Title: End Game
Disclaimer: I own nothing

Rating: PG 13

Warning: Deathfic!

Spoilers: The Great Game

Summary: In the aftermath of the Great Game it's time to find out who survived

Notes: Written for this prompt over at sherlockbbc_fic . It's a bit of a different take on the prompt. Comments are love. Betaed by Izzy.

End Game

The three black vehicles pulled up to the building in a small parade. From the first two vehicles came a mass of armed men and medical personnel. The armed men immediately began entering the building.

The medical personnel didn't move from beside their vehicle until the armed men radioed it was safe.

It was only when everyone was gone that the back door to the last vehicle opened. The first to emerge was a woman frantically typing away on a blackberry. The next was a tall man clutching an umbrella.

He took in the smoke coming out of the roof and contemplated bringing in a fire service.

"Fire service is on their way," the woman said without looking up from the phone.

A small smile briefly appeared on the man's face. He knew this woman was worth hiring.

Swinging the umbrella the man maneuvered around the woman and into building ignoring the woman's warnings. He was glad he hired her; it didn't mean he was going to listen to everything she said.

Inside he took in the remains of the swimming pool. Water was still bursting out of broken pipes, among small spires of flame. In the middle rubble the medical personnel were trying to separate two men.

Mycroft moved swiftly to the group. The medical men shifted to allow him room.

"Sherlock," he wrapped an arm gently around his brother. "You need to let go. These men need room to work."

Sherlock tightened his grip on the man he held against his chest. "They do not. Room is required only if the injured is still alive."

Mycroft looked away from his brother and down to the man he held. John Watson was covered in scratches from flying debris and burns from the explosion. The worst of the damage was apparent only when he looked past the soot and blood covering the doctor's head – an entry wound just off centre of the forehead.

Switching his gaze to the men Mycroft sent them away for the moment. Sherlock had been correct there was no immediate need. His brother did not seem in immediate danger.

Mycroft kneeled behind his brother without saying a word. The air was stagnant in the remains of the room. No one moved nor made a sound.

A small hiccup broke the silence. Mycroft tighten his grip on Sherlock. His brother didn't often show any emotion for another person besides distain. Adjusting his grip Mycroft moved so that he could see Sherlock's face.

His eyes were dry, the only evidence of tears tracks in the dirt covering his face. But it was Sherlock's eyes themselves that broke Mycroft's heart; grey eyes that had once been constantly moving, holding a mischievous glint and taking in everything where still. Sherlock's face was blank; his eyes empty of any glint, dead.

He responded as Mycroft loosened his grip on John and moved him away but he said nothing. As the medics wrapped him in a blanket and discussed bringing him to a hospital he said nothing. Mycroft watched as Sherlock nodded in response to questions asked without a word. There were no frank comments about competence or a refusal to co-operate, only dead eyes in an emotionless face.

Sherlock was gone, locked inside his own mind, away from the world and Mycroft did not think he would ever get his brother back.

As his people began cleaning up the scene Mycroft decided one thing.

Moriarty was his. By the time he was done with the man there would be no recognizable pieces left.