John was dreaming again, even in the short span of time he'd been nodding off on Sherlock's shoulder. This time, his dreams were drenched in blood, the rosy, jewel-red of the stuff that sped through Sherlock's veins and gave him life. It had spilled over the pavements beneath St. Bart's and spread like a river into John's soul, coating the walls of 221B and flooding down the TARDIS walls. He cringed in his sleep.

The Doctor watched them from his perch across the room, where he was formulating a plan. 10 and Rose had left ages ago, and he was waiting for them to return. But it made him feel a little lighter to watch John and Sherlock curled up on the sofa, unaware of how they'd embraced each other as soon as the baby was taken from them. Sherlock's arm curled protectively around John's shoulder, and John's hand had grabbed a handful of Sherlock's shirt.

"They're so thick, sometimes," he said to himself, getting off the chair to get some biscuits and tea.

John buried his face into Sherlock's shirt and moaned, a pitiful sound that Sherlock heard, even through his sleepy haze. His grip tightened slightly.

John woke up as he usually did, but this time he noticed the arm around him. "Sherlock, wake up."

"Hmm?"

"Wake up. We fell asleep."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. "The baby."

The Doctor interjected from the other room. "His parents took him. Go back to sleep, we have a long day ahead of us. I'm making tea."

John's head flopped onto Sherlock's chest. "Everything's safe. We're okay."

"Did you have a nightmare?" Sherlock whispered.

John nodded tersely. "It's not a big deal." He made to get up off Sherlock, leaving the dark-haired detective grunting in objection.

"I was quite comfortable the way we were, thank you."

"Well, it's a bit weird, even for good friends."

"John."

And John thought, for the most horrifying, perfect moment, that Sherlock was finally going to say something, until the entire house went dark.

The Doctor dropped the kettle and ran to the living room. "Sherlock! John!"

"We're fine. Who turned out the lights?"

The television flickered off momentarily and then turned back on. The face of Moriarty filled the screen. "Afternoon, gents. Didn't I tell you you'd guess in a minute, Sherly? Oh, and finally the Doctor gets to meet me…you're looking very cute, Doc. I'd wrap you up and take another in a minute. Which I can do, by the way, as soon as your clone and his little pet come back."

The Doctor's hands clenched in anger. "James Moriarty. I believe you have something of mine that I'm going to take back."

"Feisty, too. Oh, yes, I have your little River. She's really quite fun. I think I'm going to keep her and turn her into something useful. You can never have too many assassins."

"Round two, Moriarty," Sherlock said, plowing through to keep the Doctor from mucking it up with his emotions. "You have us right where you want us. We're in the right universe. But you can't include Rose and her Doctor into your plan anymore."

"Well, that's a shame. I thought that would make everything a bit more spicy, but really this is so much better!"

"And why is that?"

"Because," Moriarty sneered, "you're grounded, gorgeous. The lovebirds have the TARDIS, and you're all stuck on Earth. So, in light of this new development, I've decided it's time for a new game. And you know what, Doctor? We're going to keep playing my games until I win everything you care about. Don't bother with your plans or armies; they're all dull as bricks. I'd try and convince you to just come to me now, but you're not going to do that."

"Not in the least. You know, you're rather brilliant."

"Cheers."

"But you've made one fatal mistake."

"Ah, I'm sure you're going to say something about how I underestimate the power of your cosmic love, or something equally stupid. I don't underestimate love. It's actually quite useful. It makes for the best manipulations. But enough!" Moriarty clapped his hands. "Time for our new game. Boys…"

The entire room went blank, and for the oddest moment, it was like the house had deleted itself. The three men were all in a spaceless world with no color, light, or sound, only each other's forms. John and Sherlock unwittingly grabbed each other's hands.

Moriarty's voice finally boomed through them, vibrating in their heads and filling their bodies with sickening volume. "Welcome to the Dreamscape. Inspired by Johnny Boy, this one—I'm about to separate you all and make you run around like cute little mice. And there's no telling what you'll see or hear in here, so do try and keep your wits about you. The object of the game—find someone. Before you lose your mind."

Sherlock shook his head. "It doesn't make sense. How do you win?"

Moriarty chuckled. "Darling. I already have. 1…2…3…run, little rabbits! There's a rabbithole for you somewhere!"

Sherlock woke alone in his own dreamscape, alone. He reached out and grabbed for something, anything, but John wasn't there. The Doctor was long gone.

He tried to process and gather data, but there wasn't a single thing around him. The space was all empty, vast and complete nothingness all at once. No data, a true nightmare. Moriarty knew him well.

Not letting his brain go mad with the white noise, he tried to focus on an objective. There had to be a way for Moriarty to win, and he said he already had. Was it really just as simple as enjoying the spectacle of watching three great men lose their minds?

If it was, he wasn't going to let Moriarty win. He had to find someone.

He walked along the lines of infinity, wishing that he could make some semblance of sense of it all. The blankness of everything made his head spin. He must have walked for hours when he heard it.

"Freak."

He spun around, looking to see where it came from. The voice had no source and no discernable familiarity. It sounded just like a small child.

"Freak," it repeated, somehow closer. Sherlock's heart pounded. He Ignored the voice and kept walking.

"Freak."

"John?" he asked, wheeling around. "Doctor?"

"Freak. Freak. Freak."

He walked past the voices that trailed him, turning into more and more familiar voices. Donovan's. Anderson's. Children from primary school. Colleagues at uni. "Freak. Freak. Freak."

"Freak."

"Freak."

"Freak."

"He can't feel anything."

"He's a psychopath."

"Freak."

"Get away from him."

"Look at him—he actually gets off on this stop."

Sherlock groaned. "Stop!" he begged the cacophony, but it only made a larger wall of sound.

"He's going to cry. What a baby."

"Freak."

"No wonder no one likes him."

"That's not true!" he argued. "Blast, what am I doing? Moriarty's only messing with my head. Forget it. Forget it all."

"Freak."

"Freak."

"Freak."

"FREAK."

He kept walking from the sounds and insults, unaware that as he walked, he had started to cry. The words got louder and more vicious, causing him to pick up speed until he seemingly hit a wall and the words pounded at him like daggers, forcing him into a ball on the ground.

"FREAK. FREAK. FREAK. FREAK. FREAK. FREAK."

"Hullo?"

All at once, the voices stopped, with one single one remaining. Sherlock looked up from his position on the ground, whimpering, to find John standing there. "John?"

He smiled. "What are you doing on the ground?"

"The voices were…oh, John, you have no idea how happy I am to see you!" he said, running up to him and stopping when he saw a woman standing with him. "No. Wait. You're not. You're not him."

"What are you talking about, mate?" John asked, his arm snaking around the woman's side. "All right in the head?"

"This isn't real. It's another test. Moriarty's making it out of my mind."

John blew air through his teeth. "He's a real bugger, isn't he?"

Then he walked away, with his hand in the woman's. Sherlock breathed in relief, but he turned around to find John again, this time with a different woman.

John gave him a concerned look. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock shook his head and looked up to where he thought was the sky. "Moriarty, I'm not going to play this anymore. I know it isn't real. It's not real!"

"Keep it down, will you?" John asked, entering from his periphery with two women. "Some of us are trying to score here."

Sherlock ran, not knowing where he was or how to fix it, until he noticed drops of bright red trailing behind him. He seemed to have lost the Dream John, but the crimson kept following him, until he noticed it spilling out from his coat. It coated his palms and spurted out of his sleeves, making him take off his coat in alarm. It continued, thick and hot, down the side of his face, soaking into his scarf.

Sherlock relaxed in a way. This must be related to his death in some way. That made sense. If this was all his blood, he could deal with it—he wasn't afraid of his own death.

A knife dropped out of his pant leg, followed by a deluge of syringes. The knife was coated with black, crusty blood. Out of nowhere, a form crumpled off in the distance. From where Sherlock stood, it looked like himself, falling off the roof and hitting the ground. The form had the same coat.

He ran to himself without thinking, dripping the blood behind him, and reached the body only to turn it over and see John's lifeless face peeking up at him.

He began sobbing then, well and truly sobbing in his pain and confusion, while another John walked by holding Moriarty's hand. "D'you need some tea, Sherlock?" he asked, while Moriarty ate a bit of popcorn from his bag. "Could you put the kettle on, dear?"

Moriarty grinned. "My pleasure."

John woke up, unsurprisingly, to a war. The landscape was a rough, sandy expanse, with battalions of men in desert camouflage shouting and toting guns. It was familiar, at least. He fell in step behind the soldiers, feeling his medical bag smack his back as he jogged to wherever they were leading him.

The desert stretched on for miles, and somehow his mind did not reject this. This was something he understood and could work with. He didn't even consider that it was all a dream, in the way that dreams always seem real to the dreamer.

Land mines began to explode as unlucky soldiers tread on them. The desert sky was going up in dusty flames, and still John ran to safety—wherever that was.

It turned out, miles later, that safety meant stumbling into 221B. He tripped over his boots and fell onto his face in front of Sherlock's armchair, and the kettle was whistling. Brushing himself off, he ran to get the tea and poured two cups. His uniform had been replaced by a jumper and jeans.

He waited for Sherlock to come home and drink his tea.

He waited.

Eventually, Sarah walked in and picked up the mug.

"That's not your tea," he informed her.

"It's not like he's going to drink it."

He glanced away in annoyance, and when he looked back, he was somehow standing at the altar of a church, with white flower blossoms spilling out of the windows. Sarah was in front of him in a white gown and veil, still drinking Sherlock's tea. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"No," he disagreed, trying to take off the tuxedo that was strangling him. "He's missing. He's supposed to be here."

"To watch you marry someone else?" Sarah asked, now dressed in Moriarty's Westwood suit. "Charming. Maybe, if he's lucky, he'll be there for all your defining moments."

John shook his head violently, running back to the desert and searching each soldier's face for a trace of Sherlock's features. For some reason, he couldn't find him.

Finally, he spotted one with dark enough hair to possibly be Sherlock. When he grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around, he was staring into the face of Irene Adler.

"Hello, dear," she purred. "Don't I look smashing in uniform? Though it's hardly my battle dress."

"Irene, have you seen Sherlock?"

"No, darling, but to be fair, this is your nightmare."

"He's always in my nightmares."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Of course he is, dear, but really, what's worse—the fact that he's in your dreams, dead, or the fact that he's not in your dreams at all?"

He ran from her and kept screaming for his flatmate, knowing the more he wished to see his face, the less likely Sherlock was to show up.

The Doctor knew exactly what he was going to wake up to. He didn't even open his eyes when he felt himself land on the Dreamscape.

Finally, after he'd waited an appropriate amount of time and planned his escape, he opened his eyes and stood up. "Hello," he told the long line, "I've been waiting for you."

The line extended forever, it seemed, made up of all different alien races and faces he recognized in some capacity. He nodded and acknowledged each one's forlorn face, transmitting silent apologies. His mother was there, crying in shame. Even his first wife and children were there, looking with accusing eyes.

He walked down the line, knowing they weren't really there but feeling guilty nonetheless. Near the end of the line, the order was more chronological.

"Hello, Rose." He stopped in front of the blonde with a sad smile. "I'm sorry for leaving you behind. I'm sorry for lying to you."

She gave him only a wistful frown. "You left me. You didn't even bother telling me you loved me. You might as well have killed me."

He nodded and moved on. "Martha. You look wonderful."

She glared at him. "You didn't think I was good enough, even after I saved the world."

"You were more than enough. You're absolutely brilliant. Hello, Mickey," he said, addressing the man next to Martha. "I'm sorry to both you of you. I'm sorry for making you feel so much pain on my account, Martha. I wish I could go back and fix it. Mickey, I knew I was taking Rose from you and I didn't care, because I was selfish. I'm sorry."

Mickey didn't say anything.

He kept walking past them all. "I'm sorry for leaving you, Jack. I'm sorry for everything, Sarah Jane. I'm sorry you sacrificed yourself for me, Astrid. And Donna, I am so sorry. You were the best, you really were. And I miss you. I miss you all."

As he apologized, miraculously, they all disappeared. He wasn't sure if that was part of Moriarty's game, or if he was winning. Finally, he came to the end. "Amy, Rory. I'm sorry I let you go. I should have taken better care of you."

"You made me lose my baby," Amy said in a quiet voice. "I won't forgive you."

"Not to be rude, Amy, but you already have forgiven me. You always have. I'm also truly sorry for making you doubt Amy's devotion, Rory. She's always been yours. I shouldn't have encouraged her."

Rory took Amy's hand and left.

There were only a few left. They all looked dead now, as dry and bloodless as corpses.

"Sherlock, John…" he addressed them. "I'm sorry for putting you in danger. I'm so sorry. I will try and save you from this. I'm going to bring you back to your future. You're going to be fine."

They dropped like flies.

"Handy, I'm sorry for leaving you behind and making you out of blood and war. You were left with more pain than a lifetime could heal, and I didn't care. I still hated you at first. Forgive me."

There was only one left now.

"River," he began slowly, taking in how this vision of his wife looked so terrifying. She had an enormously pregnant belly that looked distorted from her skeletal body. Her warm eyes looked unusually hollow and dark.

"Melody Pond," he said with a loving smile. "The woman who married me. I am probably the most sorry when it comes to you."

"And why is that, sweetie?" she said in a voice that sounded like dry leaves on pavement.

"Because I keep losing you when I'm not looking. When you were a baby, when you were growing up, even when you died… Especially now. Every time I lose sight of you and our marriage, something takes you away and reminds me of how important you really are."

"That's not the reason I hate you," she hissed, putting a protective hand on her belly.

"What is?"

"I hate you…because you will never love me as much as I love you. And we both know it."

The Doctor stared at her for a long time, not letting her disappear. Finally he said, "That's where you're wrong, honey. I love you more than you can possibly know or ever comprehend. That's rather the point of why I have such a hard time telling you—I lose everyone I love. I always lose you. I used to think that if I didn't reveal how desperately and deeply and honestly I love you, you'd be safe from people like Moriarty. But now I know that won't help either of us, so I'm going to work on telling you exactly how much I love you when you and I talk again."

And despite the fact that she hissed and her skin turned ashen, and she pushed him away with shrunken hands, he softly grabbed her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

Then the faces were all gone and the Doctor was alone.

He smiled in disbelief. He might have just beaten Moriarty.

He walked along the cables that stretched forever, not thinking of Sherlock or John. He knew they'd show up eventually.

Sherlock was done with crying. He'd been doing it for years in his dream prison, rocking over the body of John while another John looked at him curiously with a martini in hand. Jim lounged on a throne nearby, bored with the whole mess.

"I liked him much better when he was interesting and unemotional," Jim droned. "This is boring."

John swilled the martini around and plucked out the olive. "You're telling me, mate."

Sherlock got up and wiped the sheets of blood off his coat.

"Oh, look, the freak's about to do something," John sighed. He tossed back the martini.

"I'm leaving you all."

"Good luck, freak," John said with a shrug. "I happen to be right behind you."

Sure enough, Sherlock turned around and John was there again. Everywhere he looked, there was a new one with a cruel smile. "Want to watch me jump?" they all snickered. "It's bound to be entertaining. There'll even be pretty colors."

"Please…no!" Sherlock cried, and phantom Johns burst across this vision, tumbling down invisible walls and hitting the ground with sick splats.

Jim called out from his chair, "Just so you know, Sherly, you'd better get a move on and try and find someone in here. If there are three of you, the one who's the last to find someone is going to have to stay with me. Right now, buddy, it looks like it's going to be you."

"Bastard!" Sherlock growled. "I'm going to find him. This is all fake. I just have to beat you."

"That's the idea, yes," John yawned.

"Stop it. Please." Sherlock clutched at his temples. "Think, think, I need to think. There's logic to this. I can figure this out. Moriarty's using me to make this game. It has to be based on my weaknesses."

"Well, it's not exactly hard to find them," John continued for Jim. "You're easily the most insecure of everyone here. Though you'd never admit it. You're afraid John's going to leave you. You're afraid you're too much of a freak for him to ever want you, to ever want to be with you…"

"That's not true."

"You think you're too much of a freak for him to ever love you. That's why you won't say it. You know he's going to reject you. And you know what, Sherlock?" John got very close to him, only an inch away from his face, and breathed, "You're right."

"No."

"You're completely right. He'd be mad to want you. Who would want you? You're a psychopath. You actually enjoy watching people die. You get a thrill out of it. You belong in the dark, with the macabre and deadly. You're rude and impulsive and you don't care about other people one bit. It's no wonder Johnny wants to get married to a nice girl and pop out a few cute kids. It's not like you're anyone's idea of an ideal future. You don't have a future, Sherlock."

"No…" Sherlock stood his ground, but he was whimpering and shaking. Every fiber of his being wanted to reject the words coming out of John's mouth, but he couldn't. It was all too true. "It's not…John would never do this…he cares…"

"He hates you, Sherlock. You left him and now he hates you."

Mycroft strolled into the picture, dangling his umbrella in a jolly way. "Oh, look, dear brother—you're crying again. I do think you've lost your mind."

Jim grinned. "I win."

"Sherlock!"

The detective curled on the ground again, shaking and quivering in complete brokenness. He'd never felt this torn apart before. His world was pulling apart at the seams, and he longed for cocaine to make the images in front of him swirl in a way that meant more than outright slaughter of his limited emotions.

"Sherlock, wake up! Don't let them hurt you!"
"Go away," he moaned.

"Sherlock, it's me," a voice said, shaking him by the shoulders, and Sherlock felt the sensation that he was a drowning man being pulled to the open air. The suction that held him to the pain was lifted and he was free, and he wished with all his might that his savior was John.

A pair of ageless eyes looked pleadingly into his and Sherlock's faith was lost. "Doctor," he said. "Is it really…how can I tell…?"

"Just look at me. Moriarty's games aren't substantial. Have you noticed that they can't actually touch you?"

"The blood…. I don't believe you," he started, backing away.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "I don't have time to convince you." Bracing himself, he took two steps forward and punched Sherlock right in the face.

"OW!" Sherlock rubbed his jaw. "Doctor, it is you!"

"Of course it is, you dolt. You were letting him win, you goose! You're too brilliant to let Moriarty get to you, Sherlock, so don't start now."

"You found me." Sherlock looked panicked. "That means…"

"Means what?"

A trumpet sounded and made a huge fanfare as the dreamscape, with all of its blood and pain, disappeared. Sherlock and the Doctor found themselves in the living room of Rose and 10's house. Sherlock grasped his hands and legs, reveling in his realness.

Moriarty's face showed up on the screen. "Cheers, Doctor. I thought for sure you'd crack first, but you figured it all out. I'm going to have such fun designing a new way to break you."

"Where's John?" the Doctor asked, not taking the compliment.

"He lost the game. Clearly. Now I get to keep him."

"That wasn't part of the rules!"
"Well, ask Sherlock…I happen to be very changeable." Jim rolled his eyes. "Isn't this more fun, anyway? Now Sherly has a stake in this. I have River, and I have John."

Sherlock's rage had reached a new level of silence and eerie coldness. "Jim."

"First-name basis, oooh, this is fun. Yes, Sherly?"

"You're going to die. I am going to make sure of it."

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think? I'm about to let you say hi to Johnny, too. So rude."

The television flickered and switched to a new channel, where John stood surrounded by a small group of the Silence, who were all toting guns. His hands were cuffed behind him, and he stared straight at the screen without betraying an ounce of fear and confusion.

"John," Sherlock breathed, kneeling in front of the screen. "John, I'm so sorry. I'm going to get you back, I promise."

John nodded. "I know. I'm fine, guys. Moriarty won't hurt me. It's all part of the game. I'm just a pawn, now. Leverage."

"You're not a pawn," the Doctor reassured him. "Moriarty's scared of you. He doesn't understand how strong you are, so he's keeping you so you don't have the advantage. Don't forget that."

"I'll try and look for River," he promised. "If I can. I'll look after her, for you."

"Thank you."

"Sherlock?" John betrayed the smallest bit of terror in his eyes. "Can you see me?"

"Yes, John. I'm here."

"I'm…not scared."

"I know you're not."

"I'm worried about you. Stay with the Doctor, okay? He'll keep you safe, yeah?" He licked his lips. "Beat Moriarty. Don't worry about me. You're going to beat him and kill him and you'll take us all home, I'm sure of it."

"John…"

"No, you listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. I trust you, okay?" He refused to let himself shake. "I trust you to do this. I'm going to be fine. Stop worrying. Use your head, use the data, and save us all. And then we'll go home to 221B, and you can shoot the wall as much as you like, and I'll never complain if you play the violin at 3 in the morning."

"John, there's something…" Sherlock paused. "There's something I've got to tell you."

John gave him a brave smile. "Sherlock, it doesn't need saying."
He couldn't help but mirror John's smile, but he shook his head. "Yes, it does. John Watson, you must know—"

"Sherlock, don't. Please. If you're about to say what I think you're going to say, Moriarty will use this. He'll beat you with it. Don't say it."

"He's already using it."

"Then for me, please." John blinked back what might have been a tear. "If you say it now, it'll be like you're saying goodbye. And I can't handle that. This isn't goodbye, so stuff it."

Sherlock kept tears at bay himself. "Okay. I'll tell you when I meet you."

"You'd better, you sod. You owe me, big time."

The Doctor reached for Sherlock's hand. "I'll watch him, John. You take care of yourself."

"Time's up, boys. Come and play, when you're ready. I'm bubbling with excitement," Moriarty finished off, turning off the screen and leaving two broken men hopelessly alone.