A/N So, now that I've hit the magic number of ten reviews for my first story, I thought I'd post an older one. The first time I saw the finale of the first series of Sherlock, I didn't realise it was the finale… I thought the cliffhanger would be resolved the next week. (Oh, how wrong I was.) In the meantime, I decided to write an imagined ending to The Great Game so I could see later on if I guessed anything right. (Which I didn't, of course.) In case that's not clear enough, *spoiler warning for The Great Game* which is heavily quoted for the sake of context. This story is a two-shot, the second half will be posted once it gets three reviews. I hope you enjoy it! ~Yellow Emerald

Sherlock Holmes, world's best, first and only consulting detective, smiled.

"Brought you a little 'getting to know you' present. Oh, it's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little 'puzzles', making me dance. All to distract me from this." The genius smirked, holding up the memory stick that he'd already altered. Using his rough knowledge of nuclear physics, he'd made the plans appear convincing while ensuring there were two dozen different ways it would break down if the criminal tried to build and use the design.

He could never have prepared for what happened next.

"…Evening. This is a turn up – isn't it, Sherlock?" Said an all-too-familiar voice from behind him. Sherlock spun around in shock.

Standing at the other end of the abandoned swimming pool was his friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that he was wearing an oversized coat with wires draping from the bulk within it. A bomb. And John looked as though he was blinking back tears.

The criminal had stolen another voice. The threat of seeing John blown up or shot was the only thing that held Sherlock in place while he tried to think of a plan, but none were forthcoming. Instead, he found himself speaking, his voice losing its harsh tone completely.

"John."

The doctor gave a tiny nod, not daring to speak a word that wasn't relayed over the earpiece he was wearing.

"What the hell – " Oh my God.

"Bet – you didn't – see this coming…" John stated, moving his arms to allow Sherlock a clear view of the explosives attached to his coat. "What – would you like me – to make him say – next?"

"Gottler gear." Sherlock said, without pausing to think.

"Gottler gear, gottler gear…" John looked afraid.

"Stop it."

"Nice touch, this – the pool – where little Carl died. I stopped him… I can stop – John Watson too. Stop his heart." John said, robotically. The only sign he could still feel anything was the tiny pause before he said his own name, where he had to quash his fear and continue or risk death.

Sherlock was now frozen in complete horror.

No. I can't let this happen.

If it were any other innocent life, I know I'd be able to think of a solution in seconds. Damn it! Why did the criminal have to pick John, of all people?

Automatically, his mind whirled with possible answers to the question.

Convenience? Maybe when John left the flat the criminal was outside and happened to choose him as the next hostage… No, too coincidental. The criminal knows John's name, which suggests he's studied him before…

Inconvenience? John somehow knows too much or realised something I didn't, perhaps… No, that's impossible. I saw him working earlier; he takes eternity to make deductions. I would have got there first.

Connections? But John isn't connected with anyone the criminal would be interested in… except me. That's the reason he was taken! To try and wrong-foot me somehow, make me lose sight of why I'm here. The criminal was watching me, of course, saw John leaving the flat and recognised him as my colleague, saw the advantage and took it.

Case closed.

So the criminal chose John to deter me. I won't let that happen.

"Who are you?" Sherlock snapped. He didn't really expect a reply, so he was surprised when a petulant voice rang out. He tried not to let his fear show, as the criminal would be watching and also he didn't want to alarm John.

"I gave you my number… I thought you might call…" There was a pause. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

" Both." Sherlock pulled out the gun and held it steady.

"Jim Moriarty…" He smiled. "Hi!" Sherlock stared at him. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" Jim from I.T. was a master criminal. Sherlock nearly groaned. He should have seen that coming. Molly was clearly only ever attracted to brilliant, uninterested men. "Ah, I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point." A laser sight flickered onto John. Sherlock aimed for the well-spoken man. If he could only take him out, he'd be able to save John…

Wait, what?

When did this become about John? I started these games to prove I could beat a master criminal, although saving the hostages did factor into it. As I said before, if caring won't help me to save them then I won't bother… But he isn't just another stranger, he is Doctor John Watson. My colleague. My flatmate. My friend.

I can't just stand by calmly while he's in a situation like this!

Sherlock swallowed, meeting his friend's eyes. John gave another, almost imperceptible, nod.

He's not crying like the others. He's staying oddly calm, almost as if he believes he can survive this.

Almost as if he thinks we have an advantage.

"Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle… I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big, bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."

Sherlock's flair for the dramatic distraction kicked in.

"Dear Jim… please will you fix it for me, to get rid of my lover's nasty sister… Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America…"

"Just so."

"Consulting criminal… brilliant." And before, he honestly would have meant it. Now, though, all he wanted was to get out of this alive and make sure John was okay. His thoughts flicked back to the Study In Pink case for a split second. Was this how John had felt before he fired? Afraid for Sherlock's life? Terrified of failing? The doctor really must have nerves of steel.

Moriarty's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Isn't it? No-one ever gets to me… and no-one ever will."

Sherlock made sure his gun was in order.

"I did."

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way." Moriarty said. He could seem almost reptilian when he spoke. He was certainly cold-blooded…

"–Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"–Yes you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did…" 'Jim' shrugged and started to stroll towards him. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock, Daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do, I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear: back off. Although, I have loved this, this little game of ours, playing 'Jim from I.T.', playing gay - did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died." Sherlock reminded him. Not that the criminal cared.

"That's what people DO!" 'Jim' roared.

"I will stop you."

"No you won't."

And, oh God, what if he was right? What if Moriarty was too powerful, too clever, even for Sherlock?

But he couldn't afford to think like that. There were lives at stake – his and John's.

Unable to hold back any longer, Sherlock spoke to John, though he kept his main focus on 'Jim'.

"You all right?" A small nod. Sherlock tried not to let his relief show on his face.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy, go ahead." The criminal sneered. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to punch the smug git in the face, but just barely restrained himself. One wrong move and John would be killed.

John nodded again. Now was not the time for dramatic conversation, and so he and Sherlock kept their focus on the other man. He seemed inclined towards monologues anyway.

Sherlock held out the memory stick.

"Take it."

"Hmm? Oh… that? The missile plans…" Jim walked past John and took the

stick from Sherlock with a smirk, kissing the plastic coating. "Bo-ring! I could

have got them anywhere." He tossed the memory stick into the swimming

pool.

Even the great Sherlock Holmes had to admit he was stunned when the doctor leapt onto 'Jim' and locked him into a painful-looking hold. Stunned, and rather impressed.

"Sherlock, run!" John snarled, struggling against his tormentor. Sherlock had to stop himself from bursting out with admiration – for the first time, he actually understood why John felt the need to say things like 'fantastic' when a vital deduction was made. It was something he never saw coming.

"Oh, good!" 'Jim' gasped, as he was pinned in a headlock. "Very good!"

"Your sniper," John growled. "Pull the trigger, Mr. Moriarty, and we both go up."

"He's sweet… I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. He's so touchingly loyal, but oops!" He struggled, but it was no use. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson…"

Then he saw a flicker of red light in his peripheral vision, and John's expression hardened. He released his grip on 'Jim', who smirked.

"Gotcha…"

Sherlock was about to ask why John had let him go, but then he saw the sniper's laser trained on John, and realised that the red light he'd noticed was another being trained on him. He nearly scowled.

We were so close.

So close…

'Jim' was brushing off his suit.

"Westwood." He explained. "Do you know what happens, if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

"Oh, let me guess: I get killed."

"Kill you? Mm, no, don't be obvious, I mean I know I'll kill you anyway, some day. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll… I'll burn you. I will burn – the heart – out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true." He locked eyes with Sherlock, as if daring him to disagree. "Well, I'd better be off. It was so nice to have a proper chat…" He licked his lips.

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?"

"Well then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." 'Jim' said, pulling a mock-shocked face. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit… disappointed. And, of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." 'Jim' started to back away. Sherlock followed his movements with the gun, saying slowly and deliberately:

"Catch… you… later."

"No you won't!" 'Jim' called, and the door slammed shut.

The moment he saw Jim leave the room, all of Sherlock's false bravery left him. He set down the gun and started to free his friend from the lethal binds connecting him to the bomb.

"All right?" John breathed a gasp of relief. Sherlock frantically scrabbled at the jacket, full of concern. "Are you all right?"

Please be okay, please be okay, please…

"Yeah, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." John answered. Sherlock quickly started to remove the jacket. "I'm fine – Sherlock." The detective raced to get John out of the jacket filled with explosives, ignoring his friend's protests until he had it off him. "Sherlock!" John turned to see the detective getting the jacket as far from him as possible before hurling it down the path beside the pool, far enough away for him to relax a little. Both men took a minute to take in a few breaths of sheer relief, before John sank down to the floor and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine." Sherlock muttered, as he absently scratched his neck with his gun.

John was safe.

He's fine. I knew he'd be fine, really. No need to worry. Same as ever, although…

"That, er… thing, that you er, that you did, that, um – " he cleared his throat "you offered to do, that was um..." Sherlock was nearly lost for words as he thought back on what John had said.

Brilliant. Fantastic. Incredible. Unbelievable. Amazing. Heroic, even.

But you could have died.

Stupid, idiotic, foolish, awful, moronic, suicidal. Terrifying.

He struggled briefly, trying to decide on a word. Eventually he settled on one.

"…Good." A flicker of a smile crossed John's face.

"I'm glad no-one saw that."

Huh? Don't you think backup could have been useful just then?

"Hmm?"

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk."

Sherlock took half a second to process the innuendo. He nearly burst out laughing, but the memory of the danger his friend had been in sobered him so he could barely manage to reply.

"People do little else." They met each other's eyes and grinned briefly.

As he started to get up, John looked down, where he saw a red pinpoint of light flickering against his chest. Sherlock's smile died on his face.

"Oh – "

And then, of course, Jim decided to make his big re-entrance.

"Sorry boys!" Chirruped 'Jim', as he let the door close. "I'm so-o changeable… It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue… you just can't. I would try to convince you…" He spread his hands. "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock looked to John. Another nod. Take him down. He turned to look at his enemy.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." He said, smoothly producing his gun. He pointed it straight at 'Jim' Moriarty.

Sherlock was filled with hatred for the man. He just didn't know when to quit. For once, no iota of respect for the criminal's methods remained in Sherlock's mind.

This was the man who had taken ordinary, innocent people who had never done him harm, and forced them to act as his mouthpieces. The man who had strapped them to bombs and pointed guns at their heads. The man who had murdered an old woman for describing his voice. And he didn't stop there.

This was the man who had kidnapped and threatened Sherlock's friend. And this was the man Sherlock loathed.

He looked at John, only to find that sniper lights swarmed all over the doctor. From the look on his face, Sherlock was in a similar position. He looked back at Jim, back at the discarded explosives.

I could kill him. I could shoot him right now, but at what cost? I would die. John would die. And knowing Jim, his team of snipers would 'fix' him in time, before he could bleed out.

I can't shoot him. What, then? …I could blast the explosives. He'd be wiped out for certain.

John gave him another nod.

But I know that once I shoot, they'll shoot at us. Not that it'd matter. We'd all be dead in a matter of milliseconds anyway.

Sherlock lowered his gun from Jim to the explosives, outlining his threat. Jim seemed almost surprised.

"What, and ruin all your hard work?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your efforts to save Doctor Watson, of course. Don't tell me you hadn't realised that in the explosion, both of you would die too."

Sherlock raised his head fractionally.

"I am fully aware of that. But if we can finish you, I will be happy to go down with my friend at my side. We will have won, in a way." He smiled faintly, and pulled the trigger.

There was a blast from the gun. Jim's face was a mask of genuine surprise.

Well, I suppose this is it. Death by sniper rifle… how unoriginal.

A split second after the gun fired, Sherlock was barrelled over into the pool. He had no time to think, no time to snatch more than a mouthful of air, before he was hurled down into the dark, chlorinated waters.

Something was pulling him down. He was being dragged backwards into the deep end of the pool by the back of his coat. Above him, the surface of the water flashed with a bright white light, edged with fiery oranges and yellows. He was struggling to hold his breath, and released a few bubbles of precious air. Meanwhile, his captor pulled him further down with every stroke, down into the deepest water.

Mere metres above, the water hissed and bubbled with heat from the explosion. The pool's surroundings were a heap of charred tiles and rubble, and a variety of burnt, disfigured corpses lay amidst the wreckage.

I can't… breathe…

I need air.

The rhythmic strokes pulling him down paused. Then, to Sherlock's hazy surprise, they changed direction, pulling him up towards the surface.

Can't… breathe…

His instincts took over, and against his will he opened his mouth and gasped for air. The vile-tasting water swamped his mouth, infiltrating his throat, stinging his airways.

Staring blankly at the floor of the pool as it drifted further away, he passed out.

A/N If you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to review! Or if you're more of a lurker, perhaps you'll also enjoy reading the Sherlock crossover story I'm co-writing with my friend Legendberry. Why not check it out?