A/N: Aaaahh! How amazing was Sherlock? I'm so gutted its not on any more this year...Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman are just the best duo ever. Anyways, I wanted to contribute to this fandom because I'm a huge fan of the show. So, this is the result.

Warning: Not much, just very slashy.

Summary: A short fic of two of the last scenes in 'The Great Game' with, what I think, are Sherlock's thoughts of what is happening and I've altered them slightly to make them slashier, if thats possible.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. If I did, then Sherlock and John would have been together from the beginning, cos its destiny 3

Trepidation

The creaking hinges of a door caused Sherlock to turn, his eyes locking onto the figure now standing before him. His heart stopped dead in his chest, his knees becoming weak and the memory stick still clutched in his sweating palm.

No.

"Evening." The man blinked several times, his hands in his coat's large pockets. Neutralisation covered the man's face, making Sherlock even more confused. He lowered his arm slowly, as John finally began to speak.

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

All this time, John had been the bomber, the maniac, the murderer leading the detective on like this?

Not him, not my John.

"John.." Emotion ran through Sherlock's voice, hints of both fear and anguish, "what the hell?"

"Bet you never saw this coming." The expression on John's face remained neutral as Sherlock stepped towards him.

No, no. This doesn't make any sense at all. John helped me...he's my flatmate, my associate, my companion...my John.

The young detective's mouth gaped open slightly, his piercing blue eyes locked firmly on the man before him, his brilliant mind attempting to unravel the seemingly impossible enigma that he now faced.

John pulled his hands out of the pockets, opening his closed coat, Sherlock inhaling sharply.

"What..would you like me to make him say next?" Pounds and pounds of explosives were strapped to the small man's torso, an indiscreet red spot pinpointing the aim of a gun; the reality hitting Sherlock suddenly. It wasn't John who was talking; once again, the maniac, this 'Moriarty' was using someone else's voice. This time, John was the puppet. Realising the gravity of the situation at hand, Sherlock continued to step towards his friend and revolved in circles, looking for the puppet master. The doctor continued to speak with his voice, but not with his words, the detective's attention on other matters.

"I stopped him, I can stop John Watson too...stop his heart."

Too far, big mistake.

"Who are you?" Sherlock's powerful voice echoed through the building, the water rippling beside him. He looked at John, who averted the taller man's gaze, fear obvious in both men's eyes.

I'm sorry, John...for everything...

He turned one final time, his back to his companion, when he heard the squeaking of a door echo across the water...