A/N: This is an alternate round-up of the Baskerville arc (kinda replaces the beginning of the 'Of changes and abductions' chapter).

Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

# #

Of course, there had been warning signs. But she foolishly chose not to ignore them, certain of her own instincts. Fool. Watson, you absolute idiot.

She remembered dozing off on the couch in 221B, just to wake up to a strange numbness. She was tied up to a metallic chair with zip ties biting harshly into her skin. The room she found herself in was bare, with dirty tiled walls. It was also scarily silent. What the hell happened? Where is Sherlock? Joan tugged at her restraints, in vain.

"I told you" said a familiar voice behind her back. "I told you to not make me into a hero." She froze in denial.

No, no, it is not possible.

Light steps approached, and long fingers ran through her hair. Suddenly they grabbed and yanked her head back, eliciting a pained gasp. Silver eyes stared back at her with vague curiosity and a hint of contempt. "Sherlock…"

His mouth curved into a humorless smile. "Mycroft would know all about this, of course, but he will cover for me, as he always did. He loves me too much. That fool." Fool. Joan remembered how often the older Holmes shared his 'constant worry' about his sibling's shenanigans. Was he referring to this? What was this?

"What's going on?" she croaked.

He let go of her head, and circled the chair like a shark circles its prey in deep waters. He was dressed casually, dress pants and a silk shirt, a homely outfit in his books, but there was something different, predatory in the way he moved. "You, my dear John, became a weakness." He offered another of those cold foreign smiles. "I can't afford a weakness." Weakness?... What is he talking about?

Confusion and growing horror were battling inside her. It must have been rather obvious on her face.

"John, John, John…" Sherlock drawled, finally stopping in front of her. "You shouldn't have skipped your therapy appointments. Maybe your PTSD wouldn't have clouded your judgement." She stared at him incredulously. "People told you to watch out. You should have listened."

"What are you saying?" Joan whispered, unable to be louder, unable to admit the undeniable truth.

"I am going to kill you, John."

No. No, it isn't real, it isn't real, please, no, no, oh God, not Sherlock, no. "Is it a prank?" she choked out after getting her breathing under control, under Sherlock's dispassionate gaze.

"No."

"But…"

"Everyone thinks it was drugs" he interrupted. "But really, it was blood."

It made sense, in a way. In a very twisted, painful way. He would have never destroyed his brilliant mind by dubious substances. But he had been bored, oh so bored. Bored enough to kill. Joan recalled the callousness and the manipulative streaks, especially with Molly and (who are you kidding, Watson, say it now) herself. The deeply worried frown on Mycroft's face when she ran after Sherlock that first night. The glee in Moriarty's eyes when he danced around Sherlock in the pool. The irritation in Sherlock's eyes when she interrupted their little flirt. She didn't think much about it at the time. She was wrong.

My best friend is… a serial killer. But is he my friend? Was it all a sham, a game? The man I care about, does he even exist?

"Why…?"

"Don't be dull, John" he gently scolded. "Because I could."

She threw him a dirty look. "Not that. I get it, you are bored. Why play house with me?"

His eyes lit up. He even looked a bit proud. "Oh yes, that is a good question. I needed Mycroft to stay off my back after the last spree. So, I laid low, played nice with people. Meeting you was not planned, but immensely beneficial."

A tool. I was only a tool. "How so?" Her own voice sounded hollow to her ears.

"My brother, despite preaching the contrary, is very sentimental. He always believed that I'd 'get better'. Having a friend by my side, a genuinely good person at that, almost convinced him that I changed my ways." He sighed dramatically. "It was unexpectedly easier to repress my habits with you around. Trust me, you are very special, John." She stared at him in silent horror, her heart breaking into a million shards. "But by being so, you became a weakness, someone that could stop me, that could be used against me. I refuse to have that."

No. No. Not Sherlock, I can't believe it, I won't believe it… Tears were running silently down her chin, which seemed to annoy the man. "Stop that. I'm finally saying nice things to you, and you're crying."

"You're telling me…" she swallowed back a hiccup. "You're saying that everything was a game. Just a game to you."

He frowned thoughtfully, before smiling warmly, a smile she yearned to see just some hours ago. It now seems fake, cruel and fake. "I am a sociopath, John. Life is a game to me." He stood closer, running both hands over her cheeks, drying the endless tears. "I happened to care about you a little more than for others." He licked his lips in anticipation. "Just not enough to stop killing altogether."

He stepped aside and disappeared from her field of vision. He is going to kill me. I will die by his hand. "I'll tell the Yard that you moved somewhere in Scotland. No one would blame you for finally leaving, nor look for you." Sherlock reappeared, a long thin knife in his hand. Sherlock Holmes is going to kill me. "It won't hurt, not like the bullet. Don't worry, you earned that much."

Joan felt the fight drain from her. He had saved me, given me a reason to live. If the Sherlock I knew isn't real, I don't have a purpose anymore. I am not needed. "Sherlock…" she breathed out helplessly.

The monster smiled. He smiled a lot more than when wearing the 'nice guy' mask, but it felt wrong and empty. Unreal. He leaned forward, ghosting his lips over her forehead. Silver eyes, ice-cold and sharp, met blue, defeated and broken. "Goodbye, John."

Without hesitation, he plunged the knife directly into her heart.

He was right, it didn't hurt. One moment, she was about to hyperventilate, and the other black spots invaded her vision. She stared up at his face, feeling herself fade into numbness. Sherlock's face remained impassive. He clinically observed the life drain from Joan's eyes, until they glazed over. The last thing Joan remembered was the erratic beat of her own heart thumping in her ears, so different from the rhythmic breathing of her murderer.

# #

"JOHN! John, wake UP!" The dreaded voice was shouting at her. Feeling long fingers grab her arm, she panicked. Throwing a blind punch, Joan tried to jerk away from the threat, but ended hitting a wall. Her eyes flew open, and focused on Sherlock's face, contorted with worry.

"NO!" she cried out, scrambling further away, dropping to the floor (from where, I don't know, couch, where, what), then jumping up and backing to the nearest corner, ready to fight for her life this time around.

"John…?" He looked genuinely concerned and confused.

Her breathing was coming in sharp gasps, at the edge of hyperventilating, and she unconsciously ran a hand over her heart. Is it afterlife? Is he going to kill me again? Again…? No, no, NO! She was crying now, barely able to keep standing with the tremors rocking her body.

"John, what is wrong?" the monster asked again.

"Stay away" she growled, following his every movement with a rising feeling of dread. No, not again, I don't want to, I can't, whywhywhywhywhy...

"John!" He was at her side.

"NO!" the soldier screamed, landing a solid left hook to his stomach and tackling him to the ground. He killed before, he'll kill again, I have to stop him.

"John, stop!" the monster panted, eyes wide, pretending to be innocent, pretending to be shocked.

"Where's the knife?" she hissed, holding him loosely by the throat, ready to tighten the grip.

"What knife?" Sherlock looked honestly confused and scared now.

"The knife you killed me with!" she shouted through rising tears.

Realization started to dawn on his face. He knows that I know. He won't let me go. He'll kill me again. "It was a dream!" Not this t… What. "You were having a nightmare, John!" No, it was real, so real, it hurt. "Try to calm down, John, please. Look around. We are home." Did it hurt? Her wrists didn't hurt. Her head didn't hurt. Not physically. "Just look, John. You are safe." She lifted guarded eyes, finally aware of their surroundings. It was their usual clutter. The living-room. Just like it had been before she dozed off an eternity ago. Her thoughts cleared up a bit. She couldn't be punching her killer if she had been murdered. A dream. A dream.

"Oh god…" A dream. A dream. Joan sagged back, still looming over Sherlock, but face now twisted in dismay and another brand of horror altogether, instead of blind rage. "Oh my god…" She scrambled backwards to the corner, violent shivers shaking her whole body again, pulling her knees against her chest and clenching her arms around them. I was about to kill Sherlock. "No. No, no. No." It wasn't supposed to be that bad. I was doing well. No. I don't want to, I won't, I can't…

"John…!" Sherlock called out to her, having pushed himself into a kneeling position on the floor. She looked up at him, horrified.

"Sh… Sherlock… I didn't… I…ca…" Words were fading away, only fear remained.

"Calm down, John, breathe." But it wasn't working. I'm fucked up, she thought rather clearly through the haze of panic and denial. "It's just a nightmare, I'm alright, you're alright…"

"'m not" she managed to whisper.

Sherlock frowned. "You are. You just need to calm down."

I was about to strangle you, her mind screamed. "It… wasn't supp… supposed to be… that bad."

"Your mental health?" She nodded, still shaking. Sherlock closed his eyes with a pained grimace. "That's not it. Believe me." I can't, I can't, oh god, I can't do this anymore… "John!" A warm hand was on her shoulder, and instinctively she tensed, remembering vividly the cold smile, the long knife and the impassive gaze, watching every moment of her agony. A dream, a dream, a dream, so real…

"It felt real…" she breathed out, feeling hot tears soaking her collar.

"It is the Hound drug" Sherlock admitted through clenched teeth. What. "It's taking longer to evacuate from your system, but realistic nightmares are one of its side-effects." Drug. The drug. Oh yes, we just came home from Baskerville. I didn't sleep on the train. "I'm so sorry, John, I didn't think it would affect you that hard…" Sherlock's eyes were bright with unshed tears of frustration. "It's going to be alright. I promise."

"I could have killed you in that state" she whispered.

"You wouldn't. I know you." The certainty of his words shattered her last doubts, and Joan threw her head back to let tears flow down freely, not holding it in anymore. Sherlock maneuvered himself to sit beside her, pulling her closer, letting her cry on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry…" he repeated again and again until she was reduced to quiet hiccups. "I'm sorry I hurt you, John. Even in a dream."

"It didn't hurt" she said, still holding his hands like a lifeline. "The you in the dream. The way you killed me didn't hurt." Sherlock tensed against her, almost crushing her fingers in his own grip, knuckles white. "His words were what hurt the most. He said that he cared, but not enough to stop killing. I hated his smile. It was so cold."

There was a pregnant pause between them. "I swear, John. I would never do that to you." He pulled her into a one-armed hug, burying his nose into her hair. Small tremors ran through him now, and Joan silently hugged him back. I know. I believe you. After all, I am an absolute fool.

# #

A/N2: Evil Sherlock was surprisingly easy to write :)