John.
Sherlock stepped from the shadows, shaking. He’d heard the shots and John’s pained whine, and that’s all he could currently hear. John. In pain.
He stormed over to where they were crouched together, his doctor and the Fox. His fists were flexing.
"Where is he hit?" he asked, his voice a…
Moriarty watched this, an evil glimmer in his eyes. Perhaps their plan had been for him to be caught off-guard, but he had no intention of sticking to their plans. He groaned emphatically, got to his feet, and dusted himself off. The fox shuddered, also getting to her feet, and taking a few steps back, eyes wide. "I hate to ruin such a touching moment, really, I do-" he sneered, "but laying on the ground is getting a bit tedious for me." He looked at each of them in turn, eyes glinting with a perverse sort of joy, a smirk contorting his face. "Can you believe it! Not one, not two, but all three of you alive? Oh, and me too. Hope I didn’t give you too much of a scare by playing dead for a while. It’s like a family reunion! Tell me how you did it, Sherlock, really, I must know," he asked in the most charming tone at his disposal.
"No you mustn't." Sherlock pulled a gun--John's Browning--from his coat pocket and aimed it at Moriarty's face. "Perhaps you avoided a fatal shot, but I can certainly cripple you." Carefully he lowered the gun to the madman's kneecap. "And then I'll dispose of you the way you deserve."
