Betrayal comes in many forms,
But relies on underlying intimacy
To insure a lethal wound.
It is an emotional ambush,
Carefully designed,
Flawlessly executed,
Producing an evil sound
In the orchestra of life.

- Frank P Whyte

Pain. That was the first coherent thought Sherlock Holmes had as he came to. White hot pain, radiating throughout his body, pinning him down so that his bruised face pressed against the wooden floor. He squeezed open his swollen eyes, only to be met by darkness. An unfamiliar emotion stirred in the pit of his stomach, working it's way up until he thought he might vomit. Fear.

Control. It's just transport.

He visualized the nociceptors in his skin activating, sending a message via the nerve fibres, to his spinal cord and eventually onto his brain where the pain registered.

There. No need to be irrational about it, pain is just a malfunction, a technical error.

He couldn't recall how he'd ended up in this mess. When he tried to remember, his fragmented mind spun and screamed in protest, waves of nausea made him gag and dig his nails into the floor.

Concentrate. Mind over matter.

There was something there, a distant memory. A conversation? Yes, that was it, he'd spoken on the phone to Mycroft.

"Time to come home little brother."

"You know full well I'm not scheduled to come back for another three months."

"Well I'm afraid you're going to have to cut this little holiday of yours a bit short."

"I'd hardly call dismantling a mass criminal network a holiday."

"You're needed. A serial killer has been on the loose for the past few months, I want it nipped in the bud before the press get a whiff of it."

"Are you telling me that the whole of Scotland Yard can't catch one rogue psychopath?"

"We're not dealing with an ordinary psychopath, Sherlock. Their methods are similar, identical even, to that of our dear consulting criminal."

"A copycat killer then."

"You know Moriarty's body was never found on that rooftop."

"I know."

"Well then?"

"I'll get a flight back to London tonight."

Sherlock hissed as his memory faltered, broken scenes played before his eyes. His feet walking up the stairs of 221B, fists, blood, and then everything went black. Time dragged on as he laid sprawled out on the hard floor. Even if he had the energy to move, which he didn't, he was acutely aware of the handcuff binding his left wrist to something. Hours passed this way, he began to accept he was going to die here. The thought of dying didn't particularly fill him with dread, but the idea of never seeing John again... well it was unbearable to say the least. Besides if there was a Moriarty impersonator on the lose, the chances were they'd go after John. Sherlock couldn't die while John's life was in danger. It was then that he heard a faint creak from below. Someone was coming up the stairs. Sherlock clenched his fists as footsteps approached the door. His heart thumped in the darkness as the door swung open. A dim light flickered on from above, but nearly blinded Sherlock who hastily shielded his eyes with his free arm. He could sense his captor standing over his bloodied body, hear his foot tapping impatiently. Gradually, with shaking arms, Sherlock lifted his face off the floor. He turned his head towards his captor's feet, and felt his stomach lurch as he immediately recognized the grey leather Gucci shoes.

"Moriarty." He growled, but his throat was so dry it came out as a whisper.

"No. Good guess though."

God no...

Sherlock had a fair experience of pain. He'd been tortured, bullied, and nearly OD'd on more than one occasion. He'd faked his own death, and left behind the only people who ever cared about him. But nothing, nothing cut deeper than the sound of that voice resonating within him.

Numb from the shock, he managed to sit himself up, lift his heavy head and meet the cold stare of John Hamish Watson.

"John..." Sherlock croaked, unable to form his words as the shell of his best friend stood before him. It was definitely his John, but his hair was styled and he wore a well tailored suit. Identical to Moriarty's Reiss suit in fact. His eyes weren't John's eyes either. The dilated pupils were like two black holes that threatened to suck you in and crush you into oblivion.

"Oh so you haven't forgotten who I am then." John sneered.

"What on earth are you talking about, John?" Said Sherlock, bleeding out desperately, though his wounds had dried long ago.

John tilted his head in an almost reptilian manner, dragging his eyes over Sherlock.

"Well let's see." John huffed comically. "You, my supposedly best friend, fake your own death. Nearly two years, you let me grieve-"

"You don't understand." Sherlock pleaded.

"Shut up." He hissed. "Nearly two years, Sherlock. And then one day, Phillip Anderson shows up on my doorstep. He has this map you see, and on it he's tracked certain cases. New Delhi, Hamburg, Amsterdam, Brussels, sound familiar? He says you're alive, Sherlock. Naturally, at first I think he's gone stark raving mad, but I look into it all the same. You couldn't resist showing off, could you? That's when it all sunk in. All this time I thought you were dead, when actually you were gallivanting round Europe chasing after what remained of Moriarty. I wanted to make you suffer, like you did to me. Clearly John Watson wasn't a good enough reason for you to come back. So I mimicked the one person you actually give a damn about. And now here you are."

Sherlock blinked frantically, his mouth gaping as he tried to process what John had said.

"You're the Moriarty impersonator." He said meekly, it sounded more like question than an accusation.

"Once again, you astound me with your powers of deduction." Said John, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

How could John believe any of this?

But as Sherlock searched John's face, saw the tired lines and shadows that framed his eyes, he realized that grief had severely warped his friend's mind.

"You've killed people. Innocent people." Sherlock rasped, his eyes stinging as he came to terms with this nightmare reality.

"A necessity." Said John with a careless shrug.

Something about that nonchalant tone made Sherlock snap, he couldn't bare to hear these words coming from John, his John.

"Stop it, John. This isn't you."

"Two years. Sherlock." Murmured John, staring into the distance. "You did this to me."

"I was trying to protect you!"

For a split second, Sherlock's words seemed to pierce John's mask. The taunting, lizard-like grin faded, the signs of grief became more prominent, and something flickered in those tortured eyes. Hope. John wanted to believe him.

"I think it's a bit late for that now, don't you?" Said John, his facade snapping back into place.

"No, I don't. Let me help you John."

John threw him a withering glance and laughed. It was a bitter, almost mechanical laugh that set Sherlock's teeth on edge.

"I don't need your help." Spat John.

"I'll die before I give up on you."

Sherlock said the words without thinking, but it was true, living whilst John was unhappy was never an option.

"That can be arranged." Said John smoothly, his fingers lightly brushing against something in his left pocket. Despite the poor lighting, Sherlock could make out the distinct outline of John's Sig Sauer P226R.

"Are you going to shoot me, John?" Sherlock tried to keep his voice level. Surely John would never kill him. But this stranger wasn't John.

John paused and looked on thoughtfully, he licked his lips and said,

"No. Not yet, that would be far too easy. You forget the whole point of this little game of ours is for you to experience what I felt. No one offered me the sweet release of death when you jumped, so I shan't give you that privilege either."

Not waiting for a reply, John turned on his heel, switched off the light and locked the door behind him, leaving Sherlock once again alone in the dark. As he sat there, his gaze never pulling away from where John had stood, one thought alone choked up his mind. Two men fell the night Sherlock jumped, but only one died. And that man wasn't Sherlock.