Neither boy spoke of the tender moment they had shared over the next few weeks, so how the rumour thrived was anyone's guess, but, by Christmas, almost everyone in the school knew that Sherlock Holmes had kissed John Watson.

Once the news was out, many students seemed to go out of their way to make life difficult for the twosome; they whistled the 'Wedding March' whenever they saw them passing in the corridors, and whispers of 'gay' followed them around, along with the long-standing mutters of 'freak' that were reserved for Sherlock's benefit. The situation was not abetted by the teachers, Mr Jeeve especially, who had been hoping to get Sherlock back ever since the term's first Physics lesson. When he saw the pair sitting together as usual, he couldn't resist a jibe

"Are the happy couple going to announce their engagement?"

This comment provoked a fuming bellow of "WE'RE NOT GAY!" from both boys, to which Anderson snorted loudly and muttered "Okay, then…" in disbelief.

The day they were due to break up, Sherlock collared John as they were gathering their belongings to take home over Christmas.

"Listen, John….I'm not really one for the whole 'playdate' nonsense, but, I was wondering whether…."

"Yes?" John pressed

"Whether you'd like to…visit me over the holidays…." He wrung his hands awkwardly.

"You mean, come to your house?" John beamed "Oh, Sherlock, I'd love to!"

"So…How about New Year's Eve? That way, you'll be able to meet the whole family…"

"That sounds fantastic! We never do much for the New Year, so…."

Sherlock gave a single nod and patted John on the back, before sweeping of towards a black Porsche, presumably his mother's. The car gave a feline purr, and then glided, ghostlike, out of the school gates and towards the crimson setting sun.

After a comparatively dull Christmas day, in which John received yet more jumpers from his grandmother, and plenty of pleading with both parents, John was finally allowed to go to the Holmes's New Year's party. On the big day, John got his father to drop him off in front of Sherlock's house. John barely supressed a gasp of awe: a sprawling manor stood proudly against a backdrop of majestic fir trees, coupled with a fathomless cerulean sky. A snow white gravel driveway meandered its way up to polished wooden doors, trimmed with silver handles. John cautiously walked up the drive, aware that with every footstep he took, a dull crunch sounded. He presently reached the door, bow close enough to see the silver sparkling in the weak afternoon sun. Knowing it would be rude to just barge in without introduction, John made the resolute decision to ring the gleaming copper doorbell, which presented itself just above John's head. After his finger came into contact with the small button, John chuckled upon hearing a delightfully rude noise, as if someone had farted.

The door was answered by a man with neatly trimmed brown hair, wearing an impeccably clean suit.

"Ah, John! We were expecting you. Come, come…" he beckoned John into a long hallway. John thought his voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite remember where he'd heard it before…then, he realised. It was Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft.

Mycroft led John up a staircase coming off from the hall. John couldn't help but notice the garlands intertwined up the banister were coloured in macabre greys, blood red and sinister purple. On the landing, John noticed a stuffed moose head, although it was hard to tell what creature it was, due to the fact that it was swathed in blood-stained bandages.

"My brother's doing…" Mycroft replied grimly, seeing the objects of John's interest. "The second door on the left…" he added, pointing at said door, before stepping into what was presumably his own room opposite. John rapped on the door with his fist, and a dull grunt came from inside. He pushed the door open to see Sherlock hanging, bat-like, over the side of his bed.

"Oh good….you're here. I was getting dreadfully bored." He smiled, but did not shift his position.

John looked around the bedroom with interest. It certainly had a….Sherlockian air to it. The room was dark compared to the hallway from which John had entered. A violin case leant against blue-grey walls, and John's eyes were drawn to a skull. A skull that looked suspiciously like the one that had, until a few weeks ago, resided upon the neck of the biology lab's skeleton.

"No experiments?" John asked with a grin.

"Downstairs. I use the kitchen as my base of operations…its safe." He added, seeing John's horrified expression. "Mostly…."

"I'm really looking forward to meeting your family…"

"They won't be here for a few hours yet…" John thought he heard his friend mutter 'Thank God…'under his breath. "Some are coming all the way from Vienna, just for this stupid party…" he rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft answered the door. I thought he was at uni?" John was puzzled.

"He's managed to tear himself away for the holidays." Sherlock did not seem happy about this. "He loves all these family get-togethers, the little sod."

At that moment, the 'little sod' bellowed "HEY! KEEP IT DOWN!"

"His diet's not going well…" Sherlock smirked. "He said he was going to cut down over Christmas, but I caught him gorging on mince pies yesterday."

John chuckled loudly.

Several hours later, Sherlock's mother came into the room.

"Dear, you've got to get changed. Agrippina's just said she'll be here in ten minutes."

"But…" Sherlock scowled at his mother "Yes, Mummy…." John noticed him stick his tongue out at his mum's retreating form.

"Come out, Sherlock! It can't be that bad!" John pleaded with his friend, who had been hiding in the bathroom for the past five minutes.

The door suddenly burst open, and Sherlock looked at John in revulsion "It is…"John took in his friend's appearance. In truth, the suit wasn't a complete disaster, although, he was not sure the shirt needed quite so many frills.

"Be honest, John…Is it awful?"

"Sherlock, you look fine! Just go downstairs!" At that moment, another trumpeting fart blared through the house. Swearing loudly, Sherlock charged downstairs, two at a time. John followed him shyly into the grand hallway, where three people were now stood.

"Aunt Agrippina, Uncle Marius and Cousin Tatiana…" Sherlock hissed to John, as he shook hands with a rotund woman in a floral dress, a thin man with a handlebar moustache and a blonde girl, whom John guessed was about his age.

"Hi, Sherlock." Tatiana gave the boy an undisguised look of admiration.

Sherlock grunted a reply, before wandering out of the room towards the kitchen, and returning moments later carrying a platter brimming with canapés. Agrippina and Marius waved him away, but Tatiana snatched up a handful, then, remembering her manners, she muttered an embarrassed thank you.

Once the clock struck nine, and the final guest (Great Aunt Aurelia, who had burst in, clothed in a flowing ball gown and a white powdered wig) had arrived, the lights were dimmed and music blared from loudspeakers in the corners of the drawing room. Numerous trays of food stood on a table for the company to help themselves. Presently, Sherlock approached John holding a small goblet.

"Sherlock…Is that…"

"Cider, yeah…" he grinned. "Want some?"

"No, no…I'm fine…"

Sherlock gave a grunt of indifference, and then proceeded to tip the contents of the chalice down his throat. John watched in fascination as Sherlock's lanky figure meandered through the crowd and out of sight. He dodged whirling dancers until he got to the food table, and then helped himself to a jam tart. From this vantage point, John saw Mycroft waltzing with a rosy-cheeked Holmes cousin, whereas Tatiana was fighting her way through the horde, seemingly searching for someone.

As the hours passed, John had not caught a glimpse of Sherlock, and was beginning to worry. Suddenly, a booming bellow diverted his attention to the gathering, which had moved out onto the front lawn of the house. John ran to join the procession, where a fireworks display had been set up, and the throng was cheering loudly as the colours blossomed over the inky black sky. As the last banger showered the air with golden sparks, John saw Sherlock's father produce a microphone and shout across the grounds.

"TEN!"

The mob picked up the countdown, and John himself roaring with all the rest.

"NINE…EIGHT!...SEVEN!..."

He only wished Sherlock was here beside him…

"SIX!...FIVE!...FOUR!..."

Where was Sherlock now?

"THREE!...TWO!...ONE…"

All at once, the garden was alive with the shrieks of excitement. John had to cover his ears to block out the din. Several feet away, a dark-haired figure gave Tatiana a peck on the cheek, before staggering away. John gasped as the figure's features were thrown into relief. He saw Tatiana punch the air in triumph.

"He's drunk!" John bellowed to her "He won't remember any-"

He was cut off as Sherlock locked lips with him. Although soured with alcohol, his mouth was soft and gentle. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Cousin Tatiana give him a look of shock, betrayal and disgust…but, that didn't matter anymore. They broke apart, breathing heavily.

"How many have you had?" John enquired sternly

"Two….Or was it five?" he slurred, laughing a little too loudly. "I dunno, John…" he trailed off, lurching forward alarmingly. John grabbed his friend's arm before he pitched over completely, and then dragged him back inside the house, bracing himself for the foul mood Sherlock would be in the next morning.

As the class settled down on the first day back after Christmas, an unnatural hush fell across the room as, one by one; their eyes fell on the additional desk that had been placed on John's left. Even Sherlock paused from informing John what every member of their class had got for Christmas when he laid eyes on the desk. A bad omen.

The teacher wandered in, shocked at finding his class so subdued. After a moment's puzzlement, he remembered what he was about to say.

"Class, we have a new student joining us today." He stepped aside, revealing a face John thought he'd never see again. Although taller and neater looking, there was no mistaking those protuberant eyes, that unsettling smile, the way the boy rubbed his hands together, as if plotting something.

John suddenly noticed that Sherlock was unusually quiet. He placed a concerned hand on his friend's forearm, and was shocked to feel Sherlock trembling.

"Are you all right?" John whispered.

Sherlock gulped noisily, then opened his mouth…and swore very loudly indeed.

"MR HOLMES!" the teacher bellowed. "Kindly refrain from using such foul language in my presence." He glared at Sherlock before continuing. "Now, Jim, go and sit in the seat next to John-"

"NO!" Sherlock roared, standing up, and knocking his chair over in the process. The teacher gave him a puzzled look, so he reworked his sentence. "Er…I mean…Bathroom, sir!" he swept out of the room, in the direction of the lavatories.

After a few minutes, John came racing in to join him. A worrying sight met his eyes: Sherlock sat hunched against the tiled wall, staring blankly ahead, as if John was invisible. He was so pale that he made the tiles look grey. His insipid pallor further enunciated the dark circles under his eyes. John stepped forward and rested his hand gently on his friend's shoulder. Sherlock gave no indication that he had noticed the gesture, and simply stated "He's back…" expressionlessly, and without moving a muscle.

"I know, Sherlock, I know…" John tried to be reassuring, but Sherlock simply sat there, murmuring "He's back, He's back…" over and over again.

"You look terrible…I've never seen you like this."

His friend sagged noticeably and then replied in a very small voice "I'm scared, John….I'm scared for you…"

"But, he might have changed. He hasn't even spoken to us yet…"

Sherlock shook his head darkly "Last time we saw him, he tried to kill you. And I assure you, he intends to succeed this time."

Sherlock scowled as a small scrap of paper fluttered onto his desk. Although there was no signature, he knew perfectly well who it was from. Opening it, he read the first verse of' Jack and Jill'. He thought for a moment, then quickly stowed the note in his pocket for safekeeping.

"I told you!" he declared triumphantly a few hours later, waving the paper John's startled face. John looked carefully at the ditty written on the scrap, and then frowned.

"Sherlock, it's just a nursery rhyme! There's nothing remotely sinister about this. You're just getting paranoid over a stupid note!"

The next day, John would find out just how wrong he was.

The two of them strolled into the playground casually that morning, and John was surprised to see a large gaggle of assorted teachers and students, Greg Lestrade included. Greg turned round and, upon seeing Sherlock, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sherlock! There's been a double murder!"

John was not completely surprised when he saw Sherlock beam in exhilaration. "Fantastic! Come on, John!" the boy found himself being dragged by the collar, Sherlock's long fingers digging into his neck, in the direction of the commotion

"Out of the way, you idiots!" Sherlock shouted, elbowing sobbing pupils and blank-faced teachers aside, eager to get a look at the corpses. The assembly allowed him to pass without difficulty, and even the teachers didn't give him a second glance. John stood anxiously at the side lines, watching Sherlock as he knelt over the still forms of a boy and girl of about thirteen.

"Twins…" Sherlock murmured, noting the similar eye shape, hair colour and jaw structure. The girl's blonde tresses streamed out behind her on the concrete, while the boy's hair was gelled in a neat parting. The two both had seemingly identical swellings on the crown of their skulls. He also noted that the boy's body was cooler, as if he'd been killed first.

"What were their names?" Sherlock asked, speaking to no-one in particular

"Higgins…" the English teacher, Mrs Bentley replied. "Jack and Jill Higgins"

At her words, Sherlock glanced sharply up at John, who mumbled "Coincidence…" under his breath.

"Greg, come here…" Sherlock beckoned the boy over. "Tell me what you think…"

Greg obeyed, and stepped awkwardly towards the bodies. Donovan and Anderson flanked him, much to Sherlock's displeasure.

"Well…." Greg squinted down at the pair of corpses. "Well….." he muttered again, giving Sherlock a panicked glance. "Well….."

"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock shoved the boy aside, before gingerly turning both bodies onto their stomachs. What he saw made him recoil noticeably. Words were etched into the flesh of the victims, as if cut with a scalpel. Sherlock noted that the writing was very skilful, as if the killer had experience with this gruesome craft. Scraped across Jack's shoulder blades was another rhyme, this time 'Humpty Dumpty', whereas Jill had been imprinted with just two horrifically disturbing words, scrawled in imposing capitals: GET SHERLOCK.

Greg stared, wide-eyed at the inscription, before remembering himself. "So…How are we going to work out who it was?"

"Oh, I know who it was…." Sherlock replied with a grim smile. "But, now, we're going to have to work out where he's going to strike next."

"You seem pretty sure of yourself." Anderson interjected. He'd remained silent throughout the incident.

Sherlock gave him a withering look "I'm Sherlock-effing-Holmes! Of course I'm sure of myself! And I am also sure that while Greg and I were investigating, you and Donovan were snogging each other's faces off…." To this last statement was met with a startled gasp from Donovan, whose shirt was rather creased, and lipstick smeared.

"Like….Oh, I don't know….You and John?" he flourished his arm towards the boy in question, who stepped back, eager for the ground to swallow him up. The congregation, staff included, descended into an unnatural hush. Sherlock stared hard at Anderson, before replying very softly; "I don't deny it…" The stillness of the air made the declaration sound ten times louder, and as soon as the words were out of Sherlock's mouth, it was as if someone was revving up the engine of a motorbike: The assembly grew louder and louder, until it was impossible to hear one's own thoughts. It continued, till John had the sense to bellow "SHUT UP! THIS IS A CRIME SCENE!"

Sherlock gave him a brief nod of thanks, before leaning over the corpses once more and continuing to examine them. "Killed by a blow from a blunt object…Jack was killed first…Then Jill came tumbling after…"

"So, Sherlock…Who do you think did it?" Greg looked at him expectantly.

"It was our friend Jim…." Sherlock looked first at John, then at Greg. "Our good friend James Moriarty…"

At lunch that day, John was not entirely surprised to find Sherlock sitting alone at a table, hunched over a piece of paper. Looking over his friend's shoulder, he saw Sherlock had copied out the carvings found on Jack Higgins' body, and was now gazing at it with such intensity that John would not have been surprised if it burst into flames there and then.

"It's a clue…" he murmured, prodding the paper with a long finger.

"Hello to you, too." John joked, sitting down in a seat opposite. "Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?" He asked, seeing no form of sustenance on the table.

"Hmm…" he replied thoughtfully "About a week ago, If I am correct...What?" he added, seeing John's concerned face.

"Sherlock." John sighed heavily "This case is taking over your life! You don't eat, you're texting me at unearthly hours, and I've seen you spending entire lessons staring at Moriarty! Just calm down!"

"I'm perfectly calm!" Sherlock retorted, though the frenzied look in his eye, along with seemingly compulsive glances around the room told John otherwise. "What's the point of eating and sleeping when you could be doing something so much more productive?"

"Like stalking Jim?" John challenged.

"Not 'stalking', merely observing for suspicious behaviour.."

"Oh really? I couldn't help but overhear him complain that you followed him to the toilets earlier. If that's not suspicious behaviour, I don't know what is!"

Sherlock said nothing, instead glancing back at the note. Moments later, John almost jumped out of his skin upon hearing Sherlock exclaim "GOTCHA!", presumably to the note. At that instant, the bell buzzed metallically, signalling the beginning of afternoon lessons. Once again, John found himself being dragged down a corridor in Sherlock's vice-like grip. He uttered a cry of protest as his friend pulled him, not in the direction of the maths room, but out a door and into the schoolyard

"Sherlock, we need to get to class!" John hissed in irritation.

"Class? Boring! We're on the trail of a deranged psychopath, and you're worried about algebraic equations?" He smiled broadly, before charging across the forecourt, apparently following an invisible trace. John heaved another exasperated sigh, before sprinting after his friend. He saw Sherlock skid around the corner of the science block, and hastened to catch up with him.

"This is it…" he muttered, staring down at the corpse of a fifteen-year old. John recoiled, alarmed.

The dead boy was a rather rounded fellow, with short dark hair and a pointed nose. He was lying, spread-eagled at the foot of a high wall, and, were it not for his broken neck; John would have thought him to be sleeping.

"Do you think that, maybe….this could have been a suicide-" John stopped when he saw Sherlock shaking his head.

"Nope, this was Moriarty. I've seen this boy in the corridors. He's always surrounded by friends, so that is a dead give-away that this is a murder."

"You mean, he was pushed?"

"Not pushed, exactly. More, frightened into falling, I suspect. Look, plenty of foliage on that side of the wall, perfect for concealment. Jim must have been lying in wait for an ideal victim, then leapt out…" he kneeled down to examine the corpse. "Just as I thought…pressure marks on the neck. Moriarty grabbed his neck, the boy slipped off the wall, and then his neck got broken…"

John nodded. "So, do you reckon we're the first ones to see the body, after Moriarty, of course?"

"Yep…Otherwise, the school would have been alerted. Now…" he gently placed his fingertip in the blood running from the victim's neck, and, to John's horror, sucked it off after a few moments. "Still fresh…The incident can't have happened more than ten minutes ago…"

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a message inscribed on the wall, seemingly in the dead boy's blood.

"Um…Sherlock?"

"What?" he snapped, glancing up at him. Then he saw what John was looking at. Written across the bricks was "Row, Row, Row Your Boat". He looked at it for a few moments, before murmuring almost disapprovingly "Now, this is just too easy…"

"I don't get it…" John stared hard at the grim rhyme.

" Boats? Water? " Sherlock prompted.

"Ah! The pool!"

"Thank you, John…Now, let's go!"

The two boys sped across the campus, dodging the sudden clusters of students who had emerged, presumably travelling to their next lesson. Perspiration was beading on their foreheads by the time they reached the entrance to the swimming pool. The surrounding area reeked of chlorine, making John feel faintly nauseous. Sherlock hung back for a brief moment, as if fearful of what he might find inside. His hand wavered over the door handle, before he resolutely shoved the door open, and hared inside. The pool was stiflingly hot, and John could barely keep up with Sherlock as he pounded through the complex. John shouted out a warning as his friend reached the slippery tiles, but Sherlock didn't hear him, and continued to charge across the floor, until his feet encountered a particularly slick patch. Arms flailing wildly, as if in a slapstick comedy, he tumbled into the water with a colossal splash. John guffawed as he watched his friend struggled out of the pool, wearing a look strikingly similar to an angry kitten.

"Not a word of this to Mycroft…" he growled, but the statement was not reinforced by the fact he was soaked to the skin and shivering. John snorted again, though stopped suddenly when he realized he was not the only one laughing.

"Oh, jolly good show, Sherly…"

Sherlock spun around sharply and took an automatic step forward.

"Oh… and you've brought Johnny Boy along, too! How nice…"

"Oh, bog off, Jimmy….John, get away from here…"

"I'm staying here!" John replied firmly

"Then he'll kill us both!" Sherlock protested.

"Oh, yes…."Jim smiled "And…you know what?" He walked forward, leaned in, and whispered in Sherlock's ear: I always keep my promises, Mr Holmes..."

Sherlock went pale, and then stared hard at Jim, who did exactly the same. It had always been clear to John that Sherlock was the most observant twelve-year-old on the planet, but now it occurred to him that Moriarty might be just as vigilant. It was almost as if each boy was glowering at their mirror image.

"Jim….People have died…"

Moriarty gave him a disdainful look. "That's what people DO! You can't expect to stop everyone from dying; you can't play at being God, Sherly…And I thought you didn't care, anyway."

"I don't care….but, unlike you, I'd never stoop to the level of a petty murderer…You're just sick, Jimmy."

"Filthy hypocrite….How many eyeballs have you dissected this week?" Jim challenged

"Just two…" Sherlock admitted. "They belonged to a sheep!" he objected, upon seeing John's wary gaze.

"See what I mean, Johnny? He's a complete psychopath!" Moriarty grinned triumphantly.

"Don't talk to him!" Sherlock stepped in front of John, shielding him from Moriarty's demonic implication. "Not Psychopath….Sociopath." he corrected Jim.

"This is getting boring…I reckon I'd better make things a little more stimulating…." He fingered his jeans pocket, before pulling out something that John couldn't see. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock.

"What? What is it?" John couldn't stand the suspense, and quickly thrust his friend aside. Jim grinned a deeply unsettling grin, then raised his hand and hurled a glittering silver object directly at John. Suddenly, the boy felt himself flung through the air, tumbling headfirst into the swimming pool. Completely submerged in water, John could not make sense of the muffled conversation happening above the surface. He frog-kicked to the shallows, bursting from the water and sucking in a huge lungful of air. Glancing in the direction of the two boys, he saw Jim's head thrown back in gales of laughter. Sherlock's fists were clenched, and his fringe clung to a chalk-white forehead, shining with sweat.

"Well, I'll see you around, Sherly…" Jim waved jovially, before turning on his heels and skipping towards the exit. "Or not…" he flashed a smirk towards his rival, then slammed the door shut behind him. Sherlock stood, rooted to the spot, his eyes glazed over.

Still in the pool, John waded through the water towards the siding, where his friend was positioned in unnerving silence.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you all right?"

Sherlock said nothing, but gave a small grunt, before collapsing to the floor, cracking his head on the tiles in the process. John screamed in terror, thrashing through the water and hauling himself onto the edge. He was at his friend's side in an instant, recoiling at the sight of a knife at least three inches long embedded in Sherlock's shoulder, missing his heart by mere centimetres.

"'m bleeding, John…" he murmured thickly

"No shit, Sherlock!" John said to himself, glancing at his already blood-stained hands. Gore blossomed over the detective's torn shirt, dripping grotesquely down his body. Yet more bodily fluids matted his curls, seeping across the floor in a revolting river. The blade was deep in his shoulder, so that only the handle was visible.

"It hurts…Why is it hurting?" Sherlock groaned. John could hardly believe how stupid his friend was being-He had a dagger in him, for God's sake! The metallic odour of blood was making him sick, and the fact that it was his best friend's lifeblood made it all ten times worse. Repulsed by what he was about to do, John shot Sherlock and rueful look, before grasping the handle of the knife firmly in a palm sticky with his friend's blood. Realizing what John was going to do, Sherlock gave a tiny nod, but John could sense the fear in him like a knife in his own heart. Closing his eyes, and gritting his teeth, John tugged hard at the dagger. Sherlock let out a terrible, drawn-out scream as the blade was dragged out of his shoulder, before falling back onto the tiles, a mixture of sweat and tears covering his face. If John had not known beforehand, he would have never guessed that Sherlock's shirt was actually white: So much blood had soaked into the material that now it was scarlet, and the fluids did not stop there. Thinking quickly, John tore his friend's shirt off, in order to get a good look at the wound. He was not surprised to see every rib in Sherlock's body, and wondered if he had been entirely truthful when telling John when he's last ate. His form was not exactly muscular -on the contrary, it was emaciated and frail-, but, dear God, was it beautiful! And, had it not been for the situation, John would have said so…but, with the prospect of a now semi-conscious Sherlock bleeding to death in front of him, he quickly decided against the idea, and instead turned his attention to the ragged laceration on his friend's shoulder blade that was still oozing blood even now. It suddenly occurred to John that, even with substantial medicinal knowledge, a boy such as himself would be highly unlikely to be able to save a person's life after they had lost this much blood. What he really needed was a qualified doctor. John made to seek medical help, but a feeble hand on his wrist made him freeze in his tracks.

"Don't leave me, John…" Sherlock whimpered, looking less like a detective and more like a frightened boy than ever. John was shocked at how weak his voice sounded, but he managed a pitying smile. "You really are stupid sometimes… You know that don't you?"

"I-I did it…for you…" he breathed, every word taking enormous effort. His fingers slackened around John's wrist, and as he looked up at John, the latter could see tears clinging to his eyelashes. "John….John, I…." he began, but he was cut off by a great shuddering sigh, his eyelids sliding forwards as it passed.

"Sherlock? Aw, come on! Stop it!" John shook his friend's shoulder firmly. "I really don't have time for this!" he growled, barely disguising the panic in his voice. He clutched his friend's limp wrist, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. John let out an agonised howl as he realised his friend….his best friend…was dead. Never again would he hear Sherlock's silky tones patronising everyone who walked past. Never again would he find Sherlock conducting bizarre experiments with animal entrails. Never again would he feel Sherlock's long fingers caressing his cheek, feel Sherlock's gentle lips touching his own….It was all gone, all thanks to that bastard Moriarty! Glancing down, he saw the knife, still glistening with his friend's blood. John pondered. Nothing was stopping him….It would be so easy just to…..No! He wouldn't give Moriarty the satisfaction of knowing he had broken John beyond repair. Instead, he gripped the thing that had taken his world from him, and with all his might, hurled the glittering blade as far as he could. It spun through the air before landing, point down in the turquoise waters and sinking to the bottom of the pool.

"Oh, Sherlock…." He murmured, gazing down at the corpse. "What have I done?"

Suddenly , John heard footsteps slapping against the tiles. He stood up numbly, and wandered towards it's source: Greg Lestrade was skidding around the corner.

"I heard raised voices…" he explained, panting a little. "What's up?" he enquired, seeing John's forlorn expression.

"Greg…Greg, Sherlock's….He's…dead…." he finally whispered.

"NO!" Greg bellowed in disbelief. "John…..This is Sherlock we're talking about! He can't be…He just can't!" he added fiercely, shoving John aside and racing to the body. "No…no,no,no!" he repeated, as if it would make his words true. "You ARSE, Moriarty!" he roared, hoping somehow Jim would hear him.

Through his silent tears, John felt a hand on his shoulder. The blurred outline of Mycroft shimmered into view. He didn't even bother asking how the hell the older Holmes had got here.

"Help him…." John pleaded, but Mycroft did not reply, but simply wore an expression of dignified grief. He was suddenly struck by how utterly unconvincing it was. "Go on, you bastard, HELP HIM!" Mycroft shook his head gravely. "You selfish, foul, repugnant PIG!" John snarled. "Your brother…YOUR OWN BROTHER IS DEAD! And you just stand there, pretending to look wretched….he laughed softly. "You hated him, didn't you? You just couldn't wait to be rid of him, to stop him cluttering up your perfect world…Well, congratulations! He's gone….And he's never coming back…."

"John, I understand what you must be feeling at the moment, but…."

"What? Gonna tell me that everything happens for a reason? That he deserved to die?"

"I never said…."

"You didn't say it, you implied it!"

"John…You obviously care very deeply about him…"

"You're wrong…." John growled. "I don't…..I don't care about anything anymore…..Not without him…." Blinking back tears, John thrust Mycroft aside and hurtling from the pool, kicking the door open and crashing outside. Ignoring the sudden torrent of rain that seemed to have arrived with his mourning, He made his way over to a flight of metal stairs, trainer soles clanging as he ascended. After climbing the final treads, he found himself on the flat roof of the science block. He sat heavily on the tiles, letting his wet hair fall across his tear-streaked face. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing was ever going to be the same. Not without his Sherlock. Not without him.