John could hear Sherlock breathing heavily next to him. He was asleep, scalpel tossed aside on the vanity. Sherlock was right, John thought sitting up in bed and resting back on the headboard. His fingers played over the cool metal of his Army piece, brushing the trigger and stroking the barrel as he listened to his flatmate's deep breaths.

Sherlock's heart was as much a part of John's as John's was for Sherlock. That heart did not belong in the sadistic grip of Moriarty. That particular heart was John's to burn. Or shoot. He wondered if Sherlock would fight him. He figured probably not. He figured Sherlock would understand.

Turning gray hazel eyes to his flatmate, to the genius in his bed, John smiled. They were both willing to die for one another. They both could die for one another then Sherlock would win with such completeness; they'd beat Moriarty soundly.

"Sherlock," John grumbled, still holding the gun.

"Mur…" Sherlock's voice was a soft murmur.

John sighed, turned his head away from the man and rolled his eyes. Yes, this barely conscious bloke was the man John Watson had killed for and nearly died for multiple times. "Sherlock get up. You're right."

There was some grumbling and tossing of sheets while Sherlock found his way into a conscious state. "I'm always correct. Well, nearly always."

"Yes, I know." John looked down at his gun and smiled slowly. "But you're absolutely right this time, about Moriarty. He can't have your heart. Or mine." The hard metallic cocking of a gun echoed around the room.

Sherlock sat up taller and looked at John's hands. "That's crude, John. Messy."

John laughed and picked up the scalpel from his side of the bed. "And this isn't?"

Sherlock snatched the blade and held it tenderly. "Well, same effect anyway."

"Bleeding together wouldn't be so bad." John shifted, straddling Sherlock's lap and put the gun to his chest. "I can make sure he won't burn your heart. I'll take your heart, and you'll take mine." He watched the scalpel move up to rest along his jugular.

Smiling slowly, Sherlock reached up and stroked the gun in John's hands. "Yes, John."

John's eyes followed Sherlock's hand then moved up to his face. His silver eyes were sharp as the tips of sunlight fought their way through the blinds. The hollows of his cheeks looked deeper in the shadows. He was brilliant, absolutely brilliant, sitting beneath John. Sherlock was his and John would be damned if Moriarty ever got his hands on Sherlock.