Hi everyone :) I know you all hate me because I haven't updated but to be honest I've been busy and I've tried. Ok, sorry, I have no excuse but I'll try to write more. Here is a 3000 word chapter for you all. It was my birthday yesterday and I spent it writing ! hope you enjoy it x

Sherlock paced the floor of Molly's apartment. Two weeks had passed since the fire and they'd moved back in two nights ago. The floor was still burnt black and the air still smelt slightly of singed fabric and smoke. What had been damaged was replaced with insurance funds and new furniture had been placed the day they had moved in. The fire department had taken at least five hours to completely rid the building of the flames that had licked at the concrete and stone.

"Sherlock, calm down. The fire was just probably an accident." Molly sat on the sofa, nervously running her hands along the cream knit fabric of the new couch. She rested a broken ankle on the coffee table. She had curled up with tea and a bathrobe in Sherlock's ideal spot, but he had hardly complained considering it was her apartment and her spare bedroom was now his.

"But Molly, it wasn't an accident. I spoke with LeStrade and he said that they thought it was arson."

"You spoke with LeStrade? Honestly, Sherlock! You might as well just tell everyone you're alive!" Molly ran her hands through her hair, calming herself with every stroke. "First Mycroft and now LeStrade. Let's just go and ring up John then, eh?"

Sherlock stopped and fixed a piercing glare at Molly that made her shy away. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. That was unkind."

"It's fine." Sherlock continued to pace the floor. With every step he grew more frustrated because he couldn't figure anything out. What was happening to him? Was he becoming… ordinary? Sherlock dreaded the day where he became an unimportant Homosapien, and he dare not think of what the life would be like. Work, telly and dinner, everyday? Please, that life was not for him.

"There has got to be something wrong! What happened that night? Someone was in this apartment, in this apartment, Molly, and they spoke to you before leaving. Some stranger in the apartment and then a mysterious note? What is going on?!" Sherlock felt himself lose a small amount of sanity as he tore at his hair with frustration and slight anger.

"Wait, Sherlock, what note?" Molly tried to rise off of the couch but she couldn't bear weight on her ankle.

Sherlock dug into his pocket and untangled it from keys and handed it to her. Annoyed at his failure and inability figure it out, Sherlock sat down on a lounge chair and sulked. Molly's eyes scanned every inch of the crumpled sheet of paper and gasped when she finished. She didn't dare think of what could happen. Was it her fault someone had found Sherlock? Were they going to blackmail him? This person, whoever they were, could expose Sherlock at any moment and result in the death of John, LeStrade and Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock's mouth curved into an unattractive frown, despite his appealing features, and grew even more frustrated at the only solution that he had deemed impossible. He was dead, wasn't he? But then again, Sherlock too had faked his death and wasn't Moriarty just playing a game? And Sherlock had seen the fear in Moriarty's eyes when he thought that he had lost when Sherlock knew the killers could be called off. But Moriarty still won. He still won by taking his own life, forcing Sherlock to take his. If Moriarty wasn't going to win, no one was. Hadn't this nearly driven Sherlock insane? To have to leave his only friends by committing suicide so that they could continue to live. Even in death, Moriarty was winning as Sherlock grew more lonesome and questioned his own sanity without John's companionship.

"Who do you think it is, Sherlock?" Molly was quiet as she sensed that if she said one word wrong he would lose control of the emotions that he had fought so hard to rule with an iron fist.

Sherlock sighed with defeat. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Molly said with disbelief.

"Yes, Molly, for once I don't know what is happening. There is only one possible solution and I know for a fact that the man that could have done that is dead."

"Who, Sherlock?"

"Who? Who? Molly, wasn't his death in the papers? Moriarty! That's who!"

Molly's brow furrowed in confusion. "Jim? Sherlock, his death wasn't in the papers. He hasn't been seen since the court case. Dead? Sherlock, how could he be dead?"

"He shot himself! Right after I won the game, he cut another web that ended his life and made him win the game." Sherlock spoke fiercely, spitting with every word.

Molly processed this information slower than she would have liked. Each detail seemed to run annoying slow through the cells of her brain and she worked out what Sherlock had said. "You mean to say, that Jim, Jim is dead?"

"Yes! Well… no… he should be!"

"How could you let him kill himself, Sherlock?!" Molly's voice rose to a shout as she barked her words at Sherlock.

"He was a psychopathic murderer, Molly!" Sherlock stood up and walked over to the couch where Molly sat. He leaned in so close he could see that her left eye was a bit more grey than the right, her nose had been broken once during sports, and she had a small birthmark behind her ear. "You remember that I.T. guy? The one you knew who used to work here? Moriarty killed him so he could take his job. " Molly's mouth formed an 'o' as she leaned back into the couch. Sherlock could tell that Molly wasn't processing this information well, but she needed to know. "This is what he does, Molly. Kills for fun. He lives on the thrill that the game brings." Sherlock stepped back and settled himself down on the armchair, staring out the window in hopes to clear his mind and actually deduce something.

Small whimpers turned his head away from the window. He sharply turned his head towards Molly, who had hands covering her eyes as they did the best to conceal the tears that had fell.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You're crying."

"Bit obvious, Sherlock. I suspected more from you're deduction skills."

Sherlock stared intensely at her. "You're crying because you didn't know who killed the man who worked in I.T. He was important to you because he helped out a relative or friend in a tough situation. You're also crying because he was murdered by your psychopathic boyfriend to get closer to you and that I never caught the man."

"Do you enjoy this, Sherlock?"

"Enjoy what?"

"Enjoy making everyone feel like utter useless fools who are just pieces in your stupid chess game. Do you enjoy making everyone feel stupid?" Molly screamed at Sherlock, her hands balled into fists and her knuckles white. "Just because you don't get to see John doesn't mean you have to force your anger on everyone else!"

"Actually, I do. It's rather fulfilling for me to see when you realize how completely stupid you are. Now shut up, Molly, it's making for too much stupid in one room, even if I am in here."

Molly sighed and leaned back onto the couch. Sherlock stared at her in boredom. Walking towards the door, Sherlock grabbed his coat. He put it on and turned up the collar. And slammed the door on his way out.

He ran briskly down the stairs. He knew where he was going and he walked with haste into the streets of London. It was nearly Christmas, and this would be Sherlock's first Christmas without John. It pained him to think about it.

Sherlock hailed a cab. He didn't take the tube, I mean; he was Sherlock Holmes for god's sake.

When Sherlock entered Mycroft's secret sanctuary he wasn't really sure what to expect. It was a club littered with old men, bathing in utter silence and Sherlock knew not to break it. He walked through the corridor and made his way towards the final room marked PRIVATE. He didn't hesitate to open the door and didn't care to knock.

Mycroft sat behind a desk, indulging in a thick book about missiles. He kept scratching at his head, sighing, and narrowing his brow in confusion.

"Really, Mycroft?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft sighed deeply, unaware of Sherlock's entrance. He looked up at Sherlock, tilting his head slightly to the left. He winced when he turned his head, and his eyes were decorated with shades of blue and black and some green lingering on the outsides. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and reached out towards Mycroft's face.

"Don't." Mycroft susurrated but Sherlock reached forward and grabbed Mycroft's chin, turning his head this way and that. A long scar formed at the back of his ear, blood dried over the deep wound and flaking away, and stretched down his neck. When Sherlock placed his hands on Mycroft's shoulders, the sharp intake of breath indicated more wounds around his body. Drops of scarlet decorated the sleeves of his shirt as Mycroft attempted to pull his blazer sleeves lower. Sherlock took a step back and surveyed Mycroft. The bruising was recent, and Sherlock could tell the cut was deep from how it had not healed even slightly since.

"Who did this, Mycroft?" Sherlock questioned, pacing before the desk while folding his hands together to stop him from inspecting more as he sensed Mycroft's discomfort. Usually, Sherlock wouldn't have cared if it was out of anyone's comfort zone, particularly Mycroft's, but he sensed this subject's sensitivity and restrained himself from further deduction.

"No one of concern, Sherlock, now be off. I'm busy." Mycroft sighed and resumed reading.

"Mycroft, stand up."

Mycroft did not look up from his paperwork. "And you're still here." His voice was disappointed, no, not disappointed, annoyed with a hint of worry. From his voice, Sherlock could tell that Mycroft did not want him to investigate the wounds that lay scattered on his body.

"Get up, Mycroft. Don't make me ask again." Sherlock spoke harshly and with irritation. Mycroft rolled his eyes at his demanding brother, but did not disobey. He stood up and walked out from the desk and faced his little brother.

"What is it that you want, Sherlock?" Mycroft said.

"Shut up."

Mycroft sighed, used to his brothers harsh spoken words and didn't care. Sherlock observed Mycroft as one might observe a lovely piece of art, or a finely carved sculpture recently put on display. Sherlock leaned in and sniffed at Mycroft's neck. Still smell the pus and the blood, but no antiseptic. No time for proper treatment. Sherlock traced his finger along the cut, and faded blood dotted his finger. The bleeding has ceased slightly.

"Mycroft, where were you this morning and precisely what time did you leave your flat?"

"Sherlock, I really-"

"Answer the question, Mycroft." Sherlock said with irritation.

"I left at 7:00 am precisely." Mycroft said with an inward sigh.

"And since then 3 and a half hours have passed and during that time, most likely, when you were on your way to the car or out of the car you were stopped and that was the time in which these wounds were inflicted." Sherlock spoke fast and swiftly, not particularly caring to see if Mycroft had heard.

"Honestly, Sherlock – "

"From the state of the wounds it wasn't weapon, fist, so this person either in the beginning had no intention of hurting you or you provoked that person in a way to do such." Sherlock sped through and slowed his talking down, clearing his head. "Most likely you were mugged and you didn't give him the wallet, really, Mycroft. Always give them the wallet."

"How dumb do you think I am?" Mycroft hissed, finally allowing himself to be slightly offended by Sherlock's pitiful banter.

"Quite idiotic, actually." Sherlock spoke quietly, still observing the ever-impatient Mycroft.

"Fine, Sherlock. And I didn't provoke him. He just jumped me."

"Did he take anything?"

"No."

"Are you sure? You aren't the most observant."

"For gods sake, Sherlock. He didn't take anything!"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft curiously and got the sense that he was hiding something. Every human instinct would have told him to ignore it but Sherlock being Sherlock walked right past the stop sign of bad questions and said what he wanted to.

"I find that quite hard to believe. Even someone as simpleton as you, Mycroft, and believe me when I say that you are somewhat smarter than the rest of these idiots, didn't notice someone taking something from you."

"Sherlock! He didn't take anything!"

Sherlock stared quizzically at his brother. Usually, Sherlock would have dismissed Mycroft's yelps of denial but he sensed that even his brother would have realized if he had been mugged.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Tangible?"

"Yes!"

"Alright. Then, tell me, Mycroft, why would someone beat up a government official, and not take anything?" Sherlock continued to pace the floor in front of an ever-impatient Mycroft.

"I don't know."

"Exactly! That's the point! Why on earth would someone pretend to mug a government official if-" Sherlock stopped his sentence.

"If what, Sherlock?" Mycroft said sitting back down behind the desk, growing more irritated by the minute.

"If they weren't going to take anything." Sherlock murmured quietly, exhaling slightly.

Mycroft rubbed his brow in shame and slight embarrassment. Sherlock watched Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, watching his every move. Had Sherlock been paying mind to something else, he would not have seen Mycroft's hand move towards the side of the desk and push a button that Sherlock knew was a call for security.

"It was a warning, wasn't it, Mycroft?"

Mycroft scratched his head and didn't meet Sherlock's eye. "Pardon?"

"It was a warning. For me."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, you're dead."

Sherlock walked towards the window that looked over the streets of London. Snow was falling gently and people were rushing to and fro and being pushed from pillar to post. "Maybe not anymore."

"I think it's best you leave, Sherlock."

"You already called security, I'm just using what time I have left before they attempt to drag me away."

Mycroft sighed, and leaned back into his chair. Sherlock glanced at his older brother and narrowed his eyes, trying to read Mycroft's expression. He sensed his embarrassment and discomfort, but mainly the sadness that was hard to make out in the flecks of his eyes.

"Mycroft, what did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Does anyone know?" Sherlock's temper was rising and his voice was turning into a shout.

"They guessed. They think. Sherlock, I didn't tell them. They just said 'Just in Case.'"

Sherlock closed his eyes, absorbing the new information. "So they think I'm alive."

"Well, you are."

"No I'm not. Not really."

Everything went quiet for a moment, and for once, Mycroft considered Sherlock's suffering. John was his source of humanity, and because of him, Sherlock had lost the anchor. Mycroft spilt everything to Moriarty, and it had come round to stab his brother in the back. But Mycroft was Mycroft, and his safety was his first concern.

"I think it best if you leave, Sherlock."

"Mycroft – "

"Leave, Sherlock. We shan't be discussing this topic anymore and it would be best if you did press."

"Why?"

"Because it could be bad, potentially dangerous."

"I don't care, Mycroft!"

"Leave, Sherlock! We won't be talking about this again. If you continue in an investigation of whoever did this I will have you exposed and arrested."

Sherlock breathed heavily, nostrils flared. He was angry and shocked. He was an investigator, and his brother was stopping him from investigating. Who did Mycroft think he was, to stop Sherlock from something as big as this? Despite Sherlock's cold hard exterior and the face he put up for Mycroft, he did care.

Sherlock walked down the hallway and left the building. He didn't know where he could go and there was that ever increasing change of being noticed for Sherlock had not bothered to change his clothes or the way he looked so that he would not be recognized.

Sherlock pushed past people on his way down the blocks. He had wanted to go home. He needed to go home.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was strolling down Baker Street. He was smiling, despite the fact that if anyone recognized him he would be in serious jeopardy. Sherlock stopped right outside the little sandwich shop only a few yards from 221B and laughed. Even though Mycroft had given him much to worry about and much to question, Sherlock was still happy. And that was weird for him, since it had been several months since he had been truly happy.

A sandy haired man walked down the street, looking around and shying his eyes from the sun. He was happy too, though, like Sherlock, he wasn't completely happy. And he knew he was never going to truly and fully happy again.

Sherlock saw the man and his mood soured. His euphoric mood went sad and a hole that he had desperately tried to fill with small joys was ripped open. He would have given anything to go up to him and embrace the man and scream 'I'm home!'. But it was to his sorrow that he couldn't, because doing so would result in destruction of the wall that the outside world had tried to hard to penetrate.

The man's eyes flickered over to his, and Sherlock ducked behind the door, praying that he hadn't noticed; but at the same time hoping that his recognition would give the man hope.

Sherlock looked over the edge of the doorframe and saw the man. He was staring at where Sherlock had just been. And he just had the saddest eyes. It wouldn't take a genius to tell that he was near giving up. And Sherlock wanted to do nothing more than to tell him that it would be all right. Because that's what friends do.

And Sherlock knew there would be only one way to see LeStrade or Mrs. Hudson again. Or to see John. He would have to eliminate the web. At that moment, Sherlock decided that that was what he was going to do.