Author's Note: Hey all, I know I promised this chapter for yesterday – but the hen-do overran slightly! Nevertheless I've been writing all day and this is the result. I'd love to know what you think, the plot is starting to gather strength now. The following chapters are going to be incredibly dark and angsty and the rating will go up to an 'M' fairly soon. I hope you enjoy this chapter, it was fun to write (although it's horrible)

Chapter Four

Surprise

John's alarm wakes him from a restless sleep at seven o'clock. Since it is a Saturday he whacks it into silence and lies in bed, thinking. He still can't wrap his mind around what can have happened to Sherlock since he left him yesterday morning and when he saw him again last night. That something happened is obvious, even to him. He doesn't need Sherlock's genius to figure that out. Sherlock lashed out at him like a wounded animal backed into a corner. John is clever enough to work out that it was nothing he had done. Or perhaps it was. After all, they have been bickering and arguing more than is usual lately. And sometimes he has caught Sherlock looking at him with a distinctly odd expression.

John sighs and rolls over in bed, staring at the gap in his curtains which is letting the early dawn light filter through. He did call Sherlock a freak, but surely Sherlock understood that it was said in a moment of temper and not meant.

At about half past eight he sighs, swings his legs out of bed, wraps a dressing gown around him and heads downstairs for breakfast. He was sure it would be expecting too much to see Sherlock up and about, and of course, it is.

He'd heard him stamping around in his room for quite awhile last night, but at about three o'clock in the morning things had gone quiet. John had had to draw on every ounce of strength he had not to go up there and see if his flatmate was alright. A feeling of resentment bubbles through him. Why should he have to cater to Sherlock's every whim? Why should he feel bad and guilty because Sherlock had returned home in a thoroughly nasty mood and bitten his head off?

John allows this feeling to simmer inside him as he makes his habitual cup of tea and fixes his breakfast. By the time he has finished his cereal the tiny flicker of resentment has flared into anger. He throws his bowl and mug down on the counter in the kitchen, knocking a test-tube filled with God knows what off the side in the process. For a second he stares at it guiltily. Sherlock has been tending to that test-tube over the past few days with all the love and attention someone would usually give to a newborn baby.

Freak.

The horrible thought crosses his mind before he can help it. Feeling angrier than ever he thunders up to Sherlock's bedroom and bangs on the door.

'Sherlock!'

There is no answer. Sherlock is either passed out asleep or ignoring him. Given their fight last night and the fact that Sherlock very rarely sleeps, John is disposed to assume it is the latter. Well... he is done caring about what Sherlock does anymore.

'I'm going out! We need to get food in and I suppose I'll be the one paying for it... again.' Still, no answer. John punches the side of the wall and immediately regrets it as pain flares through his knuckles.

'Fine! If you're going to act like a spoiled child, that's fine! I'll see you later.'

XXXXXXXX

Sherlock, lying awake on his bed, hears John's little tirade and sighs. Really he should have known it was too good to last, he should have known John would get tired of him eventually. What makes it almost unbearable is the fact that John has come to mean so much to him over the past few months. He doesn't understand how others can do this. How they can open themselves up to hurt and pain so often in pursuing relationships. John Watson is the only person he has actually allowed himself to care about, the only person with the power to deeply hurt him.

He is lucky that he is a skilled actor and John's powers of deduction are small. Otherwise he is sure he would have been found out by now. And having John find out about how he feels about him is something that can never happen. He is not sure his mind could stand up to John's inevitable rejection.

Stupid he thinks to himself. Stupid, stupid. How on earth could he have let himself get into this situation? It would be so much easier if he was a sociopath, if he truly didn't have emotions. In Sherlock's experience, emotions merely cloud your mind and lead to trouble. The first is unthinkable. The second he can really do without.

Eventually he hears the front door slam, and he leaps up from the bed and peers out the window. Sure enough he can see John stride down the pavement towards the bus stop, a couple of carrier bags in his hand. The ache in his chest starts up again.

Stop it. Forget John. Think about the case. The case. What is Moriarty thinking?

On the spur of the moment he decides to take John's advice and get out of the flat for a bit. Who knows, it might even help him think.

Forty-Five Minutes Later

'Well, that was pointless,' Sherlock mutters to himself as he lets himself into the apartment. Going for a walk was not a good idea. His brain appears to have gone into some kind of meltdown and he found that everything irritated him while outside. He unwraps his scarf from his neck and flings it in the direction of the clothes-hook, where, by some miracle, it stays. The apartment is cold and he decides to leave his coat on for awhile, fingering a safety pin the pocket as he leaps up the stairs.

Entering the living room he pauses.

What's wrong? What's different? Something is, he can tell that immediately. He stands stock-still while he surveys the room, looking for what is out of place. Suddenly his eyes latch onto John's laptop, standing open on the table.

That wasn't open before I left... it was shut down.

He drops his scarf and coat onto the floor and takes a step forward. From this angle he can see that something is playing on the screen. If someone had entered the apartment, Mrs Hudson would know.

'Mrs Hudson?' he calls out in a low voice, still keeping his eyes on the laptop. There is no reply. She is out, then. Whoever it was certainly chose a good time to break in. And yet there was no sign of the lock being forced and surely a laptop would be a prime item to steal. Slowly, his eyes flicking from left to right as he goes, Sherlock approaches the computer and sits down in the chair.

It's a video. It takes his mind a second to process what he's seeing. Who he's seeing.

'That's John,' he mutters, drumming his fingers on the table. The video is playing what is clearly a live feed of John doing the shopping at the supermarket. Right at this minute he is standing with his hands on his hips, the trolley standing next to him, staring at a row of tinned goods, obviously choosing which one to select. Sherlock sees him bite his lip... sees his blue eyes dart from left to right as he scans the rows. 'What the hell?'

'Surprise!'

Sherlock jumps from his seat, spinning around to stare at the archway leading through to the kitchen. A small, slender man stands there, one dark eyebrow crooked in amusement, brown eyes glittering. He smiles as Sherlock stares at him and walks forward a few steps. Sherlock automatically backs away slightly.

'I am sorry for just barging in on you like this Sherlock. I know it's very rude of me. But you see, I had a suspicion that you wouldn't open the door if I were to knock.'

Sherlock recovers his self-possession a little and folds his arms across his chest, glaring at Moriarty.

'Your suspicion would have been correct,' he snaps out, wondering what on earth he is going to do next. Thank God John is out at the supermarket and so out of harm's way. Which reminds him... 'What's this on the laptop? Why are you playing a video of John shopping?'

With Moriarty he knows it is best to get straight to the point. Otherwise they could spend hours dodging and dancing around each other.

Moriarty claps his hands together in delight. 'Oh, but this is brilliant! Sherlock Holmes doesn't know what's going on!'

Sherlock frowns. 'I simply fail to see how John doing a food shop has any relevance to...'

'Slowly, slowly Sherlock. Let's take one thing at a time, shall we? This is merely the next step in our little game. Except I may have been a tad naughty.' Moriarty's face crinkles into what is obviously supposed to be a look of faux contrition. 'I may have cheated a teensy bit.'

Sherlock glances from the laptop to Moriarty and back again. Just at this crucial moment his brain seems to have failed him. The sight of John on the video is distracting him and clouding his judgement. He just can't seem to understand the significance of the video, or what Moriarty is planning. And this puts him in a very vulnerable position. Moriarty has changed the rules. That much is obvious. So far their little game has been played out at a distance, apart from the incident at the pool. But even then Moriarty had not been alone... there had been as much chance of killing him as there would have been had he been his usual distant self.

Idly he wonders if he could take Moriarty out right now. True, it would mean a premature end to the game which wouldn't be much fun at all. But Moriarty looks like he is alone, even if he does act supremely confident as if he doesn't have anything to fear from the consulting detective. Sherlock's mind flashes to John's gun. If he could just get the gun then he would be in the superior position. Where did John leave it? He wouldn't have taken it to the supermarket with him...

Aha... the cushion on the sofa. You stashed it there when Mrs Hudson came up and interrupted you shooting the wall.

Slowly Sherlock starts to move towards the sofa – casually, as though he is unaware he is doing so. Moriarty watches him calmly, disinterestedly, and then glances around at the living room.

'Dear, dear, you do make a lot of mess, don't you? I wonder how John can stand it. Or perhaps that is why you and he have been arguing a lot recently. Trouble in paradise?'

Sherlock stops, momentarily distracted from his aim of retrieving the gun from under the cushion.

'How on earth would you know anything about it Moriarty?' His voice is bored and lazy, almost his usual insolent drawl as if he couldn't care less about the answer, but his mind is racing. How would Moriarty know he and John had been arguing more recently? Could he have bugged the apartment without them noticing? Impossible. I notice everything. He couldn't have missed something that big and important. Could he?

Moriarty's grin stretches wider, almost resembling the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. 'Oh, wouldn't you like to know Sherlock. But I'm not going to tell you.'

Sherlock reaches the sofa. Swiftly, gracefully, he grabs the gun from under the cushion and spins around to point it at Moriarty. 'That's enough, Moriarty,' he murmurs, glad that he has the situation under control again. Perhaps now his mind will be able to function at its usual impossible high-speed.

Moriarty does not look surprised or worried in the slightest about having a gun pointed in his face. He raises his hands in mock surrender.

'Oooh, you caught me!' he giggles in his high-pitched Irish accent. Abruptly the laughing expression drops from his face, reminding Sherlock again how quickly he can switch moods. Now he is glowering and he lowers his hands. 'Or not. You can fire that gun Sherlock, if you wish, but I would advise against it.'

'Oh really? Why... because you'll be disappointed in me?'

'Oh, I'd definitely be disappointed, yes. An end to the game – and just when we were having so much fun. But no, I advise you against firing that gun in your best interests, actually.'

'My best interests? I can assure you, Moriarty... there are other games I can play. I don't need you to save me from boredom.'

'Well maybe, maybe not. But if you really want to see how firing that gun would affect you Sherlock, I suggest you take a walk back to the laptop and have a look at the video. Don't worry... I'm not going anywhere. This is going to be fascinating.'

Sherlock pauses for a second and then moves back to the computer, making sure to keep the gun aimed at Moriarty the entire time. Swiftly he glances down at the screen, before raising his eyes to his arch-enemy again. A second. That's all he needed to understand the situation. John is still shopping, now selecting tomatoes by the looks of it. But there was something different to last time. Just for the briefest moment, Sherlock saw the circular flash of red hovering on John's jacket... just above his heart.

The gun wavers before he regains enough control to hold it steady. He is caterpaulted back into the past, to the scene beside the pool. How he felt when he had seen John decked out in all that semtex. Fear. Pure fear, an emotion he has hardly ever felt, and never for himself.

'How?' is all he can manage to croak out, unable to stop himself glancing back down at the video. The red dot has disappeared but Sherlock knows what he saw.

Moriarty laughs gaily, throwing his head back. 'Oh, I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say, I am a powerful man, Sherlock. I have fingers in many pies... you'd be astounded at the things I can do. Yes, even you, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. But I think now, you begin to understand the situation. Yes... yes, I can see you do. You don't think I missed the fear in your eyes just now? Only there for a second but as clear as anything. Excellent.'

'What exactly is it that you want, Moriarty? Do you even know? Or are you just doing this for no reason?'

'Oh, there's a reason. But I shan't reveal it to you just yet.' Moriarty smiles again, showing Sherlock his pearly white teeth, wanders over to the sofa, sits down and flings one leg over the other casually. 'I took the liberty of making myself at home while you were out on your walk. I hope you don't mind. I actually found something rather interesting. I had a quick peek... you know I'm so dreadfully nosy and it made such fascinating reading.'

Sherlock's stomach drops as he sees Moriarty pull a slim black leather notebook from his jacket pocket and wave it at Sherlock. His journal. How did Moriarty find his journal? It had been hidden...

'Very pedestrian of you really. Disappointingly so. A journal?' Moriarty snorts in derision. 'Still, I have to admit it has come in very useful.' He eyes Sherlock disdainfully, contempt shining out of his eyes. Sherlock suspects that he is, for the first time, seeing Moriarty showing a genuine kind of emotion. 'A sociopath who cares. What is the world coming to?' He flips the journal open and begins reading excerpts aloud.

'John and I cooked dinner together today.' Moriarty raises his eyes to Sherlock a strange horrible light dancing in his eyes. 'Awwww. John was flushed and breathing hard, and for some reason he was endlessly fascinating to me... John and I have had another fight... he has seen me, and he wants to leave.' Moriarty's voice is mocking. 'You're breaking my heart here, Sherlock... but look, there's more. This is the best part. Moriarty can never know exactly how important John is to me.'

Sherlock is frozen in place, unable to speak, move or take any other kind of decisive action. Moriarty knows. He knows everything, all of Sherlock's innermost feelings, everything he has tried to hide. And he knows about John. Sherlock has just handed him the most crucial weapon of all.

Moriarty is gazing at Sherlock, tapping one finger against his chin, a twisted smile on his lips. 'You know, when I first came up with this idea it was just another little game... innocent and fun for both parties. But now... now it's a whole new ballgame! This has turned out better than I ever expected!'

Sherlock forces himself to speak, although when the words come they sound distant and unconnected, as though it is not him talking. 'I suppose you're going to kill John, aren't you? You're predictable like that. You're going to kill him and then watch me fall apart.'

Moriarty leaps up from the sofa and Sherlock instinctively backs away a little. Moriarty's face is flushed with a sudden fury.

'I am not predictable! You actually think I want John? John Watson? One of the dullest people on the planet? No, no, no. My target from the beginning has been you, Sherlock. The one other person I know of who can challenge me, compete with my intelligence. The sociopath versus the psychopath.' Moriarty grimaces in distaste. 'Only now it turns out you are not a sociopath at all. No matter. It will merely give this particular game an edge.'

Sherlock attempts desperately to control and manage his growing fear and panic. It will not do to fall apart at this point in the proceedings. The main aim now, the only aim, is to stop John from getting hurt. Nothing else matters. If that means he has to play along with Moriarty for now, then he will.

'And what game is it we're playing now?' He forces his voice to again sound cold and bored, something he has had a lot of practice at. Only Mycroft and John would have a chance at guessing how he is truly feeling. John.

Moriarty smiles again, a smile without any warmth, humour or feeling. A smile which chills even Sherlock Holmes. The smile of a true pyschopath.

'We're playing the endgame now, Sherlock. I've had my fun with you. This game we're playing now...' Slowly Moriarty advances towards Sherlock and the detective finds that he is rooted to the spot, unable to move away from those sparking brown eyes. '... this game we're playing now is called "Break Sherlock". You know it isn't going to be enough for me to simply kill you. Boring. Dull.' The last two words come out like a whipcrack. Sherlock hears himself saying those very words in almost the exact same tone of voice and winces. Moriarty is right up close to him now, and even though the man is smaller than him, somehow he seems to tower over Sherlock. 'We're going to see how much it takes to break you. And the best part is this. We're going to leave it up to John to find you... if he can. We'll see how good a teacher you were to him in the "art of deduction",' Moriarty makes quotes in the air with his fingers. 'And also, of course, if he cares enough for you to make an effort, which, given the past few days – I somehow doubt.' Moriarty cocks his head to one side. 'It's sad really. One of the only people who you actually care about, who you have systematically pushed away for days and who now probably hates your guts... he's your only chance.' Sherlock glances down at the video again. John is in the bakery section, seemingly undivided between white or brown bread. He still looks angry and annoyed, presumably from their latest fight. Moriarty follows Sherlock's gaze. 'I'm not a complete monster, Sherlock...' He appears to rethink that statement. 'Well, actually, yes, I am... but I will give you a phone call. One call. Don't tell him anything is wrong or bang. Doctor Watson's dead.'

Sherlock eyes him warily, unsure as to whether this is a serious offer. Moriarty backs off a little and stands a few paces away from Sherlock, in a position where he can still see the video.

'Go ahead. Make the call. No longer than two minutes. Then we're leaving. And put it on loudspeaker. I want to check you're not going to cheat.'

Slowly Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. Still watching Moriarty he hits speed-dial one, switches to loudspeaker mode and holds the phone to his ear, transferring his gaze from the psychopath to the screen. Perhaps John will realize how unlike him it is to call instead of text and will realize that something is wrong.

The dial-tone starts up in his ear. Onscreen he watches John pat around in his pockets, clearly trying to locate his phone. He retrieves it and Sherlock winces as John checks the caller ID and frowns very obviously.

'Yes? What is it, Sherlock?' His body language on the screen is very telling of his annoyance and anger. His whole torso has tensed and his free hand has clenched into a slight fist. Sherlock, for once in his life, is lost for words. He doesn't know what to say... what he can say.

'I...'

'You'd better have a good reason for calling me. I swear, if it's because you want me to come home immediately and hand you something which is sitting across the room from you I will literally...'

'No, no it's not that.'

'Then what is it? I'm trying to do the food shop here, so that we can both eat. Which reminds me, do you want white or brown bread?'

Sherlock blinks. 'Er... I...'

John huffs impatiently and on the video Sherlock can see him frown with frustration. 'Come on Sherlock, put that great mind of yours to work.' The sarcasm is evident in his tone. 'Brown or white?'

'Erm... white, please.' Absently he thinks that John will probably pick up brown regardless, due to the fact that John is very health conscious and knows that brown bread is better for you. There is also the possibility that he will choose brown just to spite Sherlock. He would understand completely if he did. He watches John's hand hesitate over a brown loaf, then sees him sigh and fling a couple of white loaves into the trolley. Something hitches in his chest and he finds it suddenly difficult to breathe.

'Right, okay, white it is. You know it's bad for you, don't you?'

'I, yes, I do. Thank you, John.' Something in his tone must have caught John's attention, even in the midst of his bad mood. He sees the doctor relax his hand slightly and his expression becomes momentarily gentler.

'Sherlock, are you alright?' Sherlock hesitates. What on earth should he say? 'Sherlock?'

Moriarty waves a hand as if urging him to speak and Sherlock sees his other hand depress something in his pocket. Onscreen the little red dot appears over John's chest again and Sherlock's heart almost stops.

'I... I'm fine. I just...'

'Well, what did you want?' The impatience is back. Sherlock can understand why he feels frustrated. From John's point of view it must seem as though Sherlock has disturbed him yet again for no reason. There are so many things he wants to say, suddenly, now that he is faced with what is very possibly his last ever conversation with the doctor. But there is nothing he can say. Not without ensuring John's death. The dot still hovers and Sherlock sees a slight movement of Moriarty's fingers as if he is about to press whatever it is in his pocket which will end John's life.

'Nothing,' he says abruptly, desperately, for the lack of anything better to say.

'Nothing?' John's voice is resigned and flat. 'You... Sherlock, Jesus... okay, fine. Fine. I'll see you later.'

'John, I...'

But the line has gone dead. On the video Sherlock sees John punch the end-call button and shove the phone back into his pocket, scowl firmly back in place.

Moriarty steps forward... the little dot on John's chest has vanished. Sherlock's nemesis mock pouts.

'Oh dear. That didn't go very well at all, did it? I don't know about you, but I don't really fancy your chances much. I'm not even sure he's going to bother to find you.'

And for once, Sherlock finds himself reluctantly agreeing with Moriarty, and the pain in his chest flares. But just in case, just in case, he needs to do something which will give John a clue as to what has happened to him. But he's out of time and there's nothing... his mind suddenly flashes to a possible solution. The pin. The safety pin in the coat pocket. But Moriarty would need to be distracted...

'You're not going to leave the laptop running that programme are you? You'd better make sure it's all off or John's going to know as soon as he logs on what has happened.' Good. His voice sounds even and hardly bothered at all. Moriarty glances sharply at him.

'Good call. I might even have forgotten about that, what with all the excitement.' Moriarty walks over to the computer and Sherlock slips his hand into his coat pocket, fumbling his fingers to get the clasp of the pin unlatched. It takes a few seconds as his palms have become a little slippery with sweat, but finally he manages it. Moriarty is hunched over the laptop, clearly confident that Sherlock will not go anywhere while John is still in possible danger. Sherlock takes advantage of his momentary distraction to work the sharp point of the pin into the centre of his palm. The pain is sharp and it focuses his mind. Swiftly he works it deeper into his skin making sure that the flesh will be broken and torn as much as is possible with a safety-pin point.

Moriarty flips the laptop lid shut and stands up, stretching his hands above his head.

'Well, it's been fun but we must be on our way.' He bows sardonically to Sherlock. 'After you. Put the gun back under the cushion. There's a car out front. Get into the back and no misbehaving now.'

Sherlock shrugs and walks over to the sofa, placing the gun beneath the cushion, being careful to pick the cushion up with his fingertips, making sure his injured palm doesn't make contact with the material. He crosses the room then and leaves, deliberately leaning his injured hand against the doorframe as he passes it. Moriarty doesn't even glance that way. For extra measure he makes sure to open the front door with his bleeding palm pressed hard against the doorknob. Hopefully there will be enough blood for John to notice. Hopefully. He gets into the back of the dark car waiting at the curb and Moriarty slides in beside him. The car pulls away from the pavement and a few seconds later turns the corner. Gone.

Okay, well, I hope you all enjoyed it... maybe? Please let me know what you think, honestly it does help encourage me to write more. xxx