Author's note: I got more reviews! Yipiieeee!

Anyway, we are slowly making our way to The Great Game... Maybe not yet, but I promise we're getting there.

Warning for dramatics and angst. Because I couldn't help myself.

I don't own anything.

The next week somehow seemed to pass too quickly and unbearably slowly, at least John thought so. There was nothing he could do to warn Sherlock, he knew; Jim would surely keep an eye on him – once he thought he saw Sebastian out of the corner of his eye and realized that, of course, Jim would send his "favourite sniper" to spy on him – Sebastian was the one man who'd never betray the consulting criminal, who didn't even consider leaving when Jim treated him once again like he didn't matter at all (which he didn't, John was convinced; Sherlock may not be, but Jim clearly was a psychopath).

Sherlock still sent him texts, he answered them, but he didn't smile when he read them anymore, and he certainly wasn't thankful that Sherlock apparently wanted to include him in his life. Jim was reading every single text, he was sure of it, and rejoicing that he'd found the one weakness of the consulting detective.

And John had been the one to show him this weakness. In trying to help Sherlock, he'd only made it worse, made everything worse, and now he would have to sit and wait and watch as a man who could have become a friend, if only their lives had been different, was destroyed by Jim.

That he would be destroyed John couldn't doubt; it didn't matter in which way – whether Jim really only wanted to "burn the heart" out of him, or if he chose to kill him afterwards – but destroyed, in some way, he would be.

But the only chance John had of preventing the worst was to do what Jim told him, to obey the consulting criminal's every command. And, first and foremost, to carry on like nothing had happened, to appear the same to Sherlock.

At first, John had hoped that the consulting detective would realize that he was on edge. That something had gone wrong. Jim couldn't blame him or his sister if Sherlock figured out that he'd found out about their plan.

But Sherlock didn't see any change in John, apparently; maybe because the doctor had already been nervous, because they would try to bring down the most dangerous criminal London had ever seen, maybe because he was too busy to figure out a plan to do just that...

Then, on the third day after Jim's revelation, John realized why Sherlock hadn't noticed and wouldn't notice.

They were in the lab at Bart's during John's lunch break. Sherlock was working on a case, again – something about a murdered man in a locked room, and he was clearly enjoying himself. John watched him doing tests and muttering to himself, feeling more and more worthless with every passing moment.

Suddenly, Sherlock looked up.

"John, what do you make of this?"

He gave John a picture of what appeared to be a small round puncture wound on the murdered man's neck. John frowned.

"Difficult to say, really.. Could be anything. What was the cause of death?"

"Poison" Sherlock looked through his microscope, clearly frustrated. "But I don't know how it was administered, and this puncture could be the answer, if only..."

"Something like a poisoned arrow?" John suggested.

Sherlock looked up, and the doctor added, "Forget it. I'm not a consulting detective, I..."

"No, John, that's it! Not an arrow – maybe some kind of homebuilt gun that shoots something like syringes – and if the murderer had made it look African – the whole room was full of souvenirs from Africa – that's it! He shot him through the window – it was too small to grant anyone access, but a syringe..."

He took out his phone and texted the DI he worked with most of the time – Lestrade, if John remembered correctly – and then he smiled at John.

It was then that the doctor realized why Sherlock didn't suspect anything.

Before, when all he'd had was his suspicion about the consulting detective's heart, a few texts and Jim Moriarty's word, he'd been able to convince himself (against his better judgement, but he'd needed something to hold on to) that his involvement wouldn't break Sherlock. That Jim had been wrong, for once. That there was a chance that Sherlock would win, would save the day and then would walk out of John's life, would forget about him. John didn't like the thought, he couldn't deny that, but it was better than destroying Sherlock.

But now... This was not Sherlock asking a question via a text. This was Sherlock asking for John's opinion about a case, and if the doctor knew anything about the consulting detective, it was how important his work, the cases, were to him. Once Sherlock had texted him just to let him know that his "brain was rotting" because he hadn't had a case in three days.

Now he couldn't fool himself any longer. Jim had been right.

Because Sherlock Holmes, in contrast to Jim Moriarty (really, how could John ever have supposed them to be similar to each other) could trust another person.

And, whether he wanted to or not, he trusted John Watson.

Two weeks ago, John would have been honoured for this confirmation. Now the thought scared him.

He would destroy Sherlock Holmes and there was nothing he could do about it.

Later that day, as he was walking home, trying to clear his head, a black limousine stopped next to him and a young woman opened the door from the inside.

"Get in, Doctor Watson".

He swallowed, realizing that this must be Sherlock's brother's way of introducing himself to people.

And just like that, he started to hope again. After all – Mycroft worked for the British Government and the Secret Service (according to Sherlock, he "was" the British Government and the Secret Service, whatever that meant) and maybe, just maybe, he'd found something out, or he'd at least have him brought somewhere Jim couldn't...

And then John caught sight of a security camera on a building on the other side of the street.

It was turning from left, to right, and left again.

It was, for lack of a better term, shaking his head.

Jim was warning him.

And Jim would know if he told Sherlock's brother anything. The man was a human lie detector.

It was hopeless.

So John tried to appear calm and unconcerned when he was brought to an abandoned warehouse where a man in a suit with an umbrella in his hand awaited him.

"Doctor Watson. I suppose my brother told you about me?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes" John answered, knowing that, should he tell Mycroft anything, the British Government would take measures Jim couldn't fail to notice, and Sherlock and Harry would be dead before the day was over.

"Good, then I think you know what I am capable of. I ensure you, should anything happen to Sherlock, you will pay for it."

With that, he turned around, the umbrella twirling in his hand, and the young woman brought John home.

He knew he was doomed; Mycroft would kill him after the game. But Jim would kill him before the game, if he tried to warn anyone, and not only him. Not even Mycroft could protect Sherlock and Harry, John was sure of it.

This evening, another car with tinted windows picked him up and brought him to Jim. To his surprise, he wasn't brought to a warehouse but to an office building. Sebastian was waiting for him when he arrived.

"You are to go into Jim's office and get your instructions" he spat, jealousy written clearly all over his face, and John wondered how desperate a man must be to cling to the hope that a psychopath would one day return his feelings.

He nodded, and Sebastian turned around and led the way. John had never been in Jim's office, but now he realized it had been stupid to assume that all Jim did was strolling around and sneaking up on his employees. Of course Jim must have a centre for his operations somewhere, and this must be it, judging by Sebastian's expression.

Jim was sitting at his desk, and John was a bit surprised when he realized that, until now, he'd never seen the consulting criminal sit. He'd always been standing, or walking, but he'd never sat down in John's presence before.

"Johnny" he said, smiling. "Sebby, you can leave us alone now".

Sebastian left, closing the door with a little bit more force than necessary.

Jim sighed. "Really, Sebby should know better than to care about a psychopath... Then, again, you would know all about that, wouldn't you, John".

"Sherlock is not a psychopath".

John winced when he realized what he'd said. It had been the only answer he could give, and he'd said it without thinking much about it. Jim grinned maniacally.

"See, now you know I've been right the whole time. By the way, did you tell Big Brother anything?"

"No, I didn't" John answered. Jim studied his face and smiled again, standing up.

"Excellent. I knew you'd be a good little soldier, just like Sebby."

The comparison sent a shiver down John's spine, and Jim laughed. "Sorry, you didn't take that as a compliment, did you? Anyway, since the game is to start in four days, I decided to tell you all about the cases Sherlock will have to solve while I still have the time – I'll be too busy once the game's begun."

So he told him, for the better part of two hours, about the cases he wanted Sherlock to solve. John wasn't surprised that Jim had killed Carl Powers when he'd only been fourteen years old; in fact, he was surprised he hadn't started earlier. Jim seemed to read his mind and explained cheerfully "Until then, it had only been animals, I wanted to practice" before telling him about the clostridium botulinum and Carl's beloved shoes, which he'd give Sherlock, "because he has to have some kind of clue, don't you think so, Johnny?".

And so it went on. He told him about Ian Monkford and Connie Prince and the Vermeer. He told him when he'd have to kidnap each witness, and deck them out with explosives, "With Sebby, of course. We don't want him to get to jealous, and he can keep an eye on you".

John felt drained when he left, Jim's "I'll be in touch" still ringing in his ears. He knew that the first hostage was a woman from Cornwall, that he'd have to pick her up on Sunday evening, that she'd call Sherlock on Monday morning after... after he'd found the shoes.

And after the explosion at Baker Street.

Naturally, he wasn't allowed to warn the consulting detective about the explosion.

The next few days were torture for John, and he hoped against hope that he wouldn't be picked up, but on seven pm on Sunday evening, Sebastian stood at his door, with a ski mask for John, and they were off to kidnap the poor woman and drive her to a parking lot.

After Sebastian had explained the rules to her – only to say what she read of the pager, nothing else, otherwise they'd set off the explosives – they'd left her in the parking lot, abandoning her to the night and her panic, John wishing more than anything that he could help her, he got a text on his burn phone.

It was from Jim.

I changed my mind. Don't tell Sherlock anything about the explosion, but warn him to stay away from the window. I don't want him hurt. He needs to play.

John bit his lip and sent the text while Sebastian looked at him with a joyful expression in his eyes.

There was nothing to do but to try and get Sherlock out alive.

The Game was on.

Author's note: I got a little carried away, but the situation is so wonderfully dramatic and angsty, and I wanted to have a little fun (for lack of a better word) with it. And at least we got to the beginning of "The Great Game". And it is a longer chapter, for once.

John realizing that Sherlock trusts him... hmm, how should I explain... There's a difference between suspecting something and knowing something, so John is feeling even worse for the realization. I'm thinking to complicated again, ain't I?

Mycroft not being able to do anything – well, he couldn't prevent Reichenbach from happening. And having him save the day just like that would just be no fun. I mean, the boys wouldn't have to suffer, and the story would be shorter, and – I'm not making a good case for myself here.

I hope you liked it, please review.