Tears built up around the brim of his eyes, the first real ones in a very long time. He didn't bother with the lift on the way down and found the stairs instead. He jogged down three flights and out of the building where he bypassed the cab and decided to walk home. He deserved to be alone with his thoughts for as long as possible.

He buried his face in his collar just as the tension broke and the tears dropped. As he walked the wind caught and dried the salty drops but he could still feel their ghost trails on his cheeks. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve without stopping and tried to push back his emotions. The people he walked past started to stare because he moved with swift purpose. He wasn't on a leisurely walk, he just wanted to be home.

'It's okay, Sherlock, you did the right thing," his brain consoled him.

'No, you deserve this pain for what you did to John,' his heart snapped.

'Would you leave him alone. He's been through a lot.'

'And whose fault is that?'

"Would you just shut up? SHUT UP!" Sherlock shouted at the air, attracting even more unwanted attention.

He gazed around at those who paused and stared before putting his head down, shoving his hands in his pockets, and continuing on. The argument within continued and he allowed it to, he thought he deserved the torment, but with each harsh word from the heart his emotions threatened to rise to the surface again. He walked the back streets to keep as far away from other people as possible, it was easy since he knew every street and every route he could take. He managed to make it to Baker Street with minimal emotional bruising.

Sherlock looked at the door branded 221B and felt a sense of relief mixed with sorrow knowing that he would no longer see John in the flat. There would be no more of his smiles at Sherlock's expense or anger towards the strange places he left his experiments. He sighed as he fished through his pockets for his key. He found it in his coat pocket and was just about to stick it in the lock when the door knob turned. He retracted the key and stared suspiciously at the door until it opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson. The landlady looked as though she could hardly contain herself about something.

"Sherlock, dear! You had a visitor stop by," she blurted, ushering Sherlock indoors.

"A visitor?" he asked, slightly astonished. "Was it an older man claiming to be my brother?"

"Oh, no, he was a young man," she said, closing the door behind Sherlock. "He said he was a good friend of yours. I didn't think you had any friends other than John."

"I don't. Did you let him inside, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, he said that he just wanted to leave a message and then he left."

Sherlock's body ran rigid. He knew who it was, of course he knew. To think of him in his home made him sick.

"You need to be more wary of who you allow in," he said before charging up to the flat.

Upon first glance everything seemed as it was. The flat looked, to the normal man, like an explosion had just occurred but it was a systematic mess to Sherlock. He looked around once, taking everything in, and then a second time for close examination. He found the message quickly, since it was in a place that Sherlock would've looked to on a regular basis. It was a photo propped up against his skull, a photo that, at first glance, chilled him.

The photo was of John Watson in his hospital bed, unconscious. Was he dead, sleeping, knocked out? It was a few seconds before he worked out that he was just sleeping. He could tell by the color in his face and the peaceful, naïve expression. He deduced that it must've been taken the night before, which meant that he had never stopped following Sherlock. Jim Moriarty wanted to play it out until the very end. He turned the photo over where there was a message written in red pen: This game isn't over. Your pawn is in place. Will you sacrifice him to save your King?

The photo crumpled within his balled fist and his hands shook with rage. He had taken it too far. It wasn't a game anymore, it was Moriarty prodding a madman with a stick and he was about to see what happened when Sherlock lost all control. He marched toward the desk where he kept his gun and checked the clip before stuffing it into his pocket. He was two steps from the door, hand outstretched, when his phone rang. He paused, looking back at the chair where he'd left it. It could only be him, he knew, and as much as he didn't want to hear what he had to say, logic gave way to compulsion. He ran to the phone and answered it.

"If you've hurt him, Moriarty, I swear-"

"Hurt him? No, of course not. Not yet, anyway," he replied in his Irish tenor. "I want to drag this out for as long as possible. I want to hurt you, Sherlock. I want to watch you die from the inside out."

"What makes you think doing anything to him would hurt me?"

"Because of your… inhibitor. Your heart is what keeps you from becoming just like me. So, I'm going to rip it out of your chest. Would you like to watch?"

Sherlock dug his nails into the palm of his free hand. "I won't have to watch. I will stop you."

"No, because you're not the great mind I thought you were. You've let your feelings for this man get in the way of our game and I can't stand for that. Still, in light of this game, I've given your pet a choice. Would you like to know what it was?"

He could hear the gleeful contempt in Moriarty's voice. "What?"

"I told him that I would kill you and I gave him the choice to take your place. I'll give you two chances to guess the answer!"

"I will kill you. I will wipe that self-satisfied look that I know you have off of your face. I will watch the life leave your eyes and enjoy every second of it," his voice shook as he spoke, blood was dripping from the cracks between his fingers as his nails dug deeper.

"You promise?"

"With everything I have."

"Big words for a man with a conscience. Why don't you come down to the hospital and put them to the test."

"I'm on my way," he snapped, hanging up and placing the cell in his jacket pocket.