AN: This is the first time in a very long time since I've written a fan fiction of any sort, so please bear with me. The beginning starts off with a recap of the last few minutes of 'The Great Game' (season one episode three) mostly to set the scene and delve a little into Sherlock's mind, as Sherlock's mind is going to be a feature of this piece. I hope you don't mind the recap, and enjoy the rest of the chapter. Don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or ideas from Sherlock...though I do wish they would lend Benedict to me so I could figure out exactly what color his eyes really are...not that I'm complaining about spending hours staring into screenshots to try and discern it myself.

Chapter 1

Frantically tearing at the jacket covering John's shoulders, I rip the fabric off him in a display of desperation that surprises even me. Wrenching that accursed vest off of my Watson, I begin to speak. "Alright?" I gasp, amazed at how truly affected I am, how anxious I am to hear his answer, his affirmative, for it must be so. "Are you alright!"

"Yeah yeah," he said quickly, the relief and weariness pervading his voice were easy to pick up, even in my frantic state. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Sherlock," he said my name softly as I put that wretched thing down, away from John, safely away."Sherlock!" he says more firmly as I slide the bomb away from us and turn back to him.

He is breathing heavily, obviously the shock and terror of having a bomb strapped to him and both our lives threatened was affecting him. I race out to ensure that Moriarty is indeed gone, before coming back in to find my John breathing heavily, fallen to the floor. Relief, I must admit, can indeed be overwhelming - especially when suspicion and uncertainty lie under it. I pace, scratching my head with John's gun, my mind whirling, calculating, deducing Moriarty's next move before he can catch us like that again. Being unprepared, is not something I am comfortable with.

"Are you okay?" John's voice interrupts my train of thought.

I don't look at him. "Me? Yeah, I'm fine. Fine," my pacing slows, my heart beating strangely fast inside my chest. Adrenaline, I inform myself, the reduction of adrenaline in my blood making me more anxious than need be. Scattered. Unfocused. "That uh, thing that you did, that you um, offered to do...That was um..." words had never failed me before. I avoid looking at John as I try to complete my broken sentence. "Good," I'm twitching and jittery, still trying to regain my composure after seeing my Watson so close to death. It had been a narrow escape.

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hm?" I glance down at John, still mildly distracted.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool...people might talk."

That got my attention. My eyes focused on John, his anxious face slowly softening with relief. The way he avoided my gaze, making a joke at such at time, it was endearing. 'Oh indeed John,' I think to myself. 'People would talk, and I might wish they were right.' I don't voice my thoughts aloud, saying instead, "People do little else," and I feel a small smile cross my features as the adrenaline settles and the calm sets in. Pure and free, I feel it wash through me and a light chuckle rises from my chest. It is short lived.

A little red dot is dancing on John's chest again. A quick glance down proves it is true for me as well. The fear is back, but not the panic nor the desperation. I have thought of this.

"I'm sorry boys," I keep my back to Moriarty as he prances through the door. "I'm soooooo changeable! It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

I glance down at John, meeting his eyes. I wonder if he can tell what I am thinking. Of course not! John's brain doesn't work like mine, but I hope he will trust me.

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't."

Moriarty is still talking, my brain continues to work, giving me the only possible solution, the only way out.

"I would try to convince you but...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

It was true; there was nothing Jim could say that would stop me. After all, we had a game to continue playing, and losing was not an option. I glance at John again, he nods. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." Slowly, deliberately, I turn around, gun raised, hand steady, I point the muzzle at Jim, my gaze calm and determined. Then I lower the gun, no longer pointing it at Jim Moriarty's face, I aim the weapon at the bomb that lies between us. Raising my eyes, I meet his gaze steadily. No emotions betray me, though Jim smirks. He doesn't think I'll risk John. He is wrong. If I don't risk it, then there is a one hundred percent chance that he will be gone instead of our thirteen point five seven nine percent chance of survival if I pull the trigger.

Slowly, deliberately, never taking my eyes off Jim Moriarty's face, I squeeze the trigger...

"John!" the name tore from his throat in a strangled cry, the painfully thin man shooting straight up in bed, his breathing fast and erratic. Frantic eyes darted around the room, taking everything in and coming to the same conclusion he had every other time he had woken up from this dream: he was home - on his couch to be precise.

Groaning, he passed a hand over his eyes, slumping back onto the couch, his face lined with pain. That had been a mistake, sitting up so suddenly; he could feel the stitches in his side stretching uncomfortably, the cuts along his back protesting with the unexpected muscular movement. Yes, a mistake, he must remember that he was not yet back in top form. Still, the pain was manageable now that he had taken treatment into his own hands – it even allowed his brain to function more effectively.

"Sherlock?" the familiar voice of Mrs. Hudson sounded from his doorway. She was nervous, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her just as surely as the fact that she had not come straight into the flat. She was waiting for his permission, something she was doing more and more these days, wary of his increasingly unpredictable behaviour.

"Come in Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called distractedly, straightening to an actual sitting position with a good deal of pain. Elbows balanced on his knees, his head resting on his thumbs as his steepled fingers touched his nose, the world's only consulting detective stared unseeingly at the collection of manila folders that were slowly taking over his living room.

"Dear me Sherlock, what have you done to the place this time?" Mrs. Hudson carefully circumvented the precarious piles, moving over to stand at the end of the couch.

"I'm searching Mrs. Hudson," he said softly, finally turning his head to look at his landlady. "Why have you disrupted my work?"

"There's a parcel for you dear," she said softly, holding out a large box to him. "Just left on the stoop, and since you don't go out anymore..."

"Thank-you Mrs. Hudson, you can leave it on the couch beside me there."

Nodding, the woman carefully laid the parcel next to Sherlock before beginning to inch back out of the flat. "Sherlock dear," she said, pausing at the door.

"Mmmm?" the man finally looked up at her, the bags beneath his eyes showing how little sleep he was actually getting.

"Perhaps you should talk to someone about those nightmares dear...they seem to be getting worse."

"I'm fine Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said wearily, turning his eyes back to the open folders on the coffee table. It was there. He knew it was there. Whatever he needed was staring straight at him...Why couldn't he see it?

"You need to take better care of yourself," Mrs. Hudson admonished.

Sherlock groaned, she had been saying that for weeks now. He knew what she was saying, had acknowledged her words, but right now he needed to focus. Personal hygiene, eating, sleeping, he only did enough so his vessel didn't collapse. His mind needed to work, everything else was mere transportation. The answer to the puzzle was here, he knew it. The next move was staring him in the face if he could only work out what it was. "Concentrate Sherlock," he hissed, fingers digging into his temple as his eyes scanned the pictures for the umpteenth time.

"Are you listening to me Sherlock? You need to take care of yourself it's what he -"

"That will be all! Thank-you Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock barked in exasperation.

The old lady made a tutting noise, but retreated back down the stairs, half relieved for the excuse, but mostly worried. That Sherlock, he hadn't been the same since that incident; always staring at those folders...it was unnatural was what it was.

"The game is not over Moriarty," Sherlock muttered, raking his fingers through his hair, letting out a growl of frustration. "I will beat you...I must..." desperately, his eyes raked the papers again before he let out a cry of pure exasperation. Angrily, Sherlock swiped at the folders on the table, causing papers to fly everywhere as he jumped to his feet, pacing angrily.

"CONCENTRATE!" he bellowed at himself, turning to the mantle, he reached into Yorick's mouth (John had named his skull, something about it suiting his love for the dramatic, honestly, he thought it was stretching it a bit...but it did please John so he had not complained to ardently) pulling out a small bag. Ah yes, with this he could concentrate. The nicotine patches had stopped working ages ago, but this...this was ideal. Taking out a small amount, he expertly inserted it into the needle, making sure to check for bubbles before he administered it to himself. The affects were immediate.

It was like a weight had dropped from his shoulders, the pain receded into the very back of his mind. Everything was so much more in focus. Yes! Yes! He could think with this, everything sharp and clear, standing out for him to take notice. Like this he would find the answer. He returned his attention to the papers he had scattered, picking them up off the floor haphazardly.

Eyes scanning the information, he reorganized the files, piling them up once more as he flipped through the pages. Scanning the familiar information, a slow smile began to spread across Sherlock's gaunt face. Yes! Yes! So obvious! How could he have possibly missed this before? So simple, so easy, it was a trail even a child could follow. "Found you Jim," he smirked.

"Sherlock?" the soothing voice of his doctor came from down the hall, John had just woken up.

"In the living room!"

"What's all the shouting about?" he asked perplexed, coming into the room, looking at Sherlock in concerned confusion.

"We've got him!" Sherlock cried in triumph, a paper clenched tightly in his fist as he practically ran across the cluttered room to pull John into his arms. Bending his head, he captured the doctor's lips for a hard, euphoric kiss before tenderly cupping one of John's cheeks with his hand. "We've got him John! I'll win this game..."

I'll win it for you.