AN: what's up readers. So today I'm posting this new chapter, and asking a question that one reviewer (Katiexx) asked: "r u writing all 6 episodes in this series"?

Well, Katiexx, I'm not sure. What about you lot? Do you want more? Or are you satisfied with these three? I have the ideas, but I'd like to see if it's worth doing first!

Thanks as always to my INCREDIBLY bust beta, sharkbyonly. We've both been snowed under (PUN ALERT - because it's snowing outside) with work, so sorry about the delay! More to come, as always.

Read and review, naturally! I want to hear your theories and thoughts ;) - B.

"Yes, before you ask, it is Ian Monkford's blood," Lestrade mentioned with a doleful gaze, as he surveyed the abandoned car and wondered, exactly, how many minutes of the six hours they'd been given to solve the case they had left. Well – how long Sherlock had left. It was his case, after all, from what the mystery caller had said. This didn't sit right with the DI at all, but he would remain loyal to Sherlock: the poor bastard would need his help, and if someone's life was on the line, he would happily oblige.

Lestrade wasn't alone in just watching as Sherlock disrupted the crime scene, unable to really do anything to stop him as he clambered into the car, not even bothering to don his gloves first. John watched, feeling quite cold, and a little bit helpless.

Staring grimly at the splattered blood on the car seat, he almost didn't hear Donovan preaching at him about how he should live his life – not that he much cared anyway, her not knowing the first thing about him and everything, but it was probably polite to acknowledge her presence. Sherlock wasn't going to, so he'd have to.

"You should get a hobby – model trains or something . . ." She suggested idly, fiddling with a pad of paper that had substantially fewer notes than John thought it should do.
"Can you fill me in?" John asked Lestrade, pointedly ignoring her unhelpful recommendation. The other man nodded, and began to brief him and Sherlock – though the latter was barely listening, his eyes flitting over the seat, venturing further into the car and trying with a tiny part of his conscious thought not to get blood on his clothes. John suspected he'd just buy new ones if they got blood on them; he thought wistfully about exactly how broke he would be if he bought new clothes every time his current ones got bloodstained. It happened a lot.

"The car doesn't belong to Ian Munkford. He hired it two days ago from a company called Janus Cars, and then disappeared. He was an investment banker, but he'd been in a bit of trouble of late,"
"My guess is he owed a lot of people a lot of money – we could be looking at a hit," Donovan piped up, hoping for some form of recognition.
"Interesting . . ." Sherlock muttered, surveying the glove box. Lestrade, Donovan and John alike shared a collective startled blink, and a look of shock.
"Pardon?" Donovan asked, surprised that he'd given her what could potentially be construed as a compliment.
"Yes. Quite interesting. Anderson's stupidity must be contagious. Do try not to infect the rest of us further," Sherlock told her with an infuriating fake smile, as he backed out of the car, drew himself to his full height, and strode away.

John gaped after him, wondering what the hell he was thinking – left to apologise, he decided to instead quickly run after the sleuth. He saw him approaching a woman who was standing at the edge of the crime scene, having just been left by a junior officer. She was crying: her eyes were red, and a ragged tissue was balled up in her trembling hand.

"Mrs. Monkford?" He heard Sherlock say to her uncharacteristically quietly, and then his head bowed down. John hurried up before his friend could do any damage – or, at least, he could try and mediate said damage.
"Please, I've already talked to the police-" She pleaded, her mouth turning down at the corners with every word, and her face pale yet blotchy. She had trouble holding her voice.
"We're not-" John began, but Sherlock interrupted:
"Sherlock Holmes," He told her, holding out a hand, with a face that made John wanted to gawp. Sherlock's eyes were red, and their silver irises had turned very slightly green with the action of . . . No . . . Crying?

"I was a friend of Ian's," Sherlock sniffed, in a voice to easily rival that of the grieving widow.
"I- I never heard him mention you . . ." Mrs. Monkford told him, shaking his hand anyway and shaking her head equally vigorously.
"Really?" Sherlock frowned, another two tears rolling down his face; John almost couldn't believe this spectacle; nor could he believe that he was just standing there, doing nothing to help . . . No, no – doing nothing to stop him. He shouldn't be doing this! This is crazy!

Yet he couldn't bring himself to intervene. He told himself that Sherlock's heart was in the right place. . . Well, he said 'heart'. Probably not the word Sherlock himself would use.

"To think, I saw him the just the other day – same old Ian, not a care in the world!" Sherlock continued, with a wavering and watery voice. John restrained himself, trying not to gape.
"My husband was suffering from depression for a long time!" Mrs. Monkford said, outraged through her tears.

Suddenly, Sherlock drew himself up to his fully height, with his usual analytical gaze returning, as his eyes mechanically scanned her, and his voice dropped to his usual calm baritone:
"Really? Interesting,"

And there he was. Sherlock walked away, leaving John even more shocked, but unable to do anything but follow after him hurriedly, to quiz him on just what the hell he thought he was doing to that poor woman, toying with her like that.

"People don't like to tell you things, but they love to contradict y-" Sherlock began to explain, but he stopped. Mid-sentence; mid-stride.

John almost barrelled into him, with an angry and confused expression. He was about to complain, both about Sherlock's erratic behaviour and his treatment of the widow, but Sherlock turned around, his head twisting to the side; standing stock still but for his darting eyes. He looked like he could hear a high-frequency noise. John paled slightly: this . . . Oh God. This wasn't . . . ?

Sherlock turned to look at him, his face drawn and solemn but his eyes like those of a rabbit caught in headlights. As he studied John's face – every crevice, every feature, and had an in-depth look at his eyes – his facial muscles didn't twitch even slightly.

". . . Sherlock? Are you okay? What are you . . . ?"
Sherlock lifted his chin, still looking down at John, and then carried on walking and talking as if nothing were wrong: "- I started using the past tense, and she followed suit. A bit premature, they've only just found the body," He pointed out. John reeled at the implications.
"What, you think she's involved?" He spluttered.
"Oh yes. Mrs. Monkford knows something. She's just told us as much – well, told me as much," He added in a superior way. John just rolled his eyes.
"So, what do we do next?" He prompted, fed up of waiting for the genius to let him know in his own good time.
"Found this in the glove box. Janus Cars. A rental company," Sherlock replied, handing him a business card. John took it and had a quick look, before going to hand it back. But Sherlock had stopped again . . . What was going on? He was receiving another quizzical look, for absolutely no reason.

The sleuth cursed himself inwardly for pausing, rubbing his fingers together at the point where John's fingers had just touched his own. He put his gloves on hurriedly, ignoring John's offer of the business card back, and his questions about exactly what was happening.

He led the way to the main road to catch a cab, the drizzle wetting his inky hair as he scowled up at the sullen clouds. John grumbled and sighed all the way, telling the consulting detective you can tell my anything, you know, if there's something wrong, you can tell me, I'm here to help after all. I'm your friend, Sherlock. You can open up to me.

But that was exactly the problem.

Janus Cars had been an abundant wealth of information for Sherlock. He'd deduced that they didn't just provide cars to people, but entirely new lives. That much the bomber had already iterated, in his quick phone call with a terrified man's voice: the clue's in the name. Janus Cars. The God with two faces.

When Sherlock had asked why he'd be helping, the man had replied:
"Why does anyone do anything?"
The answer had been sufficient. Sherlock had begun to develop a theory that would mean he wouldn't fall prey to another one of the bomber's schemes.

This, he hadn't told John: as they approached the lift to the ground floor of the forensics lab, where Ian Monkford's car was situated, Sherlock decided to test his working hypothesis.

"What have you told Lestrade so far?" John asked conversationally, though he was a little disgruntled that Sherlock had refused to divulge any information to him so far as to what exactly he'd deduced from the discussion with Janus Cars' owner.

Sherlock smirked, clasping his hands behind his back as they waited for the lift to arrive. He hoped it was empty, as he looked down with a mischievous expression at the doctor.

"Don't be alarmed, John. I haven't told him anything I haven't already shared with you,"
"Yes, and that's worrying – because what I know about the case could fit onto the back of a postage stamp," John grumbled, licking his lips as Sherlock observed the way he did whenever he was considering how to put something inoffensively: "He can help. You need to tell him everything you know as soon as you know it, or he won't be able to help,"

Sherlock just sighed, and looked away from his friend, wishing he could communicate telepathically for the millionth time.

John stared at him, squinting slightly in examination: he looked . . . Distracted? He opened his mouth to ask if Sherlock was alright, but the lift doors opened first, and he strode into it in one long stride, turning to face John with a neutral expression. Stepping into the lift, John watched Sherlock's gloved hand press 'B' for basement, many floors below them.

As soon as the doors shut, though, Sherlock moved: he turned to John, took him by the coat lapels, and before the doctor knew what was happening, he was kissing the world's only consulting detective. He squeaked in an embarrassingly high-pitched way against Sherlock's lips, and pushed him off right away.
"Mm! Sher- not good!" He stammered, frowning and regarding his friend with a mixture of shock, horror and awe. "What the fuck's gotten into you?" He realised he'd actually backed away from the sleuth, feeling his hands brush against tacky plastic faux-wood panelling.

"Sorry, John. Unpleasant but necessary, I'm afraid," Drawled the detective in his usual deep voice, breathing out coolly and brushing down his clothes as if he'd done nothing out of the ordinary. He calmly tugged at the hems of his gloves, and remained silent, offering no explanation as John floundered for words.

"Necessary? Why?" John asked, still in a state of disbelief: did that actually just happen?
"You may have noticed that for the past day or so I have been behaving somewhat erratically," John snorted, but Sherlock carried on, his usual controlled demeanour easily restored. "This is because I have been experiencing an unpleasant amount of interference," He clarified, pressing two fingers to his right temple, and then flicking them away irritably.
"Yeah – skip to the point, would you?" John insisted.
"I was just – fine. I . . . Accidentally, used my psychometrics on the blood on the seat. There was exactly a pint-"
"To the point," John reiterated.
"I had to find out if you were experiencing sexual thoughts about me," Sherlock uttered quickly, yet still coolly. His cheeks hadn't even tinged red.
". . . Oh."

A pervasive silence shot through the atmosphere like a back-draft through the doorway of a burning room: super fast, and incredibly intense. As they approached their floor, Sherlock was the first to break it, gesticulating in front of himself during his monologue:
"As I was trying to say, I've grown so accustomed to using my abilities to solve crimes that I accidentally saw someone smearing the blood all over the seat – not the bloody murder I'd been expecting. The fact that there was exactly a pint of blood will suffice for the police.
"But then I started hearing these lewd thoughts. They sounded a lot like you, John – they commented on my physical appearance, and-"
"Yeah, alright," John cut in. Sherlock huffed but continued.
"The point is, I knew it was him. The bomber. I knew you'd never think in that way about me. So, it became little more than an annoyance. However, I hadn't been able to test my hypothesis in private until now – it was the final proof,"
"What, that I didn't fancy the arse off of you?" Asked John sardonically.
"You know, John, the intricate vocabulary the bomber used in the fake thoughts was mostly what gave away the fact it wasn't you. I presume you'd have been much coarser, and . . . Well . . ."

He looked down at his friend for the first time during his long-winded justification of his outburst, and knew to shut up. Now.

". . . Baser," He finished, clasping his hands behind his back once more. An awkward period of silence followed, broken comically by the lift's automated voice proclaiming proudly that it had, at long last, ended their eternal journey to the ground floor. Really, John thought, was it strictly necessary for lifts to be so bloody slow?

"Listen, mate, you're a great guy – I just don't-" John began to clarify in a low voice, as they began to walk alone down the cold cement corridor and towards the place where the car was being held.
"Married to my work, John!" Sherlock repeated his usual sentiment in an absent sing-song voice that bordered on sinister, rather than reassuring, as he'd been hoping for. Damn. Not communicating telepathically was hard and boring.

"Sherlock! Answer your bloody phone, I've been calling!" Lestrade's voice suddenly boomed from the bottom of the corridor. John bristled at the reprimand: once a soldier, always a soldier, and his response to authority would always be the same. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, about to launch a barrage of deductions at Lestrade, and manoeuvre him toward the car, regardless of what petty information he clearly had for him. If he could only read his mind, he could claim to already know the useless piece of information already, and get on with deleting-
"We've caught him,"

What?

John tensed up beside him, and it wasn't too long before he realised that he too was on edge: a cool rush of fear and shock had swept through him. Not the bomber? Not my bomber! How could he be so . . . Careless?

"I don't-" Sherlock began, but found his voice to be a little hoarser than usual, and so remained silent so as to maintain his integrity. Thankfully, for once, John was the more composed of the two:
"The bomber?" John asked, his level of surprise severely downplaying the severity of the situation, in Sherlock's opinion. It sounded almost conversational!
"Yeah. See this is why you need to answer my-"
"Lestrade," Sherlock growled, disgusted that Lestrade was using his monopoly on vital information to try to get him comply with his trivial commands. He suddenly felt a wave of self-awareness wash over him: was this what everyone else always felt like? Urgh, so boring!

If only he could read his mind! Frustration spread through him in savage explosions, like starbursts permeating his entire being.

. . . But if they had the bomber, then the game was over . . . The rules no longer applied . . . Surely the rules no longer applied? He could use his powers?

No. Too much of a risk. He'd already seen the bomber's go at 'humiliating', which hadn't been an understatement, and did not want to see his attempt at 'worse'.

"We need you at the station. He says he'll only talk to you," Lestrade informed them, with a cold look at Sherlock. Lestrade was fiercely loyal to Sherlock, but this time round the consulting detective couldn't tell if the DI was directing his anger towards the perpetrator, or him. Possibly he was angry at himself for not catching the guy sooner.
"I see . . ." Sherlock muttered, stopping for a moment with a detached expression on his face. John peered up at him expectantly, waiting for him to answer in some meaningful capacity, but seeing nothing on his friend's face that indicated a conclusion to his thoughts.

Sherlock would have to conduct the interview, then. John cast his mind back to when he'd first met Sherlock: he'd made him interview the amnesia victim, while swanning off to associate with evidence that was a little less human. Perhaps he was merely anxious about interviews? . . . Could they be the chink in Sherlock's crime-fighting armour? He was undoubtedly brilliant with evidence, crime scenes, and deductions, but he simply didn't have the people skills to associate with victims and perpetrators in a neutral environment. So much John assumed, anyway.

Silence stuck in the ears of the three gathered men like wet cotton wool, as Sherlock remained speechless and quiet. A drip, drip, drip from the roof echoed through the cold room, as the atmosphere built. John tugged his jacket tighter around himself, as the contrast in heat between the lift and the garage became too much to just ignore.

"Listen," Lestrade began at last, but his voice sounded more soft and concerned than it had a few seconds hence. "Have you considered-"
"Probably," Snapped the detective, though it was more absent than John would have been comfortable with, and his eyes didn't even return fully to his companions, still looking at an arbitrary point on the far side wall.
"No, Sherlock – have you considered that maybe the bomber's just – well, playing a game with you? This case . . . It doesn't sit right with me. It feels, like – like he's leading you into a . . . I don't know. It's just – the pointing out crimes, leading you straight to them – even calling you up to help? It's not right, is all . . . I've been on the force for longer than I'd care to confess-"
Sherlock sighed loudly at Lestrade's mention of his experience, but the DI persisted:
"-and it just seems like he's helping with ulterior motives,"
"Good Samaritan," Sherlock agreed.
"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?" Lestrade asked incredulously.
"Bad Samaritan," Sherlock quipped back. John relaxed a little, as Sherlock drew his eyes at length back to the conversation at hand, and displayed some of his much-missed wit. Well, John missed it – it just wasn't right to have Sherlock without the mockery. It was like tea without milk: still passable, but a little unpleasant in comparison.

I don't think many people would agree with me on that.

"Did you solve the case?" asked Lestrade, as they all moved wordlessly towards the lift, all knowing that their next move would be to get to Scotland Yard for the much-anticipated interview.
"Oh, yes. I think you'll find Mr. Ian Monkford in Columbia," Sherlock drawled, tugging his coat collar up and tucking his hands into his pockets with a smirk, and no sign of wanting to explain.
"Columbia?" Lestrade asked in disbelief.
"I'm sure Sherlock will explain on the ride over. Won't you, Sherl?"
John sounded as if he was asking a question, but Sherlock noticed an undertone of command in there somewhere. He bristled, sneering slightly at both the suggestion and the abbreviation of his name; he had to acquiesce, though, that he owed John one after the incident in the lift.

Well. One or several, he thought, and smirked to himself as they departed. He really hadn't taken well to it, after all. Interesting . . .

Leaning towards the two-way glass, Sherlock squinted, narrowing his gaze on his supposed antagonist. His hands were folded tightly behind his back, as they always were whenever he felt even the slightest of insecurity trying to gnaw at his coherent, infallible mind.

At least, he used to think it was infallible, before this man invaded it and tore apart the state of inhumanity he thrived upon.

What to say! What to say to the man you had waltzed into your life and caused major inconvenience. Especially when your colleagues were still in the dark about exactly how badly affected you'd been; about the true nature of your rivalry.

The man in the plain, grey room smirked slightly. It was as if he could hear; it was definite that he'd know that Sherlock had kept his abnormality a secret from everyone in this entire building barring, of course, John, who stood at the consulting detective's shoulder. He was conflicted as to whether to touch his shoulder; whether to say something comforting; whether to wish him luck.

So, in the end, he said nothing, and just stared dumbly at the ill-shaven, dark-eyed man in the next room. His clothes appeared expensive: a lilac shirt and black trousers that were clearly a designer brand. He looked as if he were enjoying a joke that only he understood; his nonchalance, for a kidnapper and bomber, was sickening to John. This wasn't a joke. There were lives at risk.

John opened his mouth to bid his friend to speak with caution, but before he could the consulting detective had swept out of the observation room, past Lestrade – who uttered numerous cautions to him and handed him a file that was probably beyond useless – and unwaveringly entered the interview room.

The room was so totally silent that it was oppressive. The man opposite him tapped absent-mindedly on the table, eyeing him up with that ever-present smirk. Sherlock's stony expression didn't falter even for a second, as he swept into the chair opposite him. He was glad he'd taken off his coat: the room was unpleasantly warm for the time of year, and he was even starting to regret wearing his suit jacket.

He settled himself, not even looking at his interviewee for a few moments, but reviewing the file for this time. Eventually, he set it aside, popping it onto the floor and ignoring it from that point onwards.

"Anything interesting?" Asked the bomber, a hint of ridicule in his voice. Sherlock didn't say anything, pressing his palms together and staring into the dark eyes of the other man, resting his chin on his fingers: the picture of serene thought. He breathed slowly, before tilting his head to one side. It was about thirty seconds before he began properly:
"No,"
"No?" The overly-quick response was more jovial than before.
"No," Sherlock confirmed, knitting his fingers together, and pressing them into the cold surface of the table: a welcome relief from the heat of the room. The heat seemed to have no effect whatsoever on his interviewee.
"But you'd already worked out most of those things already, haven't you?" The creeping voice came at him like a serpent through long grass, potentially venomous but superficially harmless.

Sherlock sighed, giving his interviewee the onceover. He lingered at the crook of the man's elbow; his wrist; the top of his forehead.

"Nothing interesting at all, actually," Sherlock replied, sitting back suddenly and folding his arms: the picture of nonchalance.
"Oh?" The bomber asked, "Go on, then,"

Feeling well within his comfort zone, Sherlock had man right where he wanted him now. John had been concerned that he'd been wanting to avoid this interview; far from it. He didn't get performance anxiety, but he did get impatient with waiting for what he presumed would be the final act of this epic to take place.

"A typical junkie, with a profile to match. Abused as a child, self-harmed as a teenager, abused as an adult. A, B, C," Sherlock reiterated, in a bid to show the other man just how easy it was to read him.

The other man laughed, piercing the calm and collected atmosphere that Sherlock had created; marring his control.

"Tell me, why do you find your unpleasant past to hilarious?" Sherlock asked, sitting forward once more, leaning his folded arms on the table. He instantly regretted doing so, as his change in posture had indicated a desperation for information. There was a twinkle in the eye of the bomber as he replied:
"A, B, C . . . He was right . . ." The other man slapped his knee, moving suddenly from his still position from the first time; the jerking movement unnerved Sherlock slightly, but he wasn't about to be distracted. His perplexed expression warranted the bomber elaborating.

"Just like looking into a mirror, isn't it?" The other man asked. Sherlock inwardly cringed.

Yes. Yes, it was. A little too close to home. He always detached himself and his personal life from his deductions, for exactly this reason. He forgot himself in order to work as best he could at all times; it was only when someone was to point out the similarities between his own life and one of his deductions that he was forced to acknowledge them.

"That is irrelevant," Sherlock shot back coolly.
"Is it?"
"Who's, 'he'? The man you referred to?" Sherlock persisted, ignoring the dull games the other man was playing with him.
"Ahhh, see? You don't understand yet, do you? . . . Do you know how they found me, Sherlock?"
"I don't see what this has to do with-"
"An IP address. That's all it took! One IP address left unshielded, with a little too many homemade bomb chemicals associated with it, and I'm here, with you. Uncanny, isn't it?"
"That's what you get if you're stupid enough to parade your IP address about," Sherlock bit back.
"Yes – I suppose it would be, wouldn't it?" The bomber replied, his manic expression tugging at his features; they were grotesquely amused now.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, looking the bomber side on, and squinting. He was a little thrown by the sudden change in tone. It would be . . .?

"What do you . . ." Then suddenly, he realised. A cold tingle of realisation washed through him, and suddenly he broke out in the sweat that had been threatening to emerge ever since he entered the room. ". . . Oh,"
"Aha! And suddenly, he gets it!"
"You're not-"
"Of course I'm fucking not! – I was a houseboy until a few months back! I was cleaning every single day, wasting away my potential, until he came along . . . The devil truly does make work for idle hands," The other man said, sounding a little dreamy towards the end. "That stupid bitch and her fat brother can rot in hell for all I care now," He added dismissively. He paused, for just a second, before narrowing his eyes and continuing to grin: "You'd know all about being wasted, wouldn't you? In every sense of the word, he tells me-"
"Who is he?" Sherlock persisted, his voice raised and angry, his jaw clenched.

The other man just smirked. Sherlock lost his temper.

Lunging forward and across the table, he grabbed the shirt of the other man, staring deep into his dark eyes and seeing every fleck of deep, dark brown in them. There was no fear there: just amusement.

A slow, genuine smile crept across the other man's face, as Sherlock realised what he'd done and tried to control his breathing, gritting his teeth, his eyes flicking between the other man's eyes in desperation.

"You're really struggling without them, aren't you? . . . You're nothing without them," The other man whispered.

Sherlock threw the other man back, and slumped back in his chair, trying to claw back some composure with forced nonchalance:
"I don't know what you're talking about,"

The other man laughed, his happiness knowing no bounds when it came to the struggling of others.
"He said as much. He knows you so well," The other man goaded. "He knew enough about your past to cover me in the appropriate scars. It was worth it, in the end, for all he's done for me," He shrugged.
"Was it?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head. He restored the pose from before, his hands clasped together beneath his chin. "What was it he offered you? Money? No, no – too obvious," He chided himself, waving that notion away. "Has to be power. Always is, with your sort. Boring!"
"Not power . . . A power,"

Sherlock froze at this, licking his lips in a way he'd seen Doctor Watson do countless times, without understanding fully why. Until now.

"And what type of . . . Power . . . Did he offer you?"

He gave himself away, his eyes flicking ever-so-minutely to the two-way mirror. They hadn't reacted when he'd grabbed the suspect, but they were bound to question him on this aspect of the conversation. He'd have to come up with an excuse; a get-out-clause; another explanation about what a power was. He wondered if John was squirming just watching this exchange take place.

". . . Of course, they don't know about you, do they?"
"Again, I can't possibly think of what you're referring-"
"How would they react? Would they be scared? They're always scared,"
"I said, I don't understand-" Sherlock tried again, through gritted teeth.
"I don't know how you fooled them, you're a terrible liar – he said as much,"

Sherlock's upper lip curled in revulsion, and he sat forward, his entangled fingers sitting in one clumsy lump in front of him on the desk, entwining and twitching with frustration. For the last time, he growled, each word coming out separately for emphasis:
"Who is he?"

Smiling around the single word he produced after such a long period of teasing, the other man replied, relishing the look on Sherlock's face that was something between excitement, fear and resentment:
". . . Moriarty,"

Sherlock stood up suddenly, unsurprised that his rival didn't even flinch, and turned to leave.
"You're going to walk out of here, and they're going to see you differently. They're going to know what you are, from our little conversation. They'll work it out," The bomber told him calmly, in a suddenly deep, serious voice.

Sherlock turned, his hands clenched into fists and his brow furrowed, as the tempting words his brain didn't want to hear flowed from the other man's mouth, and assaulted his calm and measured mind. He didn't want to believe them, but something told him they had to be true. Even the last part:
"What . . . Did you . . . Say?" He asked, brokenly.
"You have to separate from them, or they'll kill you . . . They'll destroy you, Sherlock,"

Oh God.
It was true.
They'd know.
They'd all know.
They'd destroy him.
He was a monster.
They'd all hate him.

". . . EvenJohn,"
"Even . . . John?" Sherlock asked, blinking deliberately, confused as his eyelids fluttered like he was trying to maintain consciousness.
"Even John," The bomber confirmed, his solemn voice curling into a delighted syllable of mockery as he spoke the ex-army doctor's name.

Even

John.

AN: To write or not to write? That is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous feedback, or by ceasing writing, to end them. (You decide!)

ALSO: AN AMENDMENT. Does anyone want to know Sherlock, Mycroft and John's back-story for this Silver!Verse? Because I'm planning on making the next chapter fairly back-story heavy . . . Unless you don't want it? If you find that stuff boring then speak now, or forever hold your peace! Via review or PM, either one. Thanks! - B.