The Diogenes Club was even quieter than anyone who'd been there remembered. It was as if a bank holiday had been called. No old, knarled men sat in overstuffed, leather chairs drinking tea or Scotch and reading stock reports, no paper slipper clad security guards padded around silently daring anyone to speak. How Mycroft had cleared the club was anyone's guess but there were more important things to think about.

Sherlock sat in a green leather lounger, feet up, glassy eyes focused on the refueling helicopter in the courtyard through the triangular panes of leaded glass in Mycroft's grand office.

The low rumble that emanated from somewhere near the good doctor's sternum voiced his displeasure at the vitals readings he was getting from Sherlock. He knew forming actual words was of no use. The machines that were the Holmes brothers were at work.

John tried tutting and exchanging glances with Molly as they both took in Sherlock's wounds as John changed the bandages again.

"The tubes will need to be removed, John," Sherlock said, his eyes closed, hands folded in his prayer like stance, deviated from the clasped position only long enough to shuffle something out of his way.

John shook his head and swallowed. "You do realize that getting them back in will be near impossible should you need them and with the looks on both yours and Mycroft's face, that seems likely – that is if you survive."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked straight into John's.

"I'm not really meant to be here anyway. You know that, right? I've already told Molly what the chances were of getting it right when I – had to jump. If it makes you feel any better, I don't want to do this either but there is no one else."

And it did make the doctor feel better. Sherlock didn't want to die. Didn't want to leave him again. Didn't change the fact that it would probably happen anyway, but this time they'd be together, a unit, just like in the army. John swallowed the lump in his throat and began his task, apologizing to Hippocrates over and over again as Molly splashed the disinfectant over Sherlock's side.

The door of Mycroft's office closed loudly behind him. He hadn't been called away. John had gotten good at deductions despite the insults over the years. Mycroft didn't want to see his brother in pain again. The absence of footsteps outside the door however told John that if his brother cried out, Mycroft might just own him for the rest of his life.

"Right, um – you're sure you don't want freezing?"

"No time, we leave in an hour,"

Sherlock gasped as John's hands carefully took the stitches out one by one. When the doctor tried to tell him to brace himself as he grasped the tube, he knew it was too late. Sherlock had gone somewhere else in his mind palace's limited space.

Sherlock's jaw clamped, the muscles twitching, his eyes squinted shut, heart monitors screaming for him as John removed the tube, speaking in hushed tones the whole time in case Sherlock could hear any of it over the noise in his head. Molly's eyes were full of tears as once again, Sherlock's battered body was stitched up.

"Gah!" Sherlock gasped when it was all done as if he'd saved it for the end. Just as John had predicted, Mycroft burst though the door, stopping short at the edge of Sherlock's chair.

John watched in silence as Sherlock's eyes begged his brother not to – not ask him if he was okay. Because for once, there was nothing - nothing that his big brother could do but go out together if it came to that.

"We're almost ready. The shipment is here. Brought it himself, Fields that is," Mycroft revealed, his hand curled into a tight fist which made the abuses Field's face had taken earlier more visible in the older Holmes' knuckles.

"Then he's going to be there, with a gas mask to watch it all happen," Sherlock rasped as Molly handed him a small sip of water.

"So it would seem," Mycroft agreed as both men hid schemes behind steadier, calmer facades.

Sherlock reached for his IV line.

"Here, let me do that; yes I know you've had – practice, but we should just leave it where it is until the last minute. You haven't eaten in days and – just leave it, okay?" John asked.

Sherlock pulled his fingers off of the tape.

XXXX

Donovan, Anderson and Lestrade coordinated positions on virtual maps that Anthea had provided. Each of them were outfitted in black with complete head coverings and gas masks hung from their shoulder straps. Donovan positively beamed, her balaclava perched on top of her head, ready when needed. Molly didn't like her position of being told to wait in the helicopter until signaled by Mycroft but she'd agreed.

John's left hand fidgeted under the collar of the tuxedo Mycroft had produced out of nowhere mere moments before the helicopter was ready. Very expensive sunglasses hung from the lapel. Mycroft had tried in vain to give John what he deemed a better firearm but John insisted upon keeping his own gun.

It was time. John pulled Sherlock's IV line and the detective marched slowly to the helicopter hidden in the courtyard with his arm held up to stem to flow of blood. Gas masks hung loosely from everyone's shoulders now.

"So small," Molly commented quietly staring at the chemical vials in Mycroft's hands as everyone buckled in.

"Bigger than anything you can imagine, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said. Usually that statement would have come out of the man as bragging. This time it sounded resigned.

Mycroft hated leg work, it was a well known fact, but in a matching outfit as that of the Scotland Yarders, he actually looked like he belonged. John was perched on the edge of his seat. He'd always been one to abhor the wait, the anticipation of death or victory, because to a doctor, the two felt very similar. Either way, human life was lost.

The helicopter landed on the roof of The Placid Pear. Sherlock stepped onto the gravel and donned his coat, flinging up the collars, looking every inch the usurper he was pretending to be. Moriarty had been convinced that Sherlock would join his side. Now he would get his wish posthumously; Sherlock Holmes, the new leader of Moriarty's Remnant.

Mycroft stepped forward, arms out as if to hug his brother but he merely made sure that the gas mask didn't stick up and gave a few more last minute instructions over again as if any of them had ever forgotten a thing in their lives. Of course, Sherlock was still concussed so that possibility was still up for debate.

"Lifts one and four will work under code Y2K," Mycroft reminded. "All other lifts will be out of commission."

"Clever, brother," Sherlock said and the corners of his mouth twitched up at the irony of the millennium doomsday.

"I thought you'd like that," Mycroft said too fondly before the two headed in opposite directions.

John nodded at Sherlock. Words weren't enough. The two disappeared into the stairwell while Mycroft removed the heating and cooling unit's coverings. Donovan, Anderson and Lestrade were given the lift codes. Photos of every criminal thought to be associated in this literal take down were on each person's phone; if they were seen trying to leave, the Scotland Yard cops were to take the kill shot.