Hello everyone! The apocalypse is averted! Yay! (Was it the Winchesters of the Doctor? Or both?! Superwho?!) So, assuming we're all alive, here's an update. Also: Merry Christmas. And: Happy New Year. I got a bunch of Sherlock and Doctor Who stuff for Christmas... I am now the proud owner of a sonic screwdriver and a necklace that says Moriarty Was Real.

Thanks to ebonypol, aimlessNovelist, Failing Mentality, Method in Madness, and mollyisyourgirl for the reviews. And also, thanks to everyone who favorited and reviewed.

On another note, I am now an official beta (that doesn't mean I can edit my own work efficiently, ironically) so if any y'all readers who are authors need one, I'll be happy to help you out. Check out my beta profile for details ;)

Without further ado, the chapter!

He opened the text and saw a picture, with no caption. It looked like just a blur at first glance, but John looked closer, squinting to see the details on his old phone. What he saw made his heart drop. It was a lump, a person sprawled on the sidewalk, a pool of red seeping around it. It was Harry.

For the first time since he was a child, he felt tears well up in his eyes. They weren't the fake tears he conjured when he needed them, they weren't even tears from physical pain. No, these were worse. These were tears of agony to the deepest level. He could feel the remnants of his fragile control and psyche split apart, leaving a broken shell of who he once was. His chest clenched, he felt as though he was falling through the air at a million miles per hour. Harry, his sister, his best friend was dead. And it was all his fault.

He took a couple moments standing still, head bowed, wallowing in self hate and anguish, but not long. Not nearly long enough. He didn't have the luxury to grieve like an ordinary person, not now that he was on Moriarty's radar. He was playing a Game now, and if he paused for too long, he would be obliterated. John Watson took all of his regret, and grief, and shoved it in the back of his fractured soul and trekked on. With the absence of his sadness, he was flooded with deadly focus and determination. He picked himself up, and moved on.

0O0

"This is above our pay grade, Mr. Holmes. Whoever did this did a hell of a job of it."

A nameless man stood before Mycroft, face devoid of any emotion. Mycroft only hired the best, not men plagued with useless anxiety. In this moment, however, he almost wished the man would show some fear. It would give him some satisfaction. He couldn't snap at the man, it would be unprofessional. He wasn't his brother.

Mycroft had his best men working on the camera feeds, but they were still scrambled. There seemed to be no way to set them right, much to his frustration. He knew it knew it was Watson's doing, damn him. The static on the screens were incriminating evidence to his tampering. And there was nothing he could do about it. Yet.

0O0

John had been walking at a brisk pace for only a couple minutes when he found the body of his sister. She was in an alley, painfully still. No breath stirred her corpse, no life animated it. She was truly dead. It wasn't a trick.

He moved slowly towards her, noting that her face was still contorted in a fearful grimace. An entrance wound was located on the back of her head, the trajectory pointed towards the roof above. Ignoring the part of him that made him want to fall to his knees, he moved away from his best friend and towards the fire escape leading to the roof. He scaled the rusty ladder with ease, being careful to not make it creak. His hands were stained orange from the rust, and he absently wiped them on his trousers. Now was not a time for vanity.

He reached the landing and climbed up another story before he reached his destination. John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, all emotions flushed away. He felt the familiar rush as he began to see things for what they were. Truly see everything. His senses sharpened and his postured straightened.

It was good to be on the job again.

0O0

Moriarty received the picture of Harry's corpse moments before John did. He knew it was a risky move killing John's sister, but no one could say he wasn't a bit vengeful. If someone took something of his, if he couldn't get it back, there was hell to pay. John had gotten his first real taste of it.

The criminal mastermind idly checked the CCTV feed to see his adversary on the roof where his assassin had been moments before. The ex-killer moved quickly. It was times like these that Jim could see who he was toying with, a lethal weapon. John's posture was rigid, he could tell that he was absorbing everything around him and processing it at light speeds. Beautiful.

There were two ways this could go. John could be consumed by grief, become reckless. Not much of a challenge, but it served his purposes. Or, the ex-assassin could shut out his emotions and go into full blown killer mode. Risky for him, but so much less boring. The Irishman rubbed his hands together excitedly, grinning maniacally. He wins either way.

0O0

In a matter of seconds, John saw everything he needed to. The assassin had been approximately one hundred and fifty pounds... male, judging by the depth and size of the boot print in the muck of the rooftop. Knowing from experience, trained killers tended to be lean, so the man he was looking for was about six feet tall. Having a rough outline of the man's build, John deemed it safe to move towards the ledge of the roof where the gun had been presumably propped. According to the bullet wound in his sister's head (John had to swallow what seemed to be a knife at that last thought) the gun had rested...

John moved around the ledge a bit before becoming satisfied with his estimation.

...right there. Leaning a bit closer, the ex-assassin saw where the killer's hand had rested in order to steady the gun. He squinted against the rising winds and saw something that made his heart skip a beat.

It was a faint imprint of what seemed to be a seal from a ring. A ring that only members from the Diogenes Club possessed.

0O0

Jim smiled as he saw his quarry freeze. So he had seen the impression the ring had made in the dirt on the ledge.

Very impressive Johnny, he thought smugly to himself. John was falling right into his carefully worked plan. By now he would realize that the assassin he had hired was an associate of Mycroft's, which would put him into a sticky situation. Would he risk being caught by the elder Holmes in order to exact revenge, or would he back off? That's what Moriarty loved the most about this Game. He didn't have the slightest clue.

Take time to review! Not a lot of dialogue here, but oh well. If you can guess what's going to happen (hahahaha you'll never get it) I'll give you a virtual hug. And cookies.