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

Warning: Language; Mention of abuse; General violent vibe (yep, this is a fun one).

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"Evening."

The voice resonated through the empty pool. "John? What the hell...?" Shock didn't begin to describe what he was feeling right now.

"This is a turn-up, isn't, Sherlock?" Joan continued, eyes cold and sharp like daggers. She wore an uncharacteristic two pieces female suit, tailored to fit her perfectly, with a blindingly white shirt unbuttoned to show a hint of cleavage. "Bet you didn't see that coming."

He took several steps forward, unbelieving of what the evidence thrown at him showed. John is the bomber. John killed innocent people. John deceived me. Who is John?

A toothy grin, with no warmth whatsoever stretched her lips, painted bright red. "Relax, I am not the bomber." A door creaked on the other side of the pool. "He is."

"I gave you my number" said the new arrival. "Thought you might call." But Sherlock paid him no mind. The only thing he could see was that familiar face, his friend, cold, cruel and foreign.

"John… I don't understand…"

"Of course, you wouldn't" she drawled. "That was rather the point." An array of red dots appeared on the floor before rushing towards him, freezing him in his tracks. "This is Jim Moriarty, by the way" she nodded at the man who joined them. "Consulting criminal, your perfect counterpart." She narrowed her eyes at him. "And I am his main sponsor."

She was playing me all along. Everything was fake, fake, every smile, every cup of tea, fake, fake, every laugh, every frown, fake, fakefakefakefakefakefakefake….

"I think you broke him" Jim drawled, eyeing the frozen detective like a piece of meat.

"That was also the point."

"Who are you?" Sherlock choked out. "Was John ever real?"

Her laughter grated on his ears like sandpaper on glass. "John Watson died back in Afghanistan. You had never met her." She smirked at the horror painted clear as day on his face. "Farewell, Sherlock Holmes. You were fun to play with."

His John never existed. John. Why, why, why, no, no, John, please…

The woman clicked her fingers, and Sherlock closed his eyes, expecting the bullets.

That never came. "What the…" Moriarty started, but was cut abruptly by a deafening shot. He fell on his back, writhing in pain, blood rapidly soaking the suit over his stomach.

"Don't move" snapped an angry voice. Sherlock's vision blurred, because he was quite certain the owner of this voice stood snarling in front of him. But it came from behind.

"Next time you leave me for dead, make sure I actually am done for" continued the voice doppelganger, approaching them with measured steps. Sherlock was still frozen in place, not daring to look around. "I really thought you learned your lesson after Kandahar." The mysterious person finally appeared in his field of vision, advancing slowly towards the suited woman, steady hands aiming an army-issued gun directly at the opponent's heart. It was also a woman, dressed in jeans and a checkered shirt, ripped in some places, shoes muddy, short blond hair tangled and dirty, and sporting an impressive bruise on her right cheek. John. Impossible.

"Just like a cockroach" the first Joan growled, eyes roaming the pool for an escape.

"Don't bother looking, Harry, all exits are blocked." Harry?! "You will surrender. Maybe I will even save your sidekick from bleeding out." Moriarty's moans of pains were growing quieter by the second.

"Fuck off!"

"Would you rather be killed?"

"You wouldn't dare. You're too good for that, ain't you, Johnny?" Something cold and cruel, similar to what 'Harry' was displaying all along, passed on Joan's face.

"You tried to kill me countless times since we were five. You hired Taliban to target my patrol. Your minions threatened my friends while you pretended to get better and taking your meds. You endangered, injured and killed innocent people. You drove Clara to suicide. You played with and hurt my best friend. Do you really think I can't chop your limbs off right now, Harry?"

Something clicked in Sherlock's mind. Harriet Watson. John's sister. John's psychotic twin, apparently. John was real. John is real.

"You can't" said Harry with absolute certitude, mocking fury twisting her face in an ugly snarl.

"You're wrong" Joan simply answered before pulling the trigger. The impact made Harry step back, shocked into silence. "That's one to match mine" Joan stated coldly and shot again. It went through the other woman's knee, and she crumpled to the ground, screaming. "That's one to make you harmless." She had her back to Sherlock, but she could see the murderous tension in Joan's shoulders, the aim she took at her sister's head.

"JOHN!" he cried out, terrified of what was about to happen. The shot didn't go off. Slowly, her arms dropped to her sides, and she half-turned towards him, broken forms of feared criminals at her feet. There was unbearable sadness and grief in her eyes, drowning any other emotion. She didn't meet his pleading gaze.

Revolving doors slammed open, admitting a SCO team, followed by paramedics. Sherlock and Joan stood unmoving, seemingly unaware of the frantic activity around them. "John…"

She finally looked at him properly, raw suffering evident on her bruised face. "I'm sorry. I thought she was doing better." John, always blaming herself for others' shortcomings.

Throwing caution to the wind, Sherlock stepped forward and hugged her, because she looked like falling apart and he wanted to make sure her existence wasn't a drug-induced hallucination that would fade into nothing. The warmth against his chest was grounding enough. Startled at first, Joan hesitantly relaxed into his embrace. "You were real?" He didn't intend it as a question, but it came out as such, whispered into her hair. Blue eyes looked up, taken aback. Concern quickly dulled her own pain.

"Of course, dummy. Harry would have tried to throttle you the first time you used all the hot water."

Sherlock paused to drink into her sight - beaten up, emotionally drained, still caring about him and absolutely perfect – before responding: "While you waited until the third occurrence. I see."

And despite the direness of the situation, Joan giggled.

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A/N: This one happened because I tried to write evil John. As you can see, it didn't go completely in that direction. And I'm a bit sorry for Jim, getting his spotlight stolen, but oh well... tough life.