Summary: The Great Game in my Sherlock is immortal-ish verse. A follow-up to "Let Us Die to Make Men Free". Sherlock is the same person from the 1880s, he rediscovered his John Watson in 2010, and the tv show followed.

The first confrontation with Moriarty is nothing like he remembers. He isn't some mastermind professor; he's so young. He looks like he'd throw a tantrum if he didn't get his way, followed by a firebombing. Unlike last time, John is caught in the middle, and no hastily written note will save him from this Moriarty's wrath. It's like the rules of polite war no longer matter, if you've got the money and the connections. Such is the world today.

While Moriarty rhapsodizes about their little game, Sherlock is calculating odds of survival; planning scenarios in his mind. John must live; Moriarty must die. Anything else is inconsequential.

"What if I was to shoot you now, right now?" His grip on the browning pistol is steady.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." As Moriarty is busy providing an example of such a face, Sherlock glances to John. "Cuz I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. . . and a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."

Sherlock flexes his grip. "Run." It's barely a whisper.

John immediately runs down the corridor, out of the snipers sight. Moriarty turns at the motion. Sherlock grabs him in the same hold John had tried earlier, resting the gun against the man's head.

"What's all this? You aren't playing by my rules." The consulting criminal is confident in his control of the situation.

"Sorry to disappoint."

Sherlock fires his weapon, Moriarty falls. Every sniper fires their weapon, Sherlock falls.

John runs. He strips off the bomb vest throwing it down the line of lockers. He doesn't look back. He runs through the doors, every second expecting a bullet to the heart. Once outside, every passer by is a potential gunman. There's too many people, just going about their business on a weeknight. A black car drives up; he backs away. The window rolls down. Mycroft. Safe.

Once Mycroft's men secure the building; better snipers than whomever Moriarty bribed, John rushes in. Consulting Detective and Consulting Criminal rest where they fell, in an odd tangle. He drags Sherlock away from that bastard.

He sits, with Sherlock in his lap and waits. A short while later, Sherlock wakes up. Moriarty Stays Dead.