A/N: I was going to wait on posting this, but I've kind of decided not to. This is a fic very much like Playing With Life in format and I believe you all will like it. :) I hope you do, anyway. Another epic adventure for our favorite two characters. Please note, this is NOT the sequel to Playing With Life. This is completely unrelated. I also can't promise daily updates on this one, sorry. :( Anyway, enjoy.

"Is it possible to be less you?

"God, I can't stand you. I really can't. I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not. Not anymore. You could go die for all I care."

He can see the other man's heart breaking, the raw emotions sparking in those eyes. But he says nothing more, his hands tightly clasped in his lap. He cannot say anything more. Sherlock will never understand because he will never be given a chance to. It's agony, to know what he's doing, but he can't stop it.

He's just another pawn in the great game of chess. Chess was never his favourite game as a child, but even so he's been caught up in it with no way out. He can't stop himself. His mouth is running and his mind is turning but no matter which way he looks, there is no escape. And he is scared to the very core of himself, scared to death because he knows exactly what's going to happen.

Sherlock Holmes is going to take what he's said to heart.

If John can't prevent it, he will kill himself.


One week ago

"Sherlock, really, tell me you didn't use all the milk again," John griped, frowning in equal parts amusement and frustration. He let out a sigh and slammed the fridge door shut a bit too hard, causing even himself to jump. Really, he'd woken up this morning in such a great mood. The sun had shined through the only window in his room (he'd been surprised considering the amount of dust coating that window), and he'd woken up to the warm sunshine on his face. It had been nice. And now this. No milk for his tea. What a way to ruin a possibly amazing morning.

Well, at least it was much better than being woken up by Sherlock in the middle of the night - the man could be so trying! He seemed to have taken to waking John up with no regard for normal human sleeping patterns. His tool of choice varied by day: loud violin playing, crashes in the kitchen, smoke due to an experiment, simply yelling or staring because he was bored, or, worst yet, throwing water over the bed. Tea or no tea, he'd take this wakeup over that one any day.

"I needed it," the monotone voice of his friend called back. "Experiment on the counter. Watch out for that, don't knock it over. Possibly deadly fumes. While it would be nice to know the exact effects, I'd rather not test it on you."

For a moment, John actually felt a bit comforted in this thought. It was good to know that Sherlock Holmes wouldn't kill you intentionally, or at least didn't want you dead. A soft smile found its place on his face and he stood for a moment in the entrance to the sitting room, examining his flatmate. Sherlock was on the couch - as he always was - in the very awkward way that only he could find comfortable. His head back and long limbs flung out in each and every direction, Sherlock actually looked… peaceful. Odd for a man like him. Still, John had known him long enough to have seen the more 'peaceful' side of him before.

"Nice to know," John nodded after a few moments, still watching his flatmate, who had taken to blinking rapidly at the ceiling. He frowned but continued anyway, "So, any texts from Lestrade? You can't tell me he doesn't have another murder on his hands yet. It's been, what, three weeks?"

"Too long," Sherlock deadpanned. He glared at the ceiling instead of John, startled when a loud beep sounded from his pocket. "Speak of the devil."

"I had my suspicions, but I never thought… y'know, Lestrade, the devil?" The humour was lost on the consulting detective. He was very absorbed in his phone, frowning as he read, before his fingers began to fly across the miniature keyboard. After all the time living with Sherlock, the speed at which he could text still shocked John, whose technical skills were often a bit slower and more limited.

"Murder… interesting," Sherlock muttered, talking more to himself than John. "But that doesn't make sense… he says it's an easy one… they've already figured it out. So why are they calling us in?"

"Nothing better to do than check it out, then?" John suggested, smiling as he pulled his coat over his shoulders.

Oh, how wrong he was.

A/N: Oooh, let's see where this goes from here. :)