The whole week had been a complete nightmare. This whole thing with Richard Brook and his ridiculous attempt to make Sherlock Holmes into a fake was seriously pissing him off.

Things had moved quickly once they had got started. And as much as Sherlock got on his nerves sometimes with his continued underestimation of John's abilities he was still someone he considered a friend. His best friend. Plus he was in love with the hare-brained idiot. So when that smug little Superintendent had called Sherlock a freak he'd lost his head for a brief moment.

His nose had made a satisfying crack when John's fist connected with it. Shortly afterwards he found himself handcuffed to the consulting detective pressed against a car. Then Sherlock had decided to make a break for it a done a mad dash through the streets of London.

He was seriously considering setting the handcuffs alight to hell with it when he ran into Moriarty again. The smug little prick. He took a glance into the man's slimy little head and felt a little nauseous. That was his plan then, to get Sherlock alone and to threaten him into a false confession by pointing snipers at the people Sherlock cared about most and getting to commit suicide. It was a good plan, definitely safer than having them fight each other as they were fairly evenly matched in the Gift department though Moriarty had an affinity for fire that could be dangerous.

Bastard.

He had faith in Sherlock. He had seen first-hand how the man's mind worked, how his Gifts helped him to see. Right down to what somebody had for breakfast that morning. The problem was, and this is what made Moriarty's plan so brilliant that this Gift was so rare that most did not believe it existed.

Later when panic took over all rational thought, the idea that one of the snipers had gotten trigger happy and shot Mrs Hudson, someone he liked a great deal, and he'd fled from the hospital with a scathing remark in Sherlock's direction. He could at least pretend to care for once in his life. What he should have done was check what Sherlock was thinking which is why he was so angry when he was stopped halfway to Baker Street by Chaia's voice in his head.

She's fine. It was a ruse on Sherlock's part to get you away from the final confrontation.

He seethed all the way back to the hospital and then he saw his best friend standing on the roof. There was no way he would let Sherlock fall. Then there was that thrice damned phone call.

"This is my note. That's what people do isn't it leave a note."

And then Sherlock was dropping and he was running, his magic breaking loose, and he was knocked into by a bike messenger and they both went down. He caught a glimpse into the bikers mind and what he saw there shattered the wall he had put up years ago.

Fury and rage and hurt shattered his disguise at the lengths they were willing to go to, to keep him in the dark. They wanted him to think Sherlock was dead wanted to play on his grief being convincing enough that Sherlock Holmes could hunt down Moriarty's network by himself. Perhaps one of his motives was to keep John safe but the sheer gall of the concept that he was that weak to need protection was a step too far.

White light erupted throughout the entire street, originating from the bodies on the ground and time quite literally paused in its tracks. Sherlock Holmes was suspended just inches from the ground like a marionette on a string.

John Watson had fallen to the ground but it was Jayan the White who got calmly to his feet brushing dust of his clothes. He was glowing, his eyes blazed golden and he lifted himself and his flatmate high into the air unfreezing time as he went. The world below clattered to life, Mycrofts' men running into the street in confusion. In a fit of pique and genius he reached out and turned on every screen in London displaying himself and Sherlock live for the whole city to watch. This way he could both tear the consulting detective a new one but clear his name in the process.

And then he turned his body over to the King of the Gods because he couldn't bear to watch Sherlock's dace crumple.

"You dare to take me for a fool Sherlock Holmes. I am Jayan the White. I have watched the passing of centuries. I have seen civilisations burn to the ground and rebuild themselves. You think you can trick me with this absurd farce of yours. I have seen your mind and your intentions along with those of everyone in this city. The only thing fake about you is this pretend suicide. Moriarty is dead and now so are the snipers he had trained on myself, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade."

He reached out his awareness and found the men in question. They died horribly in the space of a second.

"John?" Sherlock spoke his voice shaky.

The man formerly known as John Watson turned a blistering stare on the man he loved.

"John Watson does not exist. He has never existed. He was a game, a mask that I liked to wear to get the respite from my work that the Gods have so generously allowed me. But no more. You treated me like a gullible idiot and any friendship I believe you might have felt for me has been betrayed. It is time to return to my duty to be Jayan once more and complete the Five White at long last. I shall not stray from my purpose or believe I can have a normal life ever again."

And with that he lowered his former friend to the ground and flew high into the sky to grieve for what he had lost. He waited until sunrise the next morning when all of his memories of his former lives had been put to rest. He spoke to the Gods at length and asked their forgiveness for his wayward antics and promised it would not happen again.

Then he returned to Earth. To the Temple.

A/N The end of Chapter 4. Only one to go.