ThesDarkestShinobi: one of the chapters that either makes or breaks the story.

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"No." It was disbelief, not disobedience that coated his word. His hand shook and his shoulders slumped.

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty looked up and away and took his hands out of his pocket "You're right, John is alive and well. See for yourself."

"Convince him, John." The earpiece needlessly instructed.

Sherlock turned to see him. Hard eyes, strong but not stiff posture, gun against his shoulder with ease, same military haircut. He's using a blade razor now, hasn't had a nightmare in weeks. Wear on the shoes suggested lots of running in formation. Shoelace stained with blood. No crease over eyes, he had been having a lot of fun within the last three days. Sherlock noted it was rather difficult to swallow the sudden build-up of saliva in his mouth.

"Another trick?" And there was something in his voice John couldn't identify. Defeat? "Mind games?"

"No trick here, Sherlock." John answered for Moriarty-Jim-for Jim. "Now, drop the gun," Sherlock paused. "Don't make me shoot you." Please don't make me shoot you.

There was no admiration, no attraction. No tremor in voice, no misdirection of his gun. His eyes never shifted, his stance indicates preparation for recoil. John will shoot. With that realization Sherlock released his hold on his weapon; it clattered to the ground and John lowered his weapon slightly. Sherlock's shoulder fell. John was still ready to raise the weapon against him.

"Why?" Desperation seeped into Sherlock's voice and John doubted he cared at that moment.

"Why?" John echoed in disbelief and could see Moriarty's smile split his face open. "All your deductive skills and you need me to tell you?" He didn't. Sherlock answered, as always, and hated himself for it.

"You felt unappreciated. It's always me they see, news, girls," he tilted his head, "boys, given rather recent revelations. I call you stupid-"

"He is pretty stupid" Moriarty chimed in. Really!? John raised his gun with anger in his eyes and they both stilled. Jim's smiled returned.

"And then that last night, I-" He stopped himself. He let him go because he meant too much. He made him go.

"Yes." John's voice was ice. It hurt him to see Sherlock like this, shock, disbelief and no answers. John was acting, a bit. Sherlock would be able to read if he wasn't really angry so he had to be. He was.

"Your psychologist said you were broken." She had said it was all his fault.

"I did go to her," John paused and lowered the gun "first." Moriarty planned all of this, didn't he? He was a fly caught in Moriarty's web, squirming just how the other wanted. "Then Jim" Sherlock's eyes flew wide "came to get me."

"No." he refused to believe it. "NO. NO!" Sherlock turned and grabbed Moriarty's collar-Jim's collar.

"Take him down now!" The earpiece flared to life but John was already moving.

"Hypnotism? Cloning? Did you threaten all of England? You will tell-"

John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and spun him. John placed a perfect punch to the other's face. It hurt much more than last time, John was definitely in training, killing again. Also, the affection was gone. Sherlock looked up with rapidly fading vision to see John fretting over Moriarty with more concern than an employee would have for a boss and Moriarty pulling John in for a kiss.

He was grateful for the darkness.

"What was that?!" John exclaimed as soon as he knew Sherlock was unconscious. He flexed his fingers and wiped his lips, but the other was unharmed and England would be safe for now, even if Sherlock would hate him forever.

"That, my dear Watson, was the spark." John was tight lipped and looked down to Sherlock with a sigh and suddenly Moriarty had a completely different idea on how to fuel the fire he started.

"Do you still have a phone?" John reached into his pocket and held it up.

Pick up your brother – M

John moved to take it back but Jim slipped it into his pocket as he turned and walked towards the door to go back down.

"Come on, John, unless you plan to jump."

…

"Sherlock, Sherlock?" He opened his eyes groggily to see a woman with long blonde hair fretting over him. He held out a hand to get her to back up and he attempted to stand. He almost returned to the roof; the hands that held him up were familiar and he turned his throbbing head to see his brother. Mycroft? Why was he being so… familial? Guilt, guilt for-his thoughts stopped at the pain.

"Moriarty told me you were here." He said before starting to say something, deciding against it and leaving. Anthea-or rather Christie, her real name was obvious from the way her hair fell, smiled at him. He watched Mycroft leaving, something was off; he tried to think about it but found his thoughts to be cloudy.

"How are you?"

How was he? He was fine now, well, he may be mildly concussed and his eyes would blacken within a day. His teeth were thankfully all there and not bleeding. His cheek would hurt for the next week at least.

"I'm fine."

But he wasn't. Oh he wasn't fine at all.

Jim came to get me.

He felt sick in a way he hadn't in years. His hands felt cold and his insides burned; so did his eyes. He started to quicken his shallow breaths, trying to get more air into his lungs. He heard his name being called but her voice wasn't hers, it was John's. John's voice had been oh so cold. He hated him. John hated him. How could he ever be fine?

No trick here Sherlock.

Oh, but there had to be. There had to be something. He raised his hands to grab onto the back of his head as he curled into himself. He rocked forward and heard retreating footsteps. He wouldn't cry now, no, not now. He squeezed tighter and ignored the shooting pain in his head. He closed his eyes so hard it hurt. Too much. This is why he wanted John out; because he knew he made him vulnerable. He let out a ragged breath.

Ignore the pain. He had to ignore the pain. Just transport. Ignore that John caused the pain. John would never hurt him. John was always there, always supportive. His brain wouldn't let him shut it out. He couldn't delete. No, no, that wasn't John. John couldn't hurt him, right?

Everything hurt. Sherlock let out another breath that didn't sound like a sob, it didn't, and tried not to focus on the fact that everything burned.

End

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