Agin, thank you for all the reviews/alerts subscriptions ect ect, and to Atlin Merrick, for generally just being awesome.

Also a big high five to MiraxHorn, for quite possibly the world quickest ever fanfiction review.

The sun died behind me, the bright daylight giving way to a dusky evening glow. I heard the faint noise of traffic from outside and somewhere in the house someone had classic FM on. I stood in front of Mycroft feeling very much like I was a man on trial in front of a judge. In many ways I suppose I was, waiting for my execution. The punishment and consequences I could take but I couldn't handle the wait, I knew my fate, embraced it even because it meant Sherlock would know the truth and I could stop lying, but the wait, the wait gnawed away at me, a slow acting poison in my veins. I felt I could handle anything, torture, bullets to the chest, Moriarty, anything, anything but the wait.

What would happen when I was gone? I had images of Sherlock and Mycroft huddled together, talking about my betrayal, talking about how I was so loved, talking in past tense, always past tense, I would inevitably become part of Sherlock's past, a dingy room in the back of his mind where he feared to tread. At least, once all this was over, I could tell myself that I had done the right thing, saving Mycroft had to count for something.

'The painting. The one that was stolen from the National, have you found it?' I asked.

Mycroft sat, legs crossed on a sofa while I continued to pace around his living room. The fear and sense of dread meant I couldn't sit still, I was almost shaking. My feet made soft noises on the wooden floor.

'No, not yet. But I'm close just give me a few more days.' Mycroft had such an air of confidence in his voice. I nodded. So Moriarty was right, Mycroft clearly knew too much. And it didn't seem to stop at the inanimate. Sitting on the couch he seemed to stare directly into me, as if seeing my very soul, a habit Sherlock used far too often for anyone's liking. The two brothers were more alike than either would care to admit.

'Is there anything you would like to tell me John?' he was firm, clearly tired of waiting for the whole story, his tone remained ice cold. I wracked my brains, trying to find the right words, I had so much to tell and so little time. There was never enough time. Trying to find the right words was like trying to catch fireflies in a jar, searching, grabbing, hoping they'll come to you and stay, but they fly away in a second.

'George Taylor's death was no accident, he was murdered. I'm pretty sure he was the one that painted the copy that was switched for the original.' I couldn't look Mycroft in the eye, staring at the patterns of the wallpaper behind his head.

'Yes. I had my suspicions, but please explain to me what all this has to do with me dining at the Ritz this evening?' Mycroft was clearly suspicious. I couldn't blame him, already the story was utterly absurd.

'The man behind it all, the one who came up with the scheme, his name is Jim Moriarty, he is the one who is behind the whole thing, he is worried that you know too much so he is going to try and kill you, tonight, at the Ritz.' My voice shook with nerves, I was inarticulate and the words came out in short bursts compared to the flowing sentences Mycroft spoke, but I hoped it was enough.

There was a long pause as Mycroft digested this news, sitting very still, hand resting on his chin. Then he rose, stood next to me, gazed out the window.

'Moriarty? I should have known,' he finally said.

'Wait, you know him?' Mycroft knew Moriarty? No, this was impossible.

'I know of him, he is quite possibly the most dangerous man in the country yet he is so elusive not even I have seen his face. Impossible to track down, he comes to London, seeps in like a fog clouding the city, then vanishes into thin air as if he had never existed, no trace of him left behind, but I think the most important question is how do you know him?'

'I sort of, I sort of work for him. He wants Sherlock, what for I don't know but he's obsessed, wants a partnership with Sherlock, so he sent me to spy on him, that's how I ended up in Baker street, that's how I know about the painting, and that's how I know your life is in danger.' We didn't have much time so I prayed Mycroft believed me. Prayed that he would take my warning and stay well away from the Ritz and what Moriarty had planned for him.

'So you are a spy.' He sounded disappointed, I wondered if this was for Sherlock, or if he was simply annoyed that he had not figured it out. That someone had outsmarted him. Mycroft was such a closed book I couldn't tell.

'How do I know what you are telling me about Moriarty is the truth?' he asked suddenly.

I was annoyed that he wasn't taking my confession seriously. 'Do you think I would give away my true identity to Sherlock if it wasn't?' I hissed.

'I suppose not.' His cool ,calm facade remained, there was no emotion in his voice whatsoever and it was incredibly unnerving.

'I never meant to fall in love with Sherlock, that was never the plan, it just sort of happened.' I said feebly.

'You really love him don't you.' It wasn't a question because we both knew the answer.

'Will it make any difference?' I choked, shrugging slightly.

'No, I don't suppose it will.' If I didn't know better I would say he almost sounded sad. I nodded, again, I wasn't upset by his frankness, I had already accepted that I had lost Sherlock and was quite possibly a dead man as soon as I stepped through the door. I had a sudden urge to raid Mycroft's alcohol cabinet and wash away the memory of my sins.

'This was a very honourable thing you just did John.'

The funny thing is, I was so sick and tired of being honourable I wanted to strike out and hit him, or at least hit myself for listening to what the army and my father had told me. It was honour that got me into this mess in the first place. 'Can I ask you for something? Seeing as I have just saved your life,' I pleaded.

'Of course.' Thank god something had gone my way. 'But even I have my limits,' he added, heavily hinting that when it came to Sherlock, I was on my own. He didn't need to, I already knew that.

'I need to see Anthea, and could you tell me where the closest cash point is?'

'John!' Harry exclaimed as she swung the door to her flat open. 'Oh I'm so glad to see you.' She threw her arms round me and gave me a big squeeze. I looked at the large wine glass in her hand.

I didn't need this not right now. 'How drunk are you?' What I needed was to make sure Harry escaped. I knew Moriarty would punish me now I had given everything away to Mycroft. I doubted I would get out of this alive. I was a dead man and I needed to make sure she wasn't caught up in it all. I had lost Sherlock, I would not lose Harry and my plan wouldn't work if she was slaughtered.

'Not very, not yet anyway,' She giggled then saw my serious expression. 'Oh John what's happened?'

I handed her a brown paper bag, she gave a peek inside and gasped 'How much is in here?'

'It's my life savings, and you are going to need this.' I dug into my pocket and pulled out a passport, forged courtesy of Anthea.

'Please tell me what's going on?' Harry demanded.

'You need to get out of here, something has happened and things are about to get messy.'

'What's happened? Does that Sherman fellow know you're a spy?'

'It's Sherlock.' I corrected. 'He is about to find out, and so is Moriarty.' She gave a small gasp of horror, we both knew what Moriarty was capable of. 'Please, you have to be quick, pack a few things and head to Heathrow, get the first plane out of here.' I begged. She nodded.

'Go, now, don't tell me where you are going just in case he...' I let the sentence hang in the air unfinished, I was pretty sure the life of Harriet Watson was of no interest to Moriarty and that I would be the one facing his wrath, but I couldn't take that risk. I hugged her goodbye, we both knew, in our hearts that we would never see each other again.

'Come with me.' She asked hopefully. 'You could get another passport, there is enough here for both of us if we spend it carefully.'

I shook my head. 'I can't, only could forge one.' I lied, Anthea offered to make me a passport too but I declined, I didn't want to tell my sister that I had chosen to stay, that I needed to see Sherlock. That some sick, strange part of me wanted to face up to what I had done, to lie in the bed I had made, running away would be cowardly, and I was no coward. Making out I had no choice would be easier for her to understand.

'Oh John.' She began to cry in my arms.

'Hey, chin up, go somewhere nice and get a tan, don't worry about me.' She wiped her eyes and then looked at the forged passport, read out the name: 'Jane Jones.'

'Suits you actually,' I joked. She laughed, then threw her arms around me again. I felt tears prick my eyes, we may not have gotten on, but she was still my sister.

I stroked her hair while she hugged the life out of me. 'Hey, don't remember this, don't think of Moriarty when you think of me, remember the park in summer, you know the one where you would take me to the swings?'

'Yes, and we would get ice cream and you would get it everywhere.' We laughed at the memory.

'Yep, remember me like that, and the summer holidays where dad took us to Dorset.' We laughed again, remembering all those summer vacations in the rain, running around the English countryside.

'I'm sorry John.'

'It's okay, I'm sorry too. I'm sorry I told mum you snogged Ellie.'

'That was a dare! I suppose I deserved it for telling mum about your stash of Playboys under your mattress.' We laughed again, I remembered the earful I got from mum. I wondered how she would react if she knew I had fallen for a man. That her hormone-riddled, breast-obsessed boy had grown into a man who loved nothing more than having a cock in his mouth.

'I'm sorry I walked in on you wanking that time,' she continued.

'Okay that's enough,' I blushed. The memories felt like a lifetime ago. I guess they were. I certainly didn't feel like that boy anymore. I wondered what would happen if we could turn back the clock, though I suppose we would simply do the same things, make the same mistakes, waste the same amount of time all over again, the world would still be full of war, corruption, cheap sex and sad films. Human beings, we never seem to learn, never have and never will.

But I had had Sherlock, even if it was only for a little while. I couldn't complain at what fate had handed me.

I sent a simple text to Sherlock on the way home.

I love you. JW

There was no reply.

A short time later I stuck my key though the door but it no longer felt like home, so much had changed since I left 221B only a few hours ago. That familiar, cosy feeling that only home can bring had disappeared, the room felt staged and as impersonal as if I was an actor on a set.

Sherlock was gone, his coat was missing, so I stuck the kettle on. It was the English answer to everything after all and I needed to do something while I waited. Waited for his return.