I am so, so, so, sorry. I know that sounds so hollow now but I truly mean it. I've just started Uni and they pile it on you like there is no tomorrow and I wrote this now that I'm back home :)

I'm sorry if it's not worth the wait but hopefully it's okay.

Thank you for all the reviews, follows and favourites. Love you all!

Chapter 11

"Mycroft! Mycroft I need your help." Sherlock shouted, running into the living room from the front door.

The man in question was sitting in a brown arm chair, recently staring into space, rolling the scotch in the glass. Slowly, he lifted his head. "Such urgency. What-?"

"Not the time!"

And it clearly wasn't. Sherlock's hair wild, obviously he had been running his hand through it over and over again – a clear sign of stress. The look in his eyes of clear fear made Mycroft stand quickly.

"What is wrong, Sherlock?"

"It's John. I need to find John, but I can't… I don't know…" Mycroft brought Sherlock close into a tight hug, feeling his younger brother tremble within his arms. He didn't know what else to do. His brother was in clear distress and no amount of words would help the poor man.

"How do you know he has John?" My croft whispered softly. He knew someone had John. It was obvious by Sherlock's demeanour, the idea he needed Mycroft's help and the subtext behind his words gave it away.

Sherlock pulled out of the embrace but stayed close. He thrust the note he had found out to Mycroft.

"I hate to admit it, but it did take me some time-"

"I own your John." Mycroft sighed deeply "This is a dangerous game, Sher-"

"I've already started playing. Might as well keep going until a victor has been announced."

"How much time is left?" he asked gently.

"Midnight. I need your help, Mycroft."

Mycroft breathed in steadily. "Think, Sherlock. Were there any patterns? Any leads you could use now?"

"He was repeating himself." Sherlock mentioned absentmindedly before he looked up at Mycroft with an epiphany. "Oh, Mycroft you are a genius!"

Sherlock ran to the wall where the map was still hung on the wall. "If the fourth was committed at the gardens, then that means John will be in the warehouse! Obvious!"

Sherlock turned round to face Mycroft smiling like he found the meaning of life, the universe and everything. Maybe he had.

"Call Gregory for back up. John will be there, as most likely the killer. What he has done to the victims is very grisly indeed."

"I will, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, prepare yourself for the worst. Please. You know what this man is capable of so please don't walk into this blind."

Sherlock nodded once only half listening, and walked upstairs, quickly preparing himself for the confrontation ahead.

But he thought of the man, who had killed four people to be used as pawns, who had made Sherlock doubt himself a multitude of times now. And Sherlock had lost count of all the insults thrown his way from the killer.

Why did it matter though? What did it matter what other people thought? That thought hardly even crossed his mind when he sold his own picture, the main thought being that he would gain money. He'd always assumed that because everyone else cared about his nose then he should be too, but he wasn't.

Is that right? He touched his nose. I've been told that someone will take it away from me, that it's a burden to be carried, that one day it will be fixed.

I've always been told I'm part of a problem.

Well not anymore because John needed him. Because John said he liked him. Because it's just John.

And purely because…

"I like myself the way I am."

He was thrown back onto his bed due to a rush of wind washing over him. He screamed out as pain ran down the front of his face.

Mycroft was on the phone to the DI when he heard the piercing scream. He rushed up the stairs but stopped at the head when he spotted a gold light coming from the gap under the door. He pushed the door open and saw the bright light begin to descend into his brother's face. Without hesitation he ran to Sherlock and held his hand, but still gasped when he saw it.

A 'normal' nose. No snout.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

A strangled moan answered him as the light started to fade.

Mycroft waited patiently, he wasn't like his brother in that aspect, for Sherlock to wake from unconsciousness. The elder still held his hand as it sometimes tremored in his grasp.

Sometime later, maybe 20 minutes, Sherlock began to open his eyes. Mycroft tried to keep him in a lying position but, of course, Sherlock was too stubborn to follow that.

"Wh-what-?"

"I was hoping you may be able to tell me that. But before you try to speak, let me fetch you something." Mycroft stood up, squeezing Sherlock's hand one more time. He bought a little mirror that was hanging from the wall to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at him, confused.

"Just do the mundane thing and look into it." Mycroft tenderly ordered, smiling on one of his side of his face.

Sherlock did as he was told, and his eyes bulged.

Years, years, of seeing something hideous before his eyes was gone and replaced by an almost cute button nose. Sherlock broke into a smile, looking up to brother.

"Just be lucky it looks nothing like mine." Mycroft joked.

"But, Mycroft, the curse says 'two of likely mind.' I don't understand. I changed when I said 'I like who I am' or something to that effect, can't exactly remember. Why did I change?"

"Yes." Mycroft smiled in his all-knowing way. "Two. Meaning…"

"John." Sherlock breathed.

"I talked to his sister a week ago. Seems the man confided in her. She is not the hardest to manipulate information out of, although she is harder to crack now that alcohol is not a main motive." He was mainly talking to himself now. He looked back at Sherlock. "He confessed his adoration, Sherlock. He declared his love. Now go save the stupid man before it's too late!"

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Traffic.

Of course there would be traffic.

To be fair, the capital city was probably destined to always have red lights and loud beeping horns, but it wasn't even rush hour! It was nearly half past 10 on a Thursday night. Most (normal) people were at home or partying or just, what Sherlock had hoped, off the roads. But alas, that was not his luck.

He held his blue scarf in his hands. It seemed impossible. What just happened to him seemed like a dream, the idea that he had a normal appearance still felt so surreal.

He was special, like always, but now he was the special everyone else is.

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"Do you not read newspapers, Gregory?" Mycroft asked

"No. I don't really like to. Others in the office do. I wait until a call comes in to tell me on the next case. Other than that I leave fiction to tell me lies."

Mycroft chuckles at the last statement. "Yes, well, one lie that one newspaper published was in relation to my brother."

"Sherlock was in the newspaper? Did he wreck a crime scene, deduce the Prime Minister's sex life, what?"

"You really do know my little brother well, don't you? But no, unfortunately. He was incredibly stupid and rather than letting his pride slip and asking for help, he went to the newspapers and sold them his face."

Lestrade was confused now. "What's wrong with his f-? Oh, is it something to do with his nose job? Is it like 'botox gone mad!'?"

"If only." Mycroft sighed. And with that, he brandished a newspaper and handed it over to Lestrade. "I am surprised though that you did not hear it through some other medium."

The D.I stared at the front cover, on auto-pilot he said, "I only listen to the radio for the music. And when I come home from work I'm too tired to watch any television and if I do it's dramas to escape life, not watch depressing news." He glanced at Mycroft. "I'm sure you understand about escapism when it comes to work."

"Are you not shocked of Sherlock's face?" Mycroft's voice, usually so calm and collected, hardly any emotion added, contained much confusion as his face.

Lestrade shrugged. "To be fair, a nose job shouldn't last that long, so I realised something else must be going on. Also, though it is hard for you two to imagine, I have worked hard to reach a title that includes deducing clues and facts. But," he looked at the picture again, "it doesn't really make any difference, does it? He still has the same, annoying and arrogant, personality. I like to think I'm not shallow enough to judge by appearance."

Mycroft smiled. "He made a true friend in you, Gregory. I am glad, in that."

"Me too. I mean, I'm glad he's my friend. And, otherwise I wouldn't have met you."

They stared at each other for a while before Lestrade shifted and changed the subject quickly.

"Oh, yeah, about Sherlock. He's been quite down recently, although I couldn't see the bottom of his face, now I know why, I could see it in his eyes. I know it's not the murders because he has an unnatural love of the cases so what's the problem with him? "

Mycroft nodded solemnly. "Very perceptive. A man by the name of John Watson is the problem."

"Oh." Greg pursed his lips for a second. "Well, my ex-wife always used to say it was the men, then she used to sleep with them." He tried to laugh but when the other man didn't join in he stopped. "So who is this John?"

"28 years old, coming to 29, invalid from the army after being shot in the left shoulder. Army doctor and a captain, now a GP doctor." Mycroft said like he was reading off a shopping list but from his mind. Lestrade stared at him.

"How do you Holmes' do that!?" He asked, astonished.

Mycroft tugged on his suit, "My brother and I own a brain that contains more fact than fiction. We observe the obvious due to our being taught no other way. I've only known to protect Sherlock for mother's sake, but I can't afford to let feelings fog judgements within my head. Any sentimentality adds disorder to the processes within, or at least it does with me."

Lestrade leant over to drop the newspaper onto the coffee table next to him. "Sherlock will need back up."

"Gregory?" Mycroft whispered, standing up.

"Later." Greg said, pulling harshly on the door knob and walking out of the office, oblivious to the saddened look on the government official's face.

His mouth was speaking without permission. Another trait the Holmes' share in common, another thing the brain of Holmes owns. Dropping his head into his hands he murmured a curse before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone, calling for even more back up for his brother.

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Sherlock threw a generous amount of notes at the cabbie, threw himself out and slammed the door behind him. He had no time for etiquette. It was nearly ten past eleven, and he wasn't totally sure how these situations went. These conferences in the films he had watched could carry a lot of dialogue, and the majority of the time it helped. So Sherlock had thought to try and keep the killer talking, and try to see if an escape route might be possible.

So he had to keep a constant conversation, keep speaking. That wasn't difficult for him.

He looked up at the closed Book Warehouse. The yellow tape around the building made Sherlock itch to go inside; he ducked under the tape, crouched to try and hide in the shadow, and began to try and pick the lock.

But it was already open.

Sherlock pushed it open carefully, there was no creak of the door nor and sound coming from within. From his pocket, he retrieved the pocket torch he stole from Mycroft and turned it on.

As expected, all he saw were books. Different genres, sizes, colours; not helping to the situation at hand at all. Accidently, he let the door behind him slam closed. Sherlock flinched in the silenced that followed, cursing himself very loudly in his head.

That's when he heard a muffled shout coming from below him. A man's shout.

Sherlock ran to the back of the store, where he was sure he had heard the yell, and was rewarded with stairs to the lower basement. His legs shook as he made his way down. There was no point now being cautious or stealthy due to his carelessness with the damn door, but he made sure his foot prints didn't echo much on the lower ground floor.

When he reached the bottom, he saw a puddle of old blood and recognised it from the picture from the files. Straying to the right of it, Sherlock began to walk further in to the bigger space.

It seemed he had started in the beginning of a corridor initially but it was an illusion due to boxes and crates of books, so when Sherlock moved forward he was standing in what looked like a typical film warehouse scene. It was quite an impressive and big room considering the boxes and the fact it was only needed for a store.

He reached behind him, pulling the gun he stole from Lestrade from his trousers and poised it in front of him. The man breathed in through his scarf one more time.

"Where is he?" The question echoed through the industrial room and Sherlock's heart couldn't help but beat wilder. The place was cast in quite bright lights which caused the atmosphere to feel tenser somehow.

Footsteps started to click from his left and he swivelled to see who it was, gun still his barrier to the danger. The danger's face was the last he expected to see.

"Sherlock, dearest, what a pleasure to see half of you again. How considerate of you to cover yourself in public." Jim Moriarty, in a fancy blue Westwood, continued to walk towards Sherlock's frozen body. "It was a shame our meeting last time was… cut short, shall we say. But now look at you! Independence does look good on some people."

"Where is he?" Sherlock growled.

"Sorry dear, are you mumbling, I can't make you out!" He sauntered away, but Sherlock still kept his eyes and gun pointed squarely on him. "But no matter, no matter. I can guess what going on in that sty of a mind. Your Johnny-boy is just getting ready for his cue, dear." That evil smile, tug of the upper lip that made Sherlock's body want to flee from this place and never return. But John.

"Why?"

Moriarty sighed dramatically. "Is it not obvious? You got in the way! You distracted me! Those people were my special autographs for you, dearest! Do you not see?"

Sherlock thought back. Public places, faces slashed to no recognisable feature.

"They were for me?"

Jim sighed deeply. "And I thought you were a genius. Do you remember our last date, Sherly? I told you appearances didn't matter. I stuck to my word, honey; it's the person who counts."

"But there were 2 murders before I even escaped."

"I think ahead darling. Always one move ahead, know where your opponent's going. Seems I know you better than anyone, better than yooouuu."

"And how does John fit into all of this."

"Right on cue, my dear, right on cue. Sebby, bring in our guest!" Moriarty kept his eyes straight on Sherlock, as a man with a strong upper body and shaved hair cut (time in the army), pushed in John on a wheelchair. Hadn't been fed for at least 2 days and was very dehydrated.

Sherlock wanted to run to him, hold him, kiss him better but he knew better than to show weakness and so just deduced hollowly what the creature in front of him had done to his John.

The cut above John's right eyebrow would definitely need stitches and would scar, as it bled down his face (From Moriarty's left hand – ring on middle finger). As John was being wheeled out, Sherlock had seen a long trail of blood rolling down his clothes (Trauma to the back of the head). The bruise forming on his cheekbone and around his left eye would have been too much a blow to have been given by Moriarty and so Sherlock thought it was given by this 'Sebby' (Right handed, strongest punch). He was leaning into himself, a hand cradling his abdomen (at least 2, maybe 3, ribs broken; given by the army man.)

Oh, John.

And yet, John still looked up at him with hope.

"Don't think much of the make-up artist, but this one put up a fight." Moriarty said, bitter obvious in his voice. Sherlock's lip twitched into a smirk as he glanced at John, who shared the merriment.

"Let him go."

"Now, why would I do that, dearest?"

"Because I presuming this concerns you and me, not John."

Moriarty burst into a fit of high pitch giggles, and even 'Sebby' chuckled. Sherlock took a step towards John through their distraction.

Wiping a tear from his eyes, Moriarty continued, oblivious to the new proximity to Sherlock and his prisoner. "Oh, the innocence of piglets. This goes way over your head, my little Sherlock. You just got in the way and I staged this meeting to show you what happens to people if they do that." He turned toward Sebby and nudged his head toward John.

"No!" Stepping into the path Moran was making to reach John. "Whatever you have planned just don't." He was proud that his voice wasn't hysterical but instead very calm.

"Ohh, are you a bargaining man, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked, sounding intrigued, pushing past Moran and rounding on Sherlock. The man was in his personal space, making it seem as if he was towering over him, though inches shorter.

"Depends. What are you offering?"

Jim walked past him and knelt down beside John, who tilted away from immediately. "But to bargain you need to have all the truth, well, you should. I'm not always a con man." He turned towards John, a smirk falling on his lips. "Go on, John. Tell him how I helped you, or rather, you helped me."

"John?" Sherlock's voice began to quiver.

"Tell him how that Anderson, the Anderson from the newspaper Sherly, just so you remember, paid you to get a picture of the pig. Tell him how you got money from doing this dirty deed. Tell him you're a lie!"

John's eyes dropped to the floor at Jim's words.

"Still a bargaining man, Sherlock?" Jim said standing up and walking back to stand in front of Sherlock once more. "Because I am losing my patience with all this talking! And I think you know what happens when I lose my patience." He slowly drew his finger across his neck with a choking noise.

"Let us go and I won't shoot?" Sherlock tried. He knew it was a long shot but he couldn't really think straight at the moment. No emotions – clouding judgement.

Moriarty wouldn't even dignify that with a response, but just a lift of an eyebrow.

"I won't ring the most powerful man in the United Kingdom." Sherlock threatened. "Who just happens to be first in my very short phone book."

Jim scoffed. "Mycroft. You think Mycroft is powerful. Aw Sherlock, you really have no idea, do you?" He turned round and looked up, dramatically lifting on arm, the other in his pocket. "Sights on Watson. "

3 red lights appeared on John, but his eyes still were glued on the floor, his face showed no recognition of shock or fear of being targeted by snipers.

"Stop it! Stop! What deal? Any deal you want!" Sherlock shouted, horrified. Why isn't John doing anything!

Suddenly Moriarty stood right in his face.

"Had enough talking. Treat for you now, Honey, you can now see what it's like inside a slaughterhouse."

That was enough for Sherlock. He dropped his gun, ripped off his scarf, saw the shock from Jim's face, and tied the scarf around the man's neck in less than 2 seconds. He held Moriarty from behind, being repeatedly hit and kicked in the shins but only one thing, or rather person, worried him.

"John, run!"

But John was staring at him in awe at him, and a shiver of pride over took him before he was knocked off his feet by Moriarty's henchman.

Everything happened so quickly. John shouldered Moran off of him while he could feel Moriarty's struggles slacken atop him, but he still kept his strong grip knowing all too well it could be a trick.

He turned his head to see John being pinned under Sebby's weight, and John had very little chance, Watson's injuries were making him the lesser in the fight. Moran's legs pinned down the shorter man's resulting them useless, although they tried anyhow; but both were fighting with their hands. Pure murderous look was etched on the henchmen's face.

Gripping the two ends of the scarf in one hand, Sherlock reached for the gun he had dropped earlier with his left. He was only managing to stroke the damn thing. He looked back and saw that the taller man was holding down his weight with an arm on John's neck, the other expertly finding the broken ribs, ripping broken sobs from John's lips.

With new adrenaline in his system, Sherlock reached out for the gun again and was able to finally reach it.

Suddenly the sound of sirens echoed within the warehouse, and became louder with each passing second.

Sherlock shot the gun at Sebby, three times, who crumpled to the floor in a heap. He pushed Moriarty's limp form off him and ran to John.

"John? John, can you hear me?"

He reached for a pulse on his neck but felt none.

"No." his voice broke and his throat constricted. He put his hands on John's chest and began to try CPR. "Don't you dare do this to me, John! Don't you dare! Do you hear me? Stay with me!"

Voice were heard now, one he recognised. "Help! Help me NOW!"

Lestrade, police officers and two paramedics saw the scene before him and stopped where they were. "What are you doing!? Help me!"

The paramedics surged forward to take over Sherlock's poor job while the policemen took Moran's body away.

"Sherlock, let them do their work." Sherlock looked up at Lestrade's calming face, he was holding out his hand to pull Sherlock to his feet.

"You need to make sure Moriarty is dead. You can't afford to let him live." His voice was shaking as he watched the paramedics try to revive John.

"We will. You just need to calm down, Sherlock." He went to put his hand on his shoulder. "So… it was just you, John, this Moriarty and the other man. Anyone else?" Sherlock was glad Lestrade was trying to get his attention off John.

"Moriarty wanted to make me think there were more, but the wheelchair still has the three red lights. They haven't moved. If there were real people carrying the guns they would have taken them, packed them away, or have dropped them from the sirens and commotion coming from outside. They could be attached to some railings, but the lights would not still be pointing at the chair but be pointing to the floor instead. Conclusion, the lights were fake, presumably a button in his pocket or the like. He wanted me to trade my life in the hope that I would think John's life was in danger and I fell for it."

He looked down at John's body, still being revived. "Either way I still didn't manage to save him." Sherlock looked down at his watch. Five minutes to midnight. He was early.

"Sherlock, don't think like that. John's a soldier and a doctor, isn't he? I bet if anyone can scrape through this, it's him."

About a half a minute after those words were said, a cough came from blue lips. Sherlock leapt to the floor by John chest and cradled his head.

"John. John!"

"He won't be able to hear you, I'm afraid. We need to get him to hospital ASAP. So if you could…" The woman said in a light Scottish accent. For the second time, Lestrade softly pulled Sherlock up. Holmes watched as the paramedics rolled John away on a trolley out of the large room and steadily up the stairs. He gripped tightly to Lestrade's coat-clad shoulder for support.

"What if he dies again? I can't go and see him."

Lestrade stared at him. "Two words for you, Sherlock. 'Your brother.'"