyes on the still corpse of James Moriarty, he lay silently on his chest, his face out of view, to the side. This was the man who had stolen his brother's life, Mycroft would have preferred to end it himself. Instead he probably died quickly, worse still, perhaps painlessly. He was hopeful that it was how Sherlock had left the world, but he had wished for a far painful end for Moriarty. But you never get what you truly want sometimes do you? And so, he thought, ends the life of the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen and the life..the life of my beloved if somewhat irritating little brother.

Unable to hold back the tears that threatened to return, Mycroft buried his head in the damp curls that rested against his chest. And it was only then did he realise something that in his grief he had failed to notice. The body against his chest was shivering. At first he attributed it to his own freezing body but this was definitely not coming from him. Could he be..? Mycroft desperately grabbed the wrist of his little brother, searching for a pulse, the cold skin proving it a difficult task.

"Sherlock?" Oh please, give me this.

And then his brother shuddered into life.

Mycroft looked down at his sibling's face in shock, his brother's had at first appeared peaceful, but now it was one of pain. His eyelids fluttered as Sherlock attempted to regain consciousness. But instead he hovered somewhere in between. Mycroft shouted at the top of his voice for blankets, but there weren't any. So he removed his own coat and jacket, ignoring the sudden chill that pieced his skin, and wrapped them around his brother's shivering form. Sherlock, thank goodness, you stupid bloody idiot, you scared the hell out of me. He kept him close, rubbing his arms, shoulders, hands and face, trying to bring back some colour into his brother.

Sherlock's eyes continued to flutter, occasionally Mycroft would spot a sliver of brilliant blue or green. He placed one hand over the wound on the back of his head, the cold had mercifully slowed the bleeding. It was hopefully not serious but definitely the reason his brother was struggling to break through the fog and wake up. And where was that bloody helicopter?

As he wondered, he could have sworn he heard movement beside him, but the only thing beside him was...Oh. Of course, again, he had let his emotions get the better of him and not checked the body that lay in the snow beside them. Warmth had perhaps caused Sherlock to stir, Mycroft didn't give a damn about Moriarty. He pulled out the gun that had settled in the snow and wrapped his other arm around Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him into a protective hug.

Moriarty turned his head, he'd been awake for sometime, conserving his strength. Sherlock had survived. Again! Why couldn't the man just die? Was that so much to ask? They'd both had survival plans and put them into action, but the aim was for the other to perish. Except neither had! Jim's hands closed over a jagged rock and he picked it up, lifted his body off the ground, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He made one last ditch effort and threw the rock at Mycroft and Sherlock. And missed.

Mycroft didn't even blink. He simply fired twice. Once in the chest, once in the head for good measure. He wasn't taking any chances this time. Moriarty fell, a look of surprise and shock spreading across his face as he fell, arm's outstretched. From Mycroft's chest came a strangled groan, but his brother still floated in between the realms of consciousness. Mycroft dropped the gun, gasping for breath. He was dead. He was dead, Jim Moriarty would never torment another man.

He felt relief sweep through him and he rested his chin on top of his brother's head and held him close.

It was two minutes until the helicopter was due to land when all hell broke loose. Bullets began to pepper the area, the shooter caring little on whether or not he hit his mark. Mycroft grabbed his brother and painfully he lifted him, half dragging him to a safer place. His men returned the fire, two succumbing to the hot lead.

And then the clearing went silent. The shooter, most likely Moran had either run out of bullets or simply ran away. He ordered those remaining to go after him and take him down and then returned to check on his brother. As he watched a pair of paramedics with stretchers race towards him, he turned his attention to the sudden pain he was feeling in his side. Placing his hand against the throbbing area, he pressed and gasped out, falling to his knees. Removing his hand he stared in shock at the blood that was dripping through his fingers.

He'd been shot.