Hey everyone! I know it's been a while, and I left on a cliffhanger, but you forgive me right? It's just that I have four fanfictions going right now, plus SATs and ACTs and argh. Also, there's been a bit of weird family stuff going on and it's starting to get to me a bit. :/ But here I am! Okay, so no excessive violence in this one, but it's looming. Let's just leave it at this: John has a lot of enemies. Powerful enemies who are a bit sadistic. I think you all know where this is going.

Lots of reviews! And all of them were so great, they were a bit of sun in my cloudy days! I'm actually so flattered by this batch, I love you all so much. The Harry Potter reviewers are ruthless, I actually have been receiving a lot of flack lately so every word you guys give to support me is like a lifeline. A million thanks to you all: reflekshun (ten times!), fighting-john-watsons-war, aimlessNovelist, WolfLeap, and Ombre Pluie.

I took a lot of liberties with the Diogenes Club, but I trust none of you will mind too much.

Thumbing the safety off his gun, he forced himself to think of it as any other job. Everyone knew vengeance made sloppy work. He exhaled slowly, letting any tension leave him as he entered his destination. The Diogenes Club.

Nothing had changed since the last time he had been in there three years ago. There were still snobby, imperious men sitting on their thrones of tradition and status, wielding their silence like a sword and their newspapers like a shield. Tea sat, cooling and stagnant, at the side of every occupant of the room along with a small spoon and a bell. Nobody even looked up when he barged in, and John was hit with a strong jolt of deja vous. Adrenaline flooded his system, familiar and deadly, and everything sharpened. His pores opened, muscles tensed, and senses focused.

The assassin's eyes roved over all the occupants in a matter of seconds, eliminating them from his list one by one. Too short, too fat, too old, too petty. None of them matched the rough description he had gleaned from the crime scene earlier. But there was still two other rooms full of diplomats to go. Taking advantage of the lack of interest in him, he moved silently down the still corridor to the next room.

He had only been in the room for a moment when he found the man he was looking for. The man, in his late twenties, towered over an older gentleman who was reading avidly. Unlike his gray haired counterpart, this man was tall, with thick, unruly brown hair and sinewy muscles hidden cleverly by a button down shirt. Before he made any rash decisions, John honed in on the suspected murderer. Everything matched: height, weight, muscle mass, build, and hand size. The out of place brunette was posing as a diplomat's assistant, jotting down notes and fiddling with the ring on his hand nervously. But it was all an act. John knew that this was his guy.

0O0

Jim Moriarty had just arrived in Rome forty minutes ago when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He was already irritated from the two and a half hour flight from London (it wasn't commonly known, but the criminal mastermind wasn't too fond of flying) and was currently in an unmarked car on its way to a meeting dealing with an incompetent hitman that some bloody putz had hired. The man had screwed up a job, ended up getting caught, and had spilled his guts to the target about his employer. It wasn't even close to touching Moriarty (nobody gets to me), but the carelessness couldn't go unpunished. He hated clean up.

So yes, the Irishman was a little irritated. Some of that irritation may have bled through when he answered the phone.

"What?" he hissed, not hiding his displeasure. The voice on the other end was unfazed.

"I was told to contact you when John Watson entered the Diogenes Club," the man said neutrally. If he was afraid, he was hiding it well. It was far more likely that he just didn't know who he was talking to.

"I hope you're not mistaken... for your sake." Moriarty spat into the phone before hanging up. He impatiently brought out his laptop and tapped into the feeds at the Diogenes Club. The events played out before him like a fairy tale, and he watched with growing interest.

John stood in the middle of the Halborough Wing, looking extremely out of place next to all of the gentlemen in the room. His stony gaze was locked onto another misfit, one Moriarty himself had planted into the Club. Sigmund, his hired gun, posing as the secretary to the Swedish Diplomat. The beauty of it was everyone believed the lie, even Mycroft himself. They all thought this man was Oxford educated, and ready for politics. No doubt the Iceman thought that he could get an early influence on the young blood and control his rise to power. How wrong he was. This man was a killer, through and through. Just like John. But infinitely less complicated than the object of his obsession.

A slow grin split on the psychopath's face as John's jaw set, eyes narrowed, and nostrils flared. The man's arm flew so quickly to his belt that the cameras had trouble picking up the motion, and in a flash a knife had buried itself in Sigmund's throat, spraying blood all over the gentleman he was "working for". Jim giggled with delight at the gory scene before him. John seemed unsure of what to do. Not because of guilt, Moriarty deduced, but because the knife had sentimental value. A gift from his recently deceased sister? Moriarty sneered. How pathetic.

0O0

Mycroft was enjoying an afternoon tea when he got the memo. John Watson had entered the Diogenes Club. The place that was supposed to be a safe haven to all government officials of every country. This was the break he had been waiting for, the chance to lock John away for good, but he wished it could have come at less of a personal cost to him. It would take months to smooth over the outrage that would spawn from a citizen being allowed into such a guarded area. But no matter. He brought out his phone and dialled a number he knew very well but rarely used.

0O0

Sherlock leaned over the body, inspecting it for any clues he could use. Nothing jumped out at him immediately, but that may be because of the shocking amount of blood on the corpse.

The man, a middle aged librarian from the looks of it (paper cuts on hands, fat and muscle masses indicates sedentary lifestyle, indents on nose from glasses being worn constantly... dusty books not conducive to contacts) had a large gash in the throat, which had obviously killed him. But even so... something was wrong with this picture.

"John, tell me, what do you see here that is wrong?"

No answer.

"John!" Sherlock said impatiently.

"Sherlock," A voice answered. Not John. Not relevant.

"Last time I checked, Inspector, you were not John," Sherlock said snidely as he looked up. The Detective looked a bit irritated but didn't respond to the bait. "John isn't here. He hasn't been here this whole time."

Sherlock blinked. This was highly irregular. He just assumed that John would come in response to his texts... like he used to.

Slightly embarrassed at the lingering hurt he was feeling, the consulting detective turned away from the Inspector and looked back at the body without answering. Something was off... something.

It clicked.

"There's too much blood here," Sherlock mused under his breath.

"Come again?" Lestrade asked, leaning into Sherlock's personal space.

"Too. Much. Blood." Sherlock said again, impatient. Everything was coming together. "There's too much blood here, but why. Why? Because there was something to hide. A fingerprint, a piece of DNA, doesn't matter. Someone used a bag of blood to wash away evidence. But who? Someone who has access easily," Sherlock whipped out his phone, ignoring the baffled looks of his colleagues. "No forced entry into blood banks in the past forty eight hours, so it was someone who had ready access. A patient? No. That person would need the blood, and wouldn't think of using it for something so trivial as a cover up. Then who? A doctor. Cut across throat is neat, practiced. Incision is made by a left handed person, note how it is deeper on one side than the other. I'd say it was someone five in a half... not five feet eight inches tall, male. So, the suspect is a male doctor, left handed, five foot eight, working in a hospital with a ready amount of blood. Person works with blood a lot, not noted if he enters the room to grab some. So, he probably works on either floor four, five or six."

"Well that's great, Freak," Anderson sneered, "but what good is that for us?"

"Anderson, your incompetence astounds me. This man has been dead for about four hours. Lunch break for these floors are thirty minutes, about four hours ago. The doctor who commited this crime wouldn't have a lot of time to get it done. In fact, I'd say he was in a bit of a pinch. So, the deed is done, but he's left with the blood bag. He can't walk back into work with an empty blood bag, too many questions. He doesn't have time to properly dispose of it. So, it has to be close by, perhaps in the trash. Once you find it..."

"... We get prints or a label with information on who checked the bag out." Lestrade finished with excitement. Sherlock huffed but nodded. "Everybody! Check the perimeter! We are looking for a blood bag!" Lestrade shouted, walking away from Sherlock. The consulting detective smirked, before frowning as his phone rang. Looking at the display, he noticed it was his brother. Rolling his eyes, he answered.

"Mycroft," he drawled.

"Sherlock," the voice answered, sounding a little strained.

"What brother, I'm on a case," Sherlock sniffed.

"We have a situation... it's John. He looks as though he is suffering from a breakdown. He's at the Diogenes right now, and he's armed."

"I'll be right there," Sherlock replied in a clipped tone before hanging up. With a growing sense of dread he didn't quite understand, he ran out of the crime scene and hailed a cab.

0O0

John locked eyes with his quarry, blood boiling as the man smirked at him. With barely a conscious thought, John went through the practiced motion of throwing his knife at the killer's throat. The brunette gurgled a bit as the knife hit its mark, spraying blood everywhere. John didn't flinch as a drop landed on his cheek.

The man wasn't deserving of the knife that had killed him.

Harry's knife.

John hesitated, looking around at the shocked gentlemen that gawked at him. The diplomat that had been in the company of the dead gunman was out cold, he had fainted when his trusted secretary died right next to him. The foolish man probably thought that it was an attempt on his own life.

Finally, John broke out of his stupor, resolving to leave the knife behind. He had to run, he didn't have time to grab it. He was about to turn and sprint out the door, a dozen safe places that he had set up a decade ago running through his head, when he heard something that made him freeze.

"John?" a faint, shocked voice came from the direction he was running to.

Sherlock.

How had he gotten there?

"Out of my way," John growled, ignoring the guilt that stabbed at him for lying to Sherlock. For treating his best friend that way.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible," another voice said, victory laden in his voice.

Shit. Mycroft.

"I'm sorry John," the umbrella carrying man said with faux sincerity as he pushed past his frozen younger brother. "But you are suffering from a mental breakdown. You have just killed a man," he stated as if John didn't know what he had done. But John saw right through the act. He saw the vindictive malice practically oozing from the man. "It's okay now John," he said softly. John tensed as two burly men grabbed his arms. "We're going to place you under the care of an institution that... specializes in people with conditions like yours," Mycroft said, voice practically dripping with fake sincerity.

The adrenaline had faded, and was replaced by panic and fear. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have allowed his anger to get the better of him?

John opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the elder Holmes.

"Now now, don't speak. Everything will be fine. I won't even press charges." The men dragged John closed to Mycroft, who leaned into the ex-assassin and whispered so no one else could hear. "I've got you now 0924. And this time, you're not getting away." Mycroft smirked at John's terrified look.

Abruptly, John realized he lost. This was Moriarty's plan from the start, and he had been played so easily. He was going to be locked away by Mycroft, in an institution, just like the psychopath had planned.

"If you're still not in a mental asylum in three months, I will leave you and Sherlock alone for good. You'll never hear from me again. But if I win, and Sherlock thinks you're crazy, you're mine John Watson. All Lestrade's forces and all Mycroft's men will never be able to find you again."

Alright everyone. This is where it gets a bit messy. I'm probably going to upgrade this to M, but if there are any objections, tell me now or forever hold your peace.

Take time to review :)