Part Three

Rating: Explicit, NC-17

He tries to remember all the right things to do. When Jim Moriarty ditches the cab, he tries to leave stuff behind. Something, anything to - what? Show them where they're going? He has no idea where that might be. How can he leave a clue he doesn't have?

Off the road there's another car, late-eighties-vintage Olds, with an engine that sounds surprisingly healthy. Inside is immaculate, lovingly kept, faint smell of perfume. Someone's loved this car, until it passed into Moriarty's sociopathic hands. And now John should do something. SOMEthing. But John's brain has gone on vacation, someplace a long way from where he is right now. All he can feel is dull anxiety that Sherlock will be disappointed in him, worrying about not being able to remember what he should do. As Sebastian drags John's arms behind his back and hauls him to the car, John digs his heels into the dirt in stumbled steps. He gets wrenched up for his efforts and thrown onto the floor of the backseat.

"Comfy?" Jim asks, smiling at him from behind the wheel.

"Why are you doing this?"

"After all we've been through, you have to ask? Come on, John, you already know."

John looks away, leaning forward a little to give his bound wrists an inch of room. "You can't get away with this," he says faintly. "You got no idea who you're dealing with."

"Oh, I think I know exactly who I'm dealing with." Jim puts the car in gear and eases them out into the road. "But I'm pretty sure we'll have all the time we need."

How long has it been since they left? An hour? Probably less. But he can't see Sherlock's face in his mind's eye anymore. He can remember what he looks like, but it's like listening to a witness give a physical description: a sum of features, but no face. No recognition.

More than anything else, that terrifies him. Everything else can go, Even the good stuff, it's okay. But not that. Please, please GOD not that.

-48 hours earlier-

Sherlock held out a cup of coffee, and John took it with icy fingers. The warm cup felt good.

"Better?"

"I'm okay," John muttered, sipping the coffee. Christ, he was tired of saying that. Wasn't doing a real good impression of being okay, now, was he?

"Why do you do that?"

He glanced at Sherlock, now sitting on the couch next to him. "Do what?"

"Give yourself such a hard time for being human."

Flushing, John looked down again. "I'm sick of being scared all the time," he said curtly, shaking his head. "I'm tired of - all of it. Feeling like this."

"He nearly killed you, John. Don't you have a right to feel afraid?"

"Well, to be fair he almost killed us both. But when will this feeling stop?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It stops when it stops. It doesn't work on a timetable. Fear's a reasonable response. Without it you'd let your guard down, and if the need for fear is still there, you can't afford that."

"Whatever happened to 'the only thing we have to fear is fear itself?'"

"Edgar Watson Howe said, 'A good scare is worth more to a man than good advice.'"

"Is there any subject you can't find a quote about?"

"Hypothetically, yes."

John smiled tightly. "So give me a helpful quote about how you get your bollocks back after having them scared off."

"I don't have one for that."

"Figures."

"You've already faced up to your fears, John," Sherlock said in a terribly gentle voice. "You came back, you went back to work, you survived. Today was a shock. Probably won't be the last one, either. But you didn't head to Canada this time, did you?"

"Not yet," John muttered, trying not to smile.

"Moriarty is a a dangerous man." Sherlock met John's glance steadily. "He's also a known quantity. Do you see what I'm saying? You know who he is, and you know what he is. Don't you?"

John paused, swallowing. "As much as anyone does, I guess." John stared down at his cup of coffee. "I think - It's like I'm afraid of things I can't explain. Like he'll do something else, something we didn't anticipate. That part seems to be his game. The unexpected. It's the things you don't know that get you."

"So anticipate. What's he thinking, right now?"

"You think I know that?" John shot back hotly.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I think you do. Come on, think John. What's his agenda?"

"He's - fixated on you," John said in a dubious voice.

"And?"

John gave him a wounded look. "Why are you asking me this? What the hell good is this supposed to do?"

"I don't know." Sherlock kept regarding him with the same steady gaze. "Demystify him, John. I don't say you have to understand why he does what he does. I don't think you can, or anyone else, completely. But if it's the things you don't know that scare you...?"

John nodded slowly. "I think he'll use me to get to you. That much is obvious. I'm not even sure he's still - fixated."

"But you assume he is. What's the worst thing that could happen?"

"I don't want to say that," John whispered. "You know that answer."

"Are you afraid he'll kill you?"

His throat ached. He shook his head after a long moment.

"Tell me, John. Say it out loud."

"I think I'm scared he's - not going to kill me."

Sherlock blinked at him, slightly startled. "What?" For all his control, Sherlock's face was very pale. "How do you mean?"

"I don't know—I- I can't anticipate -"

"You can't anticipate everything, no. But you can be prepared."

"Like a good soldier, huh."

"Exactly like one."

John shrugged. "I already carry my weapon."

"So you're armed, and you're prepared to use your sidearm if necessary."

"Yes."

Sherlock's hand was warm and good on his shoulder. "When he got you, you were alone. That's something else that's different."

John drew Sherlock's hand down to hold it in both his own. "I don't want you in the line of fire," he said hoarsely.

"I won't be. Although I can tell you, if I have the chance I'll take the shot myself. This time I'll take it."

John glanced up at him. The glint in Sherlock's eye made him feel absurdly good. "Thanks."

Sherlock took his hand back and used the arm to pull John close to him. "I'm -sorry I can't undo what's happened to you, John," he said in a low voice, one hand slowly stroking John's back. "I'm sorry I didn't protect you when you left the flat. But you think I'll take the chance that it could happen again? No way in hell. Never. Ever."

Throat terribly tight, John murmured, "I'll give you a pound if you'll stop saying you're sorry."

"Make it a hundred and I'll think about it."

"It's not your fault."

"No. But Canada was."

"We're not in Canada anymore."

"No. Feel better?"

He thought about lying, but didn't. Fine, right as rain, thanks for the pep talk Captain. "A little, yeah."

"Good."

The hell of it was, he still had to go to work and assist Sherlock. He could either sit at home and stew in his own juices - something he figured wasn't going to make things any better - or go to work, focus, business as usual even when it wasn't. He opted for the latter.

He was scanning a hallway at portraits on the wall at scene of a kidnapped wife - when his mobile rang. He didn't think twice upon answering, assuming it was Sherlock asking him to head back outside.

"You moved into his bed."

John froze. His throat wouldn't make any words. Just this transfixed silence.

"How'd you get this number?" Distantly startled at how calm he sounded. Maybe Sherlock was rubbing off on him after all.

"Where are you now, John?" Moriarty's voice was terribly, awfully calm. "Finally find the nerve to head back into work?"

"None of your goddamn business," he whispered.

He should hang up. It would be so easy. Should be, and yet he just sat there, frozen, heart skipping so fast inside his chest he could barely hear anything but his heartbeat and this familiar, loathed voice.

"Did you have fun in Canada, John?" Jim asked sweetly.

"Listen, you sick fuck," John said, voice warbling, briefly realizing his words got the attention of Lestrade down the hallway. "Got your little message, nice touch that. I'd like to see you try taking me again." Easy John, shit, his emotions were getting a little out of hand. "This time you won't be so lucky. You'll get caught eventually, they all do."

"Now come on, John, you can't just dismiss me like this. Look at all we went through together. The three of us." The spookily merry laugh made John's stomach lurch. "They can't put me in jail if they can't find me, now, can they?"

"Leave me alone," John whispered, fighting down nausea.

"Aw, you know I can't do that. We're all connected you know." A pause. "Death do us part, right, John?"

He heard Lestrade's voice, from about fifty miles away: "John? John, who is that?"

But it didn't matter, he was too damn far away, and it didn't stop him from listening, from hearing, when Jim added, "Don't feel bad, John. See you soon."

He felt someone taking the phone out of his hand, but not fast enough. Lestrade's concerned face seemed somehow murky, as if the room were filled with smoke.

"Slower, John, you're going to hyperventilate." A soft touch on his shoulder, barely noticeable. "Who was that? Who called you?"

He blinked away the fog and shook his hand off. "I'm okay," he said distantly, snatching his phone back. His head felt terribly lightweight, but something new was curdling in his stomach. Something that felt much, much better already. "I'm really okay."

"I'm calling Sherlock. We need to get -"

"No."

Lestrade stared at him, and John drew a long breath and made himself shrug. "That won't be necessary. I have work to do."

"Piss off work," Lestrade shot back, face wrinkled in a frown. "You don't have to -"

"Yes, I do." John slipped his phone back into his pocket, marveling at the absolute rock steadiness of his hand. "I can handle it."

And yeah, he could, right? Because if Jim fucking Moriarty showed up now, he was very, very sure of what would happen. No need for police, or lovers or anyone else. This was between himself and Jim, and it was only going to happen one way.

He registered the feel of his sidearm, warm under his jacket.

He fully intended to be the only one left standing.

He smiled easily at Lestrade and walked back down the hall.

He might have reached a kind of peace with the situation, but the moment he saw Sherlock's face back at Bart's, he recognized Sherlock hadn't.

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked tightly, jaw muscles so tight John could practically hear the stress. "Tell me."

"Whoa, calm down. Nothing happened. Just a phone call."

"Just a phone call for now," Sherlock shot back.

"Maybe." John shook his head. "I wouldn't worry about it." He said as casually as he could.

"John, that phone number is brand-new - he shouldn't have been able to get that, either!"

He hadn't thought much about that. "Well," he hedged, "I don't think -"

"Who needs to think?" Sherlock snapped. "We need a full investigation on this, he's a wanted man. You gave full details to Lestrade, yes?"

John shrugged dismissively and looked away.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "John-"

John shook his head. "It's not a big deal, Sherlock, we don't -"

"Wait a second." The minute Sherlock gave him the full force of his anger, John felt like running. Christ, the guy was intense. "You're telling me you didn't TELL them? Are you INSANE?"

Possibly, he thought about saying, but another glance at Sherlock's thunderous look made him think twice. John looked around the lab, and said in a low voice, "I'm armed, informed. He's not going to sneak up on me."

Sherlock leaned against the counter, face aghast. "Jesus, John," he said in a softer, wilder voice. "Don't you get it? He already HAS."

Rebuffed, John swallowed hard. "I'm not going to let him keep doing this to me," he managed. "I can't live like this. Let him try. At least it'll be over."

The anger evaporated; now Sherlock looked wounded. "Don't say that, please. Just don't."

"Why not? It's the truth!"

Sherlock didn't reply to that. Without meeting John's eyes he fumbled his way into his chair, sitting as if he were suddenly utterly exhausted. Well, probably was, come to think of it. God knew John was.

Coming over to the desk, John leaned on one hand. Putting every bit of fierceness he still possessed into his voice, he said, "I can't run away this time, Sherlock, and you know it. I'm not going to live my life this way. It's like you said: we have to anticipate. I'm anticipating!"

"Are you?" Sherlock replied hollowly.

"You want me to hide behind uniforms instead? Not even be able to do my job because -"

"I want you ALIVE, John," Sherlock snapped, pushing himself out of his chair and leaning forward for emphasis. "That's what I want. That's ALL I want!"

"I am alive," John murmured helplessly.

Sherlock drew a long breath. John could see his arms shaking, the way his throat worked for a second. "All I want is for you to stay that way, John," he said finally, in a trembling voice. "Don't give up. Please."

"I'm - not giving up."

"You sound like you are. Jesus." Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I just want my life back, Sherlock," John said in a stricken voice. "It's all I want. I can't - WE can't let this man live our lives for us. We can't."

"Then let's call Lestrade." Sherlock already had pulled out his mobile.

John nodded stiffly. "They won't be able to find him."

The words hit Sherlock hard; he made an inarticulate sound and sat down again. "Do you have any idea," he began slowly, not meeting John's eyes, "what would happen to me, if something happened to you?"

"Nothing -"

"You don't, do you?" The anger and fear drained away, leaving Sherlock white-faced and terribly calm. "You have no idea." An awful smile twisted his lips. "Neither do I."

"Sherlock, please, listen to me." John circled the desk, perching on the edge next to Sherlock's chair. "I'm gonna be okay. Nothing is going to happen. I can handle phone calls. They're just words."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, reaching up to rub one temple. "Maybe you can, but I'm not sure I can."

John smiled shakily and reached over to touch Sherlock's shoulder. "Bird by bird. Isn't that what they say?"

Sherlock snorted and didn't smile, but the old look faded a fraction. "I should kick your arse for this," he mumbled, covering John's hand with his own. "All the way to Canada. Call Lestrade, fill him in on everything he said. If not for you, then for me?"

"Okay," John agreed, meeting Sherlock's anguished stare. "Let's do it."

Lestrade, per usual, did all the right things, and soon enough were additional details out on the already released APW out for Jim Moriarty. Wouldn't do much good, John knew; unless the guy wanted to be found no one would find him. Might be a lunatic, but he was a smart lunatic, a cagey son of a bitch, and John had no doubts that one phone call wouldn't be the last contact they had. He kept a bullet chambered in his sidearm, made sure he wasn't alone, and did his best to stay wary. What else could he do?

Sherlock, now. That was another matter.

It was frankly startling to see how hard this was on the detective. Hadn't it been Sherlock doing the Rock of Gibraltar impression, not so very long ago? But now it was John taking up the slack, vaguely surprised at how easy it was. How good it felt. Nice to be de-neutered, to get his balls and his nerve back. And just in time, because Sherlock was jumping at shadows, almost completely unable to let John out of his sight for more than a minute or two. Which didn't lend itself to easily concealing what was becoming a serious non-professional relationship.

Sherlock didn't say much on their way home early that morning. It was a new mood, one John didn't completely understand, but enough to know there wasn't anything he himself could say, either. The knowledge was right there, staring him in the face: Sherlock was as vulnerable as John was, in different ways, and this latest development had pushed him in a direction he hadn't had to deal with lately. Maybe never. John wasn't sure.

Who knew what Sherlock's background really was? Oh, sure, education, qualifications, personal quirks that revealed themselves over time. But what about the man's emotional shit? Where in the hell did he put all the shit John knew for a fact he must carry around 24/7? Buried so deep sometimes John wondered if it could exist at all.

One thing was clear: Sherlock wasn't saying. Not now, and John wasn't about to try to guess when - if ever - he would say. So he sat silently in the cab's backseat, waiting for some kind of clue.

It came in the way Sherlock grabbed him the minute they were inside. As if taking John in his arms was something he'd wanted to do as badly as a man dying of thirst in the Gobi grabbed for water.

"It's okay," John mumbled, crushed up against him so tight his ribs sang out with vague distress. "It's gonna be okay."

Sherlock didn't say a word, but pulled away enough to give him a frantic kiss, a hard one, not loving but voracious and oddly panic-stricken. No idea what else to do; John just let him do it, reassure himself if that was what he was doing: Yes, I'm still here, still alive, staying that way, too. Right here, right now.

In the bedroom he tried to help Sherlock take his clothes off, but finally just stood there while Sherlock stripped him, aroused and kind of scared in the face of this bizarrely erotic focus. There wasn't a part of him Sherlock didn't touch, fondle, kiss: neck, chest, arms, fingers, belly, hips.

"Sherlock -" he gasped.

"No." Sherlock stood so fast it made John's own head spin, grabbing him and pushing him down on the bed. "No," he repeated, and pulled his own shirt off without unbuttoning it first. A couple of buttons bit the dust, clittering on the floor.

Oh, Christ, this was going way, way too fast, and yet there was a weird sense of abandon to it, like he cared less and less when Sherlock mashed him against the mattress, greedy too-hard kisses and Sherlock's clothed crotch glued up against John's bare one. What he cared about was wrapping his legs around Sherlock's hips, pushing up until it hurt, and hearing Sherlock's strangled growl of pleasure.

"What do you want?" John wheezed, pushing Sherlock back an inch or two, panting like he'd just run full-tilt for ten blocks. "What do you need? Tell me."

Sherlock's eyes were dark and glistening with lust and anguish and tears. "Everything," he rasped, grinding their dicks together.

He's going to hurt you, some part of him said, what was left of that still soft voice of reason. He's going to hurt you, fucking you, and he'll never get over it. You will, you know you will, just like you know for a stone fact he won't. Ever.

"Stop," John whispered, prying his hands free and putting his palms on Sherlock's oven-hot cheeks. "Stop, Sherlock. Slow down."

Staring down at him, Sherlock made a terrible sound deep in his throat and shook his head. John held harder, forcing him to be still. "Listen to me, Sherlock," he said fiercely, as gently as he could. "Listen to me. We can do this, I want to do this. But not like this. Not now."

Sherlock made another broken sound, and John arched up to kiss him, fast and hard. "I'm right here," he continued, pulling until Sherlock lay on top of him, panting but for the first time easing off a little, listening. "Right here, and not going anywhere. Believe it. But you don't want it to be like that. I know you, I know you don't."

He had no idea how long they just lay there, naked and clothed, both hard and scared and wheezing like a couple of asthmatics who left their inhalers at the office. But there was a moment when he felt Sherlock finally let go, almost saw the terror and desperate need morph into honest feeling instead of angry lust. Sherlock rolled to the side, still wrapped in John's arms, and buried his face in the crook of John's shoulder.

With a sense of surreal, distant wonder John petted Sherlock's hair, combing his fingers through it, listening to Sherlock bark a few harsh sobs. "He didn't get me," John crooned, almost to himself. "I won't do that to you, Sherlock, I swear to God. I didn't know I was doing that to you, but I do now, I swear I do, and it won't happen again. It's okay, it's all okay."

He's not a Vulcan, that tiny voice whispered. How could you ever have thought that? But you never will again, will you?

"It's all right," John whispered, blinking back a few tears of his own, and closed his eyes, letting his calming touch say what words simply couldn't, anymore.

Sherlock slept late, his turn apparently. John lay there in filtered white London sunlight and watched him sleep, a hushed moment of inspection. In sleep Sherlock's guards came down: mouth soft, lines of focus and thought smoothed out. Dark eyelashes making sooty shadows against his skin.

What a strange, awful, wonderful time it was, wasn't it? So weird, to feel so good. It wasn't enough to recognize how unexpected it was, how unlooked-for. It felt more like considering some completely alien concept. He could never have anticipated this. Of all the things to take him by surprise the past couple of months, none compared to now. No fearful flight could match this fluttering, almost painful sense of astonished joy he felt now.

If this was what love was like, he had something in common with Sherlock. He'd never been in love before.

He lay on his side and watched Sherlock wake up. Slow, syrupy-tired sleep into muzzy-eyed wakefulness.

"Hi," John breathed.

Sherlock's mouth curved in a slanted smile. "Hi yourself," he replied in a sleepy voice.

John reached out to touch the place on Sherlock's cheek where the pillowcase had left a dent. "Feel better?"

"Yeah." Memory flickered like a movie over Sherlock's features, and John smiled.

"This is nice."

The momentary tension bled away, thank God. "It is, isn't it?" Sherlock murmured, covering John's hand with his own and bringing it over to kiss his fingers slowly. "Really nice."

"Want some coffee?"

"Not really."

"Neither do I."

Funny how words seemed so important, and yet turned out to be vastly overrated. The angle of the sunlight changed, sliding over the sheets until it shone on the east wall, but time itself had stopped. Nothing else really mattered. Nothing outside. Nothing could touch them here.

There was love, after a while. The kind of passion that didn't obliterate, heat that didn't scar but felt wonderfully, achingly intense. Ignoring Sherlock's faint protests John explored Sherlock's body, taking a kind of absurd sheepish pride in marking out various places that got more of a response than others. The hollow over Sherlock's collarbone, the warm furriness of his armpit. Watching the way Sherlock shrank away when John kissed a ticklish place, rumbling laughter tinged with blessed heat, and listening to the urgent sounds he made as John skirted his hard cock, nuzzling his hipbones, the insides of his thighs, the place where his dick met his balls. No such thing as time, anymore. Time simply didn't matter.

He kissed the tip of Sherlock's cock and smiled slowly, watching him from between Sherlock's tense thighs. Kneed his way back up the bed and kissed Sherlock's open mouth, reaching with one hand over to the bedside table, inside the drawer.

Sherlock drew an expectant breath, seeing it, and John shook his head slowly. "I want it," he whispered almost noiselessly, vaguely resenting the crackle of plastic.

Without any real thought he smoothed a condom on Sherlock's dick, taking his time but not too teasing now. No, this wasn't the time for that. This was the time for this.

It was Sherlock who opened him up, fingers slick with lube and so deliciously, terribly gentle. Kissing him when he winced, smiling against his mouth when the wince turned into slow sticky pleasure.

He turned on his side, briefly mourning the position while Sherlock's sure hand caressed John's hip, urging his thighs apart. He made a strangled sound when Sherlock pressed into him, listening hard to the whispered assurances, the pauses while Sherlock let him get used to it, letting him set the pace even when John felt the thrum of energy in Sherlock's body, the urgency in his hardness.

But it didn't hurt at all then, felt strange and briefly naughty and then just flat-out GOOD, slow strokes deep inside him and back, not quite out again, sweet motion that woke up parts of him that had always slept before, now shivering and flexing with more and more intent urgency. We LIKE this, do that again, yeah, THAT, oh SHIT, yeah, again, again, YES.

He didn't even recognize his own voice, this taut anxious cajoling, begging Sherlock to do that faster, deeper, all the WAY, YES, and then Sherlock's rumbled laughter and obliging more intent thrusting, meeting the way John tried to push back with pushes forward. The room and the city and everything else, EVERYTHING, went away, left them blissfully alone with just this, the feel of Sherlock's cock INSIDE him, the feel of his own hand stroking himself to the same fantastic, mind-erasing rhythm, until he coughed a sharp sound and tensed up, here and THERE, heard Sherlock's hoarse curse when he felt it, too, and they came almost the same time, two tense bodies locked in one shuddering long moment of absolutely YES.

"Holy shit," John said some unknown amount of time later.

Sherlock's arm tightened around him, his chest shaking with a chuckle. "Yeah."

"Sherlock," John mumbled, blinking blearily at him. "Why didn't you TELL me?"

With a theatrically studious look Sherlock shrugged. "I don't even have a quote for that one."

John leaned forward an inch and kissed him luxuriantly, tightening the grip of his leg thrown over Sherlock's hips. "That," he mumbled against Sherlock's mouth, "was amazing."

"It was, wasn't it?" Sherlock kissed him back, one hand cupping John's still-quivering buttock. "I told you there's a reason people keep doing it."

"Mm-hmm. How soon can we do it again?"

Sherlock laughed, kissing him again briefly. "Considering it's almost noon and I was supposed to meet with Lestrade an hour ago?"

"Yeah." John nuzzled beneath Sherlock's jaw.

"How about tonight?"

"That better be a promise."

"Absolutely."

Reluctantly John levered himself up on one elbow, looking at the clock. "Sherlock," he breathed, surprised. "Hey, can you call in sick?"

"Well, no."

"Damn."

Another chuckle. "I know."

"Take a shower with me?"

"Oh, no."

"Aw."

"No way."

"Damn," John repeated, smiling gently.

When he got out of the shower Sherlock had sandwiches ready, and John bolted his and made another while Sherlock ate, trying very hard not to give in and tackle the guy again. He got dressed while Sherlock had his turn in the shower, which gave him the distinct pleasure of being able to watch Sherlock naked, hunting for something to wear.

"You don't have to do that on my account, you know," John said in his smokiest voice, and got a flustered glare in return.

The more time passed, though, the more he could put this new level of awareness where it belonged, banked, not gone but relegated to a controllable degree. He was strapping on his sidearm when the doorbell rang.

"Want me to get it?"

Sherlock shook his head, moving to the stairs. "I'll see to it. Grab my jacket, would you?"

It was the no-talking that made him go still. No greeting, just the sound of the door opening, and then silence. John frowned and looked down the stairs.

"Hi, John," Jim said, smiling. The revolver in his hand didn't waver, held an inch from Sherlock's temple. "Miss me?"

The room did a nauseating duck-and-roll, and he blinked away a fog of utter terror. "No. Please, no," John whispered almost soundlessly.

"You've really disappointed me, John." The business end of the revolver pushed against Sherlock's temple, the detective had been forced to his knees and John saw him brace himself. Jim's calculating smile widened. "I turn my back for just a little while, and this is where I find you two. Bad, bad boys."

Part of his brain stood back, guaging how far away they were, how close his weapon was, how long it would take to draw it. Too fucking long; Sherlock had about a millisecond to spare if it came to that, and the fastest draw west couldn't match that. Plan B, Johny. NOW.

"Go, John," Sherlock said in a strangled voice. "Get out. Window."

"Let him go. Please, Mr. Moriarty. You want me, is that it? 'Get Watson' right? Not Sherlock. He's not apart of that is he."

"In a way, he is," Jim smiled. "But you let him fuck you, didn't you?"

"So much for not getting your hands dirty," Sherlock snarled. Jim pistol wiped him sharply, throwing Sherlock's head back.

"Sherlock," John cried. "Jesus, please, just - let him go. Don't make him pay for my - mistake." He caught a glimpse of Sherlock's horrified expression, and ignored it. "I'll go with you," he continued frantically. "Anywhere you want. I'll do anything you want me to do, just - don't hurt him. Okay? Please?"

"John -" Sherlock started, and Jim pulled back the hammer.

A part of him died at that moment. He saw Sherlock dead, just like he'd seen himself. That elegant, fiendishly complex brain, sprayed all over the walls.

No. No way.

"You win, Jim," John said in a broken voice. "And you know it. Please, please just - let him go."

"You're a coward, too, aren't you, John?" Jim shook his head slowly.

"Okay, I guess I am." John swallowed hard. "So let's go, and - And you can - finish, okay? I'll go with you just let Sherlock go."

"I told him," Jim stated calmly, "That I would burn his heart. So get in the cab outside. You or Sherlock make a move, my associate Sebastian is placed in a sniper position, and he will shoot to kill."

He tried not to look at Sherlock before the door closed behind them. Didn't want to remember Sherlock that way.

Nothing to be done about how Sherlock remembered him.