TheDarkestShinobi: I wrote out the scene like 3 times before and lost all three copies. Ugh! [also chapter 7 edited to show a bit of the funeral!]

John sat on the edge of his bed as he tried to make sense of the world again. He rubbed his hands over his face before letting his legs bounce. This was all a bit not good. He closed his eyes and remembered Moriarty's hand on his chin. He clenched his fist as the desire to beat the sod came back to him. He let out a ragged breath as he tried to focus.

Moriarty had men, powerful men, powerful men in powerful places. Not only that, he had motive and means and right now his cooperation was the only thing keeping Britain safe from the madman. He stood suddenly. He needed to do something to get this anger out. He shook his head. Breath Watson, breathe.

He made him hurt Sherlock.

He hurt Sherlock.

He wanted to scream, to hit things, preferably Moriarty.

He remembered being pulled to his tip toes and the glint in Moriarty's eyes as he spoke to him. Moriarty was beyond insane, beyond reason and he was without help in here. John let himself settle back onto the bed. There was nothing he could do. No retaliation was worth it. What if every time he hesitated Moriarty killed someone? No, he couldn't risk that. He had to be the perfect little whatever Moriarty wanted him to be.

John jumped to his feet, ready and alert, as the door opened. There was a man, short, dark skinned, skinny man with wide smile with a backpack.

"Hey, John, me and the guys are going to the gym to let out some steam." John really needed to let out some steam. "and we were wondering if you wanted to come."

"No." He meant for it to come out harshly, but it came out as a threat. The man closed the door and left but John saw the emotions flash across his face.

It was good. He was a force to be reckoned with and the men should know that. The only one who could tell him anything was the man with the bomb and the poison. He paced about the room before dropping into a pushup position. He may as well sweat the frustration out, otherwise he'd beat the madman and England would suffer.

…

Sherlock pulled the trigger again.

And again.

And again.

His clouded brain would clear in that fraction of second, that small little reprieve from the thoughts that wouldn't go away. He dropped the gun and turned to the wall behind him. He placed his hands on the pictures of the women, their files their life. The fog was back. No. He just needed to think. He slammed his head on the wall and blinked twice as the pain exploded behind his eyes. There, clear.

He stared at the information until the fog came back.

Thunk

Much better. He let his eyes fall open as he placed a hand on the latest victims face.

"I've got it!" he shouts as he turns around "Call Lestrade…" he swallows as he realizes what he managed to escape in the last second. His lip trembles as he turns and picks up his phone. He falls into the couch as soon as the message is sent.

Lestrade runs up the steps and Sherlock gets up. He explains the case to Lestrade. Their connection was Isabel Smith, a woman who Charles Stoltz was in love with. She said no, must be because she was meant for God. He should return her. She is the seventh, the other woman are all leading up to her. It was such an interesting case, well, it would be if he could bring himself to care.

The place they died reflects their work.

Susan Doyle was the next victim.

"He probably already has her." Sherlock concluded in monotone. Lestrade ran a hand through his hair.

"Where?"

"Here." Sherlock pointed to a spot on the wall and the DI called it in.

"Come on, let's go over."

"No." Sherlock slumped on the couch as he answered. Lestrade sighed before shaking his head and yanking the other up by his arm.

"Let's go."

…

"You understand that God's loves you most of all."

"Yes," she agreed as the drug flowed through her system.

"Oh Susan, you are making me so happy."

"Aren't I?" she smiled back and let her head rest against the table. "I like to make people happy."

…

Sherlock's long legs eat up the stairs, but not as fast as the trained ones. He watches the team file in and can listen to them chatter about opening the door. He takes the steps two at a time as he lets his coat open.

…

"You drugged me." Her voice is flat and even as she fights the drug in her system. She feels him shaving her and wishes she could just move.

"I showed you the light." His voice is smooth as he concentrates on her golden legs. She felt herself burning on the inside. "Oh, Susan, you were so agreeable before."

"Don't you dare give me more of that shit." She growls out. "How many others have you done this too? Huh?" He ran his hand down her leg looking for spots he missed. He moved his hand up between her thighs.

"You stop that right now!" She screamed out and he paused. She was seeing flashes of someone else. She let out a breath. "Delivering me to God? Is that what you said?" He nodded as he took a step back. She looked away from him up to the ceiling. Her lips moved as she looked up. 'Oh God, please let me live' She then looked back to him

"Oh hush dear, no need for tears here, today is joyous."

"If I were truly God's favorite, he'd smite ou for hurting me. Then he would save me."

She laughed as she looked towards him.

"He's going to save me and stop you." She says with confidence. "He won't let you hurt anymore. I'm not scared of you."

He lets out a breath to calm himself.

…

Sherlock hears grunts, then a door being forced open. Two screams. Female and male. By the time he gets to the door the murderer is on the floor on his knees.

"Oh, my God," The woman repeats sobbing in relief. Sherlock is fine to let her stand there naked, but Lestrade offers her his coat. Sherlock observes the scene, noting he was right and turns to leave.

"Sherlock Holmes!" The man shouts his name and Sherlock turns back to him with boredom. "I knew it was you! You're hurting God!" He looked to all of them then as if they would suddenly share his madness. He stood then and ran towards her, the gun not an inhibitor for him any longer. Another officer knocked him down and held the gun to his head. Sherlock scoffed.

"You, you, you're the one who found me." The girl's eyes jumped to him, taking it all in.

"Obvious." He countered. He just wanted to get home.

"These are his favorites, his brides; you're keeping them from him." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"How many were you going to kill?"

"Deliver" he stressed. "7" spot on then. He turned to leave again when Charles started laughing.

"He's keeping yours!"

"Mine?" Sherlock didn't turn but stood up straight.

"You're keeping God's favorites, so he's keeping yours." Lestrade started to curse.

"You're talking about John." Sherlock kept his voice even. "Moriarty has John." Oh that hurt to say. The fog of the world was getting thicker; it was getting harder to breathe.

"Moriarty is just a tool of God." The voice spoke from behind him. "He is going to fix John from what you've done to him."

Sherlock left then. He wouldn't let the other's words affect him.

fix John from what you've done to him

Get Out.

Maybe he had.

Suddenly the world was in a sharp focus. He looked around as he took a deep breath. Enough of this. He was going to find John and either John was going to stop this ridiculousness and come home, or-Sherlock let out a breath. There was no or. John was coming home.

End: Reviews are love!