John woke up with a strange, crawling feeling in his chest. He had a nightmare again. That nightmare which reminded him of that night at the inn, when Sherlock was clearly upset and the only thing John wanted to do was to let him know everything was all right, that being scared was nothing to be ashamed of and mostly important, that he was always going to be with him.

"OK, Sherlock," John whispered soothingly. "It's OK. Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend -"

"I don't have friends." Sherlock said, spatting the last word.

John felt the tears already threatening to go out in plain sight. "Wonder why."

The last thing John remembered he did was getting up and leaving.

Sherlock never called him back, nor ran after him. Why would he? John knew he wasn't Sherlock's friend. John was Sherlock's flatmate, his assistant, nothing else. The only three people who knew who they really were were himself, Sherlock and Mycroft.

John wished he could tell Sherlock the truth. He wished he could also tell Sherlock he still remembered their afternoons in the greenhouse which Sherlock had turned into a mini lab for himself before he joined the family. John also remembered their birthday parties, their games, the time they used to kick Mycroft's leg under the table at dinner.

And when they moved together to London. John loved those days and longed for them. He loved taking Sherlock to a pub, share drinks with him and his mates. Sometimes it was funny to see Sherlock doing his deduction thing. Sometimes it wasn't when three to five men wanted to kick his brother's arse.

Mycroft said it was for the best. He said Sherlock could not be told about their true relationship because it would only break his heart.

And Sherlock? John and Mycroft were convinced he had deleted John again. But had he?

Had he?

John got up, took his towel and headed to the kitchen, where he found Sherlock completing an experiment for a case. They had returned for Baskerville some time ago and things since then had changed between the two of them. The morning after the incident at the inn Sherlock apologised and told him he was his only friend.

His only friend.

"Working on the case?"

"Hmm."

Sherlock's phone chimed but the detective didn't move from his seat. John drank the last of his tea and headed to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later he was sitting on his chair and reading the papers when Sherlock's phone chimed again. "Your phone."

Nothing.

Another text.

John sighed. "I'll get it, shall I?"

He read the text and went pale. John walked to the kitchen and tried to give it to Sherlock but the detective refused, still quite focused on his experiment. "Here."

"Not now, I'm busy."

"Sherlock -"

"Not now."

"He's back."

Sherlock looked up and took the phone into his hands.

Come and play.
Tower Hill.
Jim Moriarty x.

GET SHERLOCK

John looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock curled his lips up into a tiny smile.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

The left Baker Street in the middle of journalists and paparazzis crowd waiting for them outside. They got into a police car and were drove to where Sherlock was to face James Moriarty again and testify against him.

"Remember -"

"Yes."

"Remember -"

"Yes," Sherlock cut John off again before he could even said another word.

"Remember what they told you: don't try to be clever -"

Sherlock kept looking away. "No."

"Please, just keep it simple and brief."

"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent."

"'Intelligent', fine. Let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth."

Neither said a word until Sherlock sighed heavily. "I'll just be myself."

"Are you even listening to me?"

At this Sherlock saw John for the first time since they got into the car. "Yes. Stop mothering me."

"Would never dare to," John said sarcastically.

Sherlock snorted but remained silent for the rest of the ride.

After the questions and an apparent incident in the toilets with a woman, both were back at Baker Street. John threw himself onto his chair and sighed tiredly. It was late, he was tired and something was not quite all right.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"The look."

"Look?"

"You're doing the look again."

Sherlock frowned. "Well, I can't see it, can I?" he then turned and looked himself at his reflection. "It's my face."

"Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a 'we both know what's really going on here' face."

"Well, we do." Sherlock said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the whole world.

"No, I don't," John snorted. "which is why I find The Face so annoying."

"If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there. Somehow this is part of his scheme."

A bloody Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

The bloody bastard was free to leave. James Moriarty had stolen the crown jewels, broke into the most safest places in Britain and he was walking free.

"Not Guilty. They found him Not Guilty. No defence, and Moriarty's walked free." John breathed but got no answer. "Sherlock. Are you listening? He's out. You know he'll be coming after you. Sher -"

Sherlock finished the call, got to his feet and made tea.

It was time for the battle.

It was time to face the fear.